For McMackenzie, who begged me to elaborate on chapter 6. This is for you, girl ;)

"Now, no peeking, Doctor's orders!" Patrick had said as he blindfolded his wife. Shelagh had to remove her glasses and kept them clutched in her hands, fiddling with the frame and smiling nervously.

They had been married for only a few hours, and had only just left the party to go and spend their wedding night together when Patrick had pulled a white piece of fabric out of the dashboard of his car.

"What's this?" Shelagh had asked. Her husband had just smiled at her with a devilish twinkle in his eyes.

"You will see, Mrs. Turner. It is a surprise." Shelagh kept trying to guess what on earth her husband had in store for her, but she kept pulling blanks; she honestly had no idea. Understanding what road they were taking was a lot harder now she didn't have sight to rely on, so she couldn't decide what was going on that way, either. Shelagh wiped her hands on the pearl fabric of her skirt, wishing that Patrick didn't see how nervous she was.

The wedding night. When she had still been Sister Bernadette, those words held such a different meaning than they did now; Sister Bernadette would only have to help deliver the result of nights spent in passion, would only have to be somewhat familiar with the mechanics to help others. Now, as Shelagh Turner, she would experience such a night of passion herself. She both longed for it and feared it. Would Patrick expect her to know what to do, what to say? Because she honestly had no idea.

Then again, you had no trouble kissing him. You became a creature of instinct, then, she thought. Sitting here, eyes blinded to the world, her lashes occasionally brushing the soft fabric of the blindfold, her attention inadvertently turned inwards. Years of prayer and meditation made that Shelagh could slip away from the outside world as easily as other girls slipped out of their dresses. This time, though, she didn't contemplate God or His works; her attention was absorbed by a man of flesh and blood who sat only a few inches apart from her. Soon, they would be one. The thought made her shiver; just remembering their first kiss already made her knees feel like elastic. It had not been Shelagh's intention to kiss Doctor Turner, but when she had seen him so worn-down and sad it had been the only thing she could think of to help him. A part of her was still surprised at how easy she had melted into him; they had fit like puzzle pieces. If she hadn't upset his desk, sending a teacup hurling to its death on the floor, they might very well have consummated their relationship before it had properly begun.

Part of her now wished that they had done it; it would mean no nerves now. Another part, more intelligent and calmer, thanked God on its knees that they hadn't. If Patrick– still Doctor Turner to her, then, and she Sister Bernadette to him– had made love to her, her first time would forever be tinged in shame and guilt. It would have been something done out of passion, hurt, needing and longing, and maybe a bit of love, too, but it would have coloured their relationship forever. Patrick would have insisted on marrying her, she didn't doubt that. They probably couldn't have done anything else; Mrs. Thompson had seen them, and spread malicious gossip even when they had only kissed. If Sister Bernadette had accepted Doctor Turner, however, the thought that he only asked her to do the right thing would forever linger in her mind, as would the fear that he would eventually come to resent her, to feel that she had somehow trapped him.

No, it was better this way. It had meant weeks of anguish until Timothy confronted her, true, but it had given her and Patrick the precious gift of time, allowing them to think of what they wanted, not what they felt was necessary.

Shelagh snapped out of her reverie as the car's motor died down. Patrick squeezed her hand.

"No peeking yet, Mrs. Turner," he quipped, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Shelagh sighed, then waited for Patrick to help her out of the car. He swept her up in his arms, causing her to squeal.

"Patrick!" He didn't put her down, but carried her inside, wherever that may be.

This isn't home, Shelagh thought; it was too cold for their house, and it didn't smell like Patrick's aftershave and Henleys. She inhaled deeply. It was a scent she recognized.

Surely not… she thought as Patrick gently put her down on a hard surface and removed her blindfold. Shelagh put on her glasses and had to blink a few times before the world around her came into focus. They were at the surgery, in Patrick's office. He had lit some of the lamps and tidied his desk; the normal overspill of patient's folders and ashtrays full of stubs were absent, allowing her to sit on the scratched surface. Patrick stood near her, clenching and unclenching his hands.

He can't think that this… surely not here…. Her thoughts tumbled over each other. She swallowed.

"Patrick, what is this?" she whispered. Patrick threaded a hand through his hair, then took her hand and stroked her knuckles. His fingers toyed with her wedding ring.

"I wanted to tell you something for quite a while now, but I couldn't say it with all the wedding guests. And I feel that our relationship started here, in this office, making it the right place. That is not to say that I didn't think very highly of you before we… you know…" he stuttered and blushed. Shelagh squeezed his hand.

"Patrick, do you regret that day? That it didn't go any further than it did, I mean?" Shelagh whispered. Her heart was beating very fast.

"That is what I wanted to tell you. That day in here, it did put things into perspective for me, but I am glad we stopped before it could become more than a kiss." Shelagh felt her stomach clench. She wrinkled her brow, confused.

"That is not to say that I don't want to make love to you. It's just that in my office, when you were still a nun, was neither the time nor the place. And I wasn't in a position to think about your desires and wants and needs, either. If we had continued, I would have been selfish; I would have taken comfort from you, and taken and taken and not given, and that is not the kind of man I want to be. That's not the kind of man I am." Shelagh saw tears twinkle in his eyes. One separated itself from his cornea, clung trembling to his lashes for a moment, then fell. It found one of the lines of his face and lay cradled by the ridges of skin for just one moment before coursing down. Patrick sighed before continuing.

"Darling Shelagh, I want to make you a promise. I will always love you. I will do whatever is in my power to make you feel loved, to still your longings and desires, but I will do it with respect. It won't happen like our first kiss again." His voice cracked on the last word. Shelagh felt her heart tremble. She wanted to speak her feelings, but didn't know how. Instead, she wrapped her arms around her husband's chest and placed her head against his chest. His heartbeat was fast but steady, anchoring her to him. His arms snaked around her, pressing her closer. Shelagh inhaled the scent of his cigarettes and aftershave and a hint of her bouquet that clung to the lapels of his coat. Her breath trembled in her throat. She didn't realise that she was crying until Patrick's shirt stuck to her cheek. He made soft noises in the back of his throat.

"Are you alright, love?" Patrick whispered, gently stroking her hair.

He can touch me now, Shelagh thought. A shot of electricity climbed along her vertebrae; she had been deprived of touch as a little girl, and something like a caress of fingertips that was so simple to others made her want to weep with happiness.

And I can touch him. And there is no shame or guilt, only love. Suddenly, she was no longer nervous. As the storm inside her stilled she found the words necessary to express what she wanted to say.

"I've just realised that I have been alone for so long. Always surrounded by others, but so, so alone. And now I have you, and Timothy, and I won't have to be alone ever again. And I know you promised me that, that day when you asked me to marry you, but I only just now fully realised what that promise meant. Patrick, I don't think I can be happier." She raised her face to his and pressed a kiss to his lips. It was just a quick peck, but it made warmth knit itself into her belly. Patrick smirked.

"Mrs. Turner, I think it is time to get you home. I promised Sister Evangelina 'no funny business', but I think I'm no longer bound to that promise, and there is a lot of funny business I want to go through with you."

"Then take me home," she whispered, and squealed as Patrick gathered her in his arms and sprinted to his car.