Candle in the Window (5 page)

Her amorous struggles grew wilder and less
effective and a pleasured smile split his bearded lips. The tiny
squeaks she let out were charming, showing spirit but not
resistance. This girl knew all the tricks.

His manhood rose in immediate response to such
blatant encouragement. Her hips rubbed against him as she kicked
out and weakly tried to rise. Her fists pummelled his shoulders as
he gathered her to him, turned her sideways and slanted her
derriere across his lap. Her head fit into the crook of his elbow,
her braid slid over his arm. With a laugh, he captured her flailing
fist and tightened the crook of his arm beneath her neck. She was
held now, stationary enough for him to find her mouth with his
own.

In only a moment, he changed his opinion of her
experience. Her mouth yielded, easily opening for his insistent
tongue. But she didn’t know what to do with it when it surged
inside. She didn’t meet his thrusts, didn’t answer his
lures, but she reacted. That mouth was sweet and hungry, amazed and
willing. His intentions gentled and turned to guidance.

He relaxed the grip of his arm on her head and
supported her back with his huge hand. He massaged up and down her
side, petting her, mellowing her. He freed her hand and placed it
against his chest, on the flushed skin above his heart. She
snatched it back, but he patiently retrieved it and replaced it,
still stoking the fires of her innocence with his lips. This time
her hand stayed. Her fingers flexed into the curling hair
blanketing his skin, trembled and flexed again.

He broke the kiss with a moan. “Sweet
thing,” he whispered into her ear as he searched the rim with
his tongue. A moan of her own puffed across his cheek.

His remaining hand went exploring. Cupping her
breast, he circled the nipple, tight with chill and nerves. The
heel of his palm kneaded the mound warmly, tenderly, thoroughly,
until the woman stretched across his thighs melted into limp
pliancy. Gratified with the return for his effort, William bestowed
one last fond stroke and searched further. The tuck
of her waist confirmed his first hasty diagnosis, and
her firm belly quivered as his fingers slid across. The drenched
material of her skirt bunched at her knee and his hand eagerly
sought the bared skin of her calf. As his fingers made contact, his
breath caught and she sighed and tossed, jerked from her lethargy.
With the instincts of a magician, William captured her mouth again,
delighting her with the return of his lips, and slid his hand up
the long, silken pathway of her leg. The pathway to heaven.

And heaven was so close, so close.

A dose of ice cold water splashed his back and
brought him crashing to earth. Two powerful hands pushed him
backward and grasped the girl by her armpits. She was yanked from
him and dragged out of his reach.

He rose to his feet in fury, restrained from attack
only by his blindness.

His indignant roar would have frightened lesser
women, but Maud was no lesser woman. “Are ye crazy, Lord
William? Would ye attack a young damsel in full sight of the
maidservants?”

He roared again, inarticulate with wrath, and then
as his sense returned, he shouted, “Attack? Attack? All she
had to say was ‘nay,’ and I would have released her. By
our sweet Savior, Lady Saura, did you hurl that cold
water?”

Saura, soaked and shivering by the fire, answered,
“In a manner of speaking.”

Liberated from the restraint of silence, her voice
sounded quavery, and his temper cooled proportionately. “Give
the wench back and I’ll forget about it.” The group in
the window seat released a collective giggle, and he sank back into
the water. “Give the wench back and send these she-lackeys
away.”

Wringing out her full draped sleeve in both her
shaking
hands, Saura swiped her hair off her
forehead and refused. “I can’t do that, my lord. The
girl is spoken for.”

“Spoken for! She is a serf. I am her
lord.”

Saura smoothed the rough wool of her garments and
cursed her own industry. Her sense of responsibility had demanded
she perform the jobs Lord Peter assigned her before she availed
herself of the fabric he had offered. The time had come to sew new
clothes, clothes marking her as a lady and not a serving maid.
“The girl’s gone.”

“Gone! No one has left this room!” His
anger brought him back to his feet. “And I want her
now!”

Exasperated beyond her usual self-restraint, Saura
shouted back, “I’ll speak to your father! We’ll
make arrangements!” With a swish of her wet skirts, she
turned on Maud’s arm and went out the door held by a sewing
maid who, overcome with nervous humor, bit her hand to stifle her
laughter.

“Do ye want me t’ warm your bath, Lord
William?” asked Linne, one of his late wife’s serving
women. “I’ve got more water heated.”

“Nay,” answered William slowly.
“Nay, I think my bath has been sufficiently warmed already.
The cold has been vanquished.”

In a screened nook off the great hall, Lord Peter
wiped his brow on his sleeve and tried to concentrate on the
accounting his seneschal was explaining to him. He would rather be
out in the bailey, training the young lads Kimball and Clare in
swordplay; anything but this everlasting boredom. This had been
William’s job, keeping track of the year’s crop yield
and their tenants’ rents and whether their stewards had
cheated them. He had no head for it, no matter
how often or patiently the intelligent young cleric explained
it.

“Due to the raids at Fairford,” Brother
Cedric was saying, “the rents have been down again.” He
suspended his report, his attention attracted by the commotion
coming from the great hall.

Lord Peter looked up, too, interested in anything
that would distract him from the agonizing tally. “It has
been too long since we’ve had laughter in the castle,”
he commented. “The arrival of Lady Saura has set all to
rights. The servants are well behaved and cheerful, the meals are
well prepared and I believe William is responding at
last.”

Saura, dripping and angry, appeared in the arched
door, one hand on the mastiff’s neck, one hand on
Maud’s arm, and the words died on his lips.

“Lord Peter!” she demanded.
“Forgive me for asking, but how long has it been since
William fornicated with a woman?”

Stupefied, Lord Peter questioned,
“Fornicated? With a woman?”

“His tastes definitely seem to run to
female,” Saura snapped, gathering her sleeve and wringing it
out.

Lord Peter stared at the drenched Madonna before
him, at the puddle on the planks around her. “You’re
wet,” he said. “Did you fall in a puddle?”

“Nay, I fell in a bath with your son, and a
lusty fellow he is! How long has it been since he was
bedded?”

A small sound escaped Brother Cedric, and Lord
Peter turned to see him struggling against a chuckle and staring at
Saura. The utilitarian wool
cotte
was
drenched, the gold undergarment showed through the lacing at the
sides. Her violet eyes glittered, her cheeks were flushed a pretty
pink. Her
lips throbbed full and red and carried
the delectable swelling that was the symptom of a thorough
kissing.

Maud cleared her throat and Lord Peter’s gaze
flew to hers. The message that passed from her mind to his was
explicit and vehement and he hastily answered, “Ah, I think
’twas before he was blinded.”

“Oh, marvelous. It has been months. Well,
that must change. Bring a woman to him now. She has to have my
shape,” Saura measured her waist with her hands, “and
have all her teeth. He has intimate experience with my teeth.
I’ll send out my clothes, she can wear them. And Lord
Peter?”

“Aye?” Dazed, Lord Peter tried to put
together the sequence of events leading to these extraordinary
demands.

“You promised me material from France.
I’ll get the sewing women started on my new wardrobe at
once.” She nodded regally and took Maud’s arm. Tugging
at the dog’s neck, she ordered, “To my
chamber.”

Lord Peter stared after them and repeated with mild
astonishment, “Damn! What did I tell you? Lady Saura is
setting all to rights.”

“Shoo! Ye big dog, go on, ye don’t
belong in m’lady’s chamber.”

“Let him in, Maud. He’ll just claw at
the door if you don’t.”

The dog’s claws created a clipped rhythm on
the wooden floor and the bedchamber door closed behind them. Maud
scolded, “Every stupid dog in the world worships ye. Get over
to the fire and strip out of those clothes. This chilly
spring’s no time to take a bath.”

“I hadn’t planned on it!” Saura
protested, hands busy with the lacing. “Oh, help, the tie is
stuck.”

Maud dropped the clothes she was lifting from a
trunk and hurried to attend her lady. “Aye, ’tis wet,
and it would seem Lord William’s busy fingers knotted it
tight. If I didn’t have reason to know better, m’lady,
I’d say your performance in the bathtub smacked of an
experienced woman.”

“I am an experienced woman—”
Saura smiled a lopsided, charmed smile. “Now.”

“I’ve not seen such passion since the
first time your mother helped your father with his bath. She was a
maiden, too, but not for long.”

“I was curious.” She lifted her arms
and let Maud remove her garments.

“Curiosity, is it?” Maud mused.
“Nay, I’ve seen curiosity before, and that wasn’t
it.”

Goaded by an interest she didn’t understand,
Saura asked, “What does he look like, Maud?”

“
That’s
curiosity.” Stepping back, she examined her lady’s
naked form. “Ah, Lady Saura, ye’re beautiful. Ye should
have been wedded and bedded at thirteen, like the other
women.”

“And perhaps dead in childbed at
fifteen.”

“As God wills, but I long to hold your babes
in my arms. ’Tis not too late, ye know. Ye’re only
nineteen.”

Saura hugged the old woman. “Only nineteen?
Ha! Well past the age of marriage. Don’t open my mind to
hope, Maud. I can live with resignation, but if I begin to dream of
a man, a man of my own….” She shivered.
“I’m chilled.”

Maud brought a rough towel and rubbed Saura all
over, handed it to her and ordered, “Dry your hair.
He’s big.”

“Who?”

“Who!” Maud snorted.

“William? I
know
he’s big! His voice is way up here.” Saura leveled her
hand above her head.

She plucked the veil from her hair and wrung the
water from the long, single braid hanging over her shoulder.
“He’s a magnificent stallion, and he’s tall and
well muscled. He has a pleasant voice, very pleasant. I know all
that. But what does he look like?”

Maud tossed a dry under-shift over Saura’s
head and tugged it down. “His face is broad and stern, and he
smiles but rarely. But when he does, m’lady! His dimples show
even above that scraggly beard. He’s so blond, so light, he
appears golden in his bath.” Maud checked her lady’s
face.

Enraptured, Saura clung to every word with her lips
slightly open and white teeth peeking out. Her hands, employed with
the business of unbraiding her hair, froze in midair. Her chest
rose and fell with deep inhalations, her eyes shone.

To Maud, Saura’s expression and her sudden
interest revealed hope for her mistress’s future. Maud
expanded her description with sly intention. “He’s the
type of man women gawk at. Whoever they dress up and send in there
will be more than willing, I assure ye.”

“That relieves my mind,” Saura said
wryly, her fingers busy with the braid once more.

“Aye, I’m sure it does.” Maud
chuckled. “This relieves my mind, too.”

When the door of the master chamber opened and
William walked out on Linne’s arm, Lord Peter had to fight
back a swell of tears. His son had returned.

William’s beard was trimmed close to show the
strong chin
held at a determined angle. Cut into
a golden fringe above his eyebrows and around his neck, his hair
swung in cadence with his stride. He walked upright, his step firm
and his shoulders unbending.

He was back again: William was back.

“Father!” Kimball rose from his bench
at the head table and tumbled out onto the floor.
“Father.” He ran to him, catching his hand.

“Aye, son?” William tilted his head
down, seeming to look at the boy. “Is everyone seated at the
tables? Am I late?”

“We waited for you. Lady Saura said
you’d had lots of excitement and you might be taking a nap,
but Grandfather said taking a bath is hard work and insisted we
wait. So Lady Saura ordered a soup and we’ve been having some
music. Her harp playing reminds me of the angels. But now
we’re starving!”

“We mustn’t have that. Will you take me
to the table?” He freed his hand from Linne’s arm,
leaned down and whispered, “And make sure I don’t bang
my shins?”

“Aye, sir.” Pleased to have his father
back, too young to be sentimental, Kimball grinned. “I
won’t let you trip. Put your hand in my elbow; you want me to
sit beside you and cut your meat? The quintain only knocked me off
my horse once today and it knocked Clare off four
times—here’s the bench, Father, lift your leg
over—but Grandfather says he’s going to be a great
jouster if he keeps practicing. He’s seven and I told him I
didn’t do as well at seven and he’s not as big as I was
even then but Grandfather says he has a good seat. Here’s
your trencher, feel it?” He took William’s hand and put
it on the rough wooden plate.

“Aye, thank you, Kimball.” A smile
tugged at William’s mouth. “Have you missed
me?”

“Well,” the eight-year-old thought
about that. “You
haven’t been gone,
exactly. But you didn’t like to hear me talk.”

“I know. I’m sorry, it will not happen
again.” He raised his hand and searched, found the
boy’s face and then his head, and smoothed the tangled hair
back. “But tell me, who is Clare?”