Candle in the Window (31 page)

Before their marriage, she’d been a fallen
woman, reveling in dissipation, and then to ensure her respect,
he’d deprived her of himself. They’d wed, and once
again she reveled in the marriage bed, blessed by contract and the
Church.

And he had left, only to return wounded and
insensate. When they brought William home, babbling with fever from
the infection of his wound, Saura wanted nothing more than to cure
him. She wanted to bring him back to consciousness,
bring him back to life, and then wrap her hands
around his throat and choke him until he promised never to fight
again.

They’d had no loving since the day he’d
ridden away to siege, and now he came to her to declare he’d
go again. In Saura’s breast boiled a mixture of frustration
and anger at him, at circumstances, at herself. A plague be upon
him! He was leaving again, to fight this invisible threat that
stalked them. And she couldn’t stop him. She wanted to spread
a protective cloak over William, for with some dreadful illogic she
felt his misfortune was her fault. It wasn’t true, of course.
He’d been blinded before she arrived and cured during her
sojourn. But he was still leaving her.

Tearing her lips away, she said urgently,
“Maud says you are healthy?”

“Aye.” He followed her mouth with his,
seeking her sweetness.

She put her hand against his shoulder and pushed.
“Lie down on the bench. I wish to verify.”

“Dear heart,” he caught her hand and
kissed the palm, “this garden is protected by only a gate. I
can’t lie down here.”

Giving in to her fury, she trapped his face in her
hands and ordered, “Lie down.”

“The servants—”

“Need no instruction on how to knock.
I’ve taught them this is my private place, so we’ll
take advantage of it
now
.”

Taken aback by the passion in her voice and the
fierce insistence of her gestures, he gaped with the amazement of
one never ordered. “At least let me—”

“Nay!” Snatching her hand back, she
pushed him again. “I will know your body beneath mine before
I let you go.”

He examined her face in the light of the setting
sun. Her skin was tinted pink; perhaps the light caressed her,
perhaps
she was flushed. Her lips set firmly,
her eyes burned with fervor. She was thinner with worry and firm
with determination, and he yielded to her. He slid down on the
bench as she shifted over him, his back resting on the stone, his
feet planted on the ground. She swung her leg over him and her
hands raced over him frantically, seeking a confirmation of health.
He realized how she missed the comfort of
looking
at him to check his progress, a comfort
most wives took for granted. He grunted as she jerked at the laces
of his shirt and she slowed to trace the rupture of skin that had
felled so great a warrior.

“’Tisn’t much, is it?” she
said. “I’ve not touched it, I feared to hurt you, but I
thought they might be lying to me, telling me falsehoods to ease my
worry.”

“’Tis only a slight wound,” he
answered hoarsely. Her fingers were less nimble than usual, probing
the still-red flesh around the wound, but he withstood the pain as
he comprehended why she did it. She had to reassure herself, and
her frantic concern cheered him.

Did she love? Perhaps what he witnessed was the
birth of love, and the thought brought a slow, steady burn of
desire in his heart. Not just desire for her body, but a real
desire for her, for all of her. Her years of struggle and worry and
pain with Theobald were behind her, but those years had built a
wall of mistrust he wanted to smash. He wanted to demand her trust,
force her to give it, force her to tell him her mind. Words and
rigor had no power against this wall; only the slow, steady proving
of worthiness would prevail. He understood while he railed against
the necessity. The only thing that kept his purpose steady was her
pleasure in his company and in his body. Perhaps, when he’d
proved himself to her, he’d also see the birth of the pure
trust that would signal his victory.

He felt the pressure as she settled her weight on
him. She rode him like a horse, her skirt tucked beneath her with
no consciousness yet of his willingness to stud. She wanted union,
he knew, but her need to explore him obviously took precedence.
Demanding without words, she kneaded his shoulders, still covered
by his shirt. She ran her hands down to his hands, examining each
finger, each nail, each line of his palm, and her sure touch pulled
his attention from her. Focused with painful intensity on his own
senses, he shut his eyes and reveled in the garden of scents and
feelings she constructed around him.

Saura would have smiled when she felt him relax
beneath her, but it seemed so long since she had smiled her lips
felt stiff and unpracticed. Anger held her in its grip, anger and
the fervor to know him once more. When she raised his hands to her
face, she petted the skin on the backs, nuzzled his palm, tasted
one finger. She sought reassurance, but his groan encouraged her to
pursue sensuality for his sake. Levering herself up, she unlaced
his shirt all the way and pressed her hands to his abdomen. He
liked that; he bucked beneath her and suddenly the unpracticed
smile broke across her face. If William had been looking at her, he
would have been worried, for it was no smile of happiness, but the
sweet curl of revenge.

She’d pay him back for the worry, the anger,
the painful maturity he was forcing on her. It would be a temporary
revenge, but revenge nevertheless. Her hands skipped to the laces
at his breeches and with a slow, steady pull she opened the tie and
spread the rope to its greatest width. She slid her fingers into
the gap, then slipped away, caressing back up to his breastbone
where his heart thumped in a heavy beat. And she smiled.

“I can’t stand,” he began, and
reached for her.

“Aye, you can.” She raised up, and the
evening coolness struck them for the first time. It must be getting
dark, she realized, and she had no time to indulge him. “Give
me your hands,” she ordered, and he submitted them meekly.
Placing them on her waist, she said with stern authority,
“Don’t move them.”

She trembled with the effort this slow and steady
assault cost her. She wanted to pillage him, satisfy the burning
inside her, take him with no care for his pleasure, yet know his
pleasure met hers irresistibly. She simply wanted him to realize he
could no more deny her than she could him. As he had done once
before, she now taunted him. “You, my Lord William, are the
man who’s going to purge me of my frustration. Right.
Now.”

He laughed and groaned. Prepared, she caught his
hands as they flew away from her waist and returned them with firm
emphasis. “You’ve had your turn, William, now yield me
mine.”

He groaned again. Her purpose was now clear, but he
was a fair man and he let her have her way.

She touched his mouth with her open lips, mixing
their breath, and he tried to capture her with his tongue, but
she’d have no part of it. Pulling back, she laughed, a slow,
mocking chuckle.

“Witch.” He accused her with less heat
than he intended.

She heard his torment and responded with the slow
slide of her body down his. Standing, she untied his garters and
hooked her thumbs in his waistband. He lifted his hips in response
to her unspoken demand, and she pulled his clothing away, all of
it.

She didn’t know what prompted her, pure
curiosity perhaps, but she leaned into him and tasted him. His
writhings stopped; every respiration, every indication of life,
every mo
tion of enjoyment failed him. Alarmed,
she pulled her mouth away. “Are you well? William?”

A huge sigh answered her.

Never had William been tormented in such a sweet
way. He wanted to move, to shout, to keep Saura where she was and
to tear her away. He held his breath, gritted his teeth, held the
bench as if it would buck him off, and when he could stand no more,
he muttered, “Saura!”

Smiling her vengeful smile, she rose to her feet
and lifted her skirt, asking, “Is this what you
want?”

“Damn you, Saura, come to me if you value
your own pleasure.”

She didn’t question, simply brought herself
over him, skirt held high. She wedged one knee against the wall,
keeping one foot on the ground, and found him with unerring
instinct. She wanted to plunge on him, satisfy herself with one
swift race to completion, but more than that she wanted to torture
him. Controlling herself, she eased up, using her extended leg for
guidance. Experimenting, she swiveled her hips on the way down. He
gasped and strained up against her, and she quickened with
excitement. Oh, he liked that! She rose again, and swiveled back
down, and rose.

His hands clamped on her waist, and he jerked her
straight down, lifted her.

With her hands and her body, she fought William;
not enough to destroy their union, but enough that he grunted,
“Stop, you little wanton.”

Of course, if he’d wanted to stop her, he
could; he could easily have overpowered her at any moment. It spoke
volumes for his patience that he could listen to her curse him,
maintain their rhythm and still encourage her with his
ever-increasing gusto.

She panted, she struggled; she found little screams
escap
ing from her throat with no volition of
her own. And when she rose above him one last time and the feeling
burst within, he was with her. He relished the shudders that drove
her to the brink of insanity and when she finished, his back arched
off the bench and he forced her back to the brink with his own
mighty explosion.

She wilted down onto him, no longer stiff with
passion and resolve. Lifting one of her wrists, he released it and
chuckled as it dropped. He raised her, adjusting their positions
for warmth and comfort. She did as his hands instructed, limp in
the sweet aftermath of passion. With an insight that surprised her,
he waited until he had settled her securely under his chin to
inquire, “Still angry?”

“Aye,” she answered with a slow drawl
that owed everything to gratification. “But I lack the
fortitude to express it.”

“I’ll remember this pleasurable way to
subdue you,” he promised.

A bit of fight sprang to life and she began to rear
up, but his hand on her head forced her back down. Indignant, she
said, “You hardly seem frisky now.”

“My powers of recovery are remarkable,”
he reminded.

Sullen, she refused to admit it, and he continued,
“You were ready for me. Did teasing me arouse you?”

Her breath fanned his neck. “Aye, of course.
When you enjoy it so much, my whole body releases the love I
feel.”

“Love?” he asked idly, combing her hair
with his fingers.

“The love an obedient wife feels for her
husband.”

“The love the Church ordains.” He
nodded against her head as if he understood.

“Aye.” Her voice trailed off to
uncertainty. She could feel the restraint that molded him into a
firm board beneath her, and she thought she knew why.
“I’d be an ungrateful fool if I didn’t thank you
for returning that love.”

“What makes you think I return it?”

She laughed soft in her throat. “You’re
kind to me. You’re patient with my ignorance. You never
remind me I’m a burden or beat me when I deserve
it.”

“God’s teeth! You call that
love?”

He sat up, dislodging her from her nest under his
chin. Bewildered by his sudden rigid fury, she struggled on his
lap, but he wouldn’t let her go.

Holding her chest to chest, he growled, “You
are a fool if you think that’s love! Are you so unworthy
you’re satisfied with that whey-water version of
love?”

“’Tis what everyone else
has.”

“Everyone else? We can do better than
everyone else.”

Amazed at his vehemence and perturbed by their
abrupt return from satiation to reality, she demanded, “What
do you mean?”

“I’ll tell you what love is. ’Tis
standing arm in arm against the world and knowing together you
could rule the country. ’Tis fighting with each other with
tooth and nail and never fearing sly or brutal reprisals.
’Tis going to war against the whole world, yet knowing that
peace resides in the bed between us.”

Trying to deny him, she said, “You speak of
fight and ruling and war, and try to tell me about love?”

“I am a knight. How do you want me to say
it?” He put his hands around her shoulders and held her
still. The darkness wrapped them around, no one could see him
making such an idiot of himself, and his warrior’s heart
swelled. Dredging the words from some hidden part of his soul, he
explained, “’Tis knowing God created Eve from
Adam’s rib, the spot that protected his heart. ’Tis
knowing without that rib to protect him, a man is vulnerable.
’Tis knowing you’re cre
ated to be
at my side, not under my feet. ’Tis knowing we’re one
body, one mind.”

Angry again, and fearing his eloquence, Saura
jumped away from him and he let her go. She tugged her skirt down,
flicking it into place, pulling her protection about her.
“That’s ridiculous. The poets sing of such nonsense,
but this is reality. Do you expect me to believe that any man
doesn’t appreciate gratitude?”

“Gratitude?” He stood up, towering over
her and trapping her with his emotion. “For not beating you?
Damn, how can you be so intelligent and so stupid? ’Tis not
gratitude I want from you. I want you to be happy with
me.”

“I am happy.”

“With me!” His words ran out, and he
returned to the plain, unadorned French he used everyday.
“When we began, you and I were equal. You were my teacher, I
was a warrior. Now you want me to be your father, to protect you
and be satisfied with gratitude.”

“I don’t want a father,” she
faltered.

“Oh, don’t you! The loving father you
never had. But for that I endow you my own father.”