Candle in the Window: Castles #1

by Christina Dodd

  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 created 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.”

  She wrapped her arms around her stomach, in pain and at a loss. “I don’t know what you want.”

  It was a cry of bewilderment, and his voice gentled. “I want a wife, Saura. I want a woman who loves me, who glories in my love for her, who values my judgment enough to know I’d not love an unworthy vessel. Anne was the wife chosen for me by my father, and we formed ourselves into a marriage and we were happy. Yet I speak no treason to Anne when I say you’re the wife chosen by me for me. There’s no need to file away rough edges; we already fit. We always fit. We could have the kind of love that shines like a light for all to see, but you’re afraid.”

  “What do you mean, afraid?”

  “Afraid to trust me with your confidence. Afraid that I’ll be like Theobald and the others, and laugh at you. Afraid to look into my soul and see the kind of man I am. I’m open to you, and you’re afraid to see.”

  He struck at the very heart of her anxiety. He was in her mind, and for the first time she realized what a coward she was. She didn’t want him to know her so well, she didn’t want to know him as if he were the other half of her. She couldn’t maintain her anger in the face of his sadness, and when she spoke she found her voice thickened with tears. “You don’t believe me about Charles.”

  “You haven’t given me a logical reason to believe you. You haven’t given me someone else to suspect. For God’s sake, tell me what’s in your mind.”

  Crying in earnest now, she muttered, “I can’t. I just can’t.”

  He was silent, accepting her words, and then he walked away from her. Kneeling on the ground, he cursed. “I can find my breeches, but not my hose. That’ll have to do.”

  She heard him struggling to dress, readying himself to walk away from her, and her sobs overwhelmed her. She remembered crying in front of Theobald, back when he could still hurt her. She remembered his scorn, remembered hearing him say, “Don’t play that game with me. Sniveling won’t win my sympathies.” Stuffing her skirt into her mouth to muffle her sounds, she stood desolate while William prepared to walk away, and flayed herself for cowardice. He was dressed, he was going.

  But he came to her and wrapped his big arms around her. “Don’t cry, sweeting. You’re breaking my heart. Please don’t cry.”

  That made it worse. Kindness when she expected scorn, caring when she deserved a shaking. The sobs shook her in earnest and he held her and crooned.

  When the storm subsided, he petted her and said, “Let’s go in now. ’Tis dark out here. ’Tis getting chill.”

  “Nay! Nay.” She shook her head against him and mopped her face on the skirt of her cotte. “I want to stay out here and think.” He began to deny her, but she begged, “Please, William, I have so much to consider. Leave me alone, just for a while.”

  Surprisingly, he did as she implored. He left her standing in the dark, in the damp, in a garden that was no longer a refuge from herself. When she knew he had gone in, she said to the empty air, “I just want to be the right kind of wife. I just want to be a normal wife.”

  “Bula!” Saura tossed aside the handful of dry leaves she was shredding and called him. Listening, she could hear the distant snuffling noises as Bula sought to scare up another squirrel, and called firmly, “Bula, come.”

  He snorted in protest, but galloped to her, bringing his ready affection and need for constant attention. She fended off the attack of his tongue on her face. Scrubbing under his chin, she listened to his ecstatic whine and crooned, “Aye, you’re a sweet boy, you are.” She used his collar to lever herself off the bench and groped for the rope tacked from tree to tree, marking her path.

  She didn’t want to be alone, for it left her mind open to the fears and regrets, but today the pain had chased her from the castle. She�
��d had to promise Maud she wouldn’t wander far. She’d promised to take Bula for security. When Maud snorted and pointed out that the dog was nothing but an overgrown puppy, Saura had had to agree. Still, his mere size discouraged most, and his unrestrained friendliness acted as a protection in itself. Maud had snorted again, but reluctantly consented to let Saura go. Maud saw the torment that trapped her mistress, and she trusted Lord Peter’s woodsmen to keep her darling safe.

  Saura followed her fingertips from the castle wall into the forest where she could sit in solitude and think. And think. And curse herself and her inhibitions and wish she had William back.

  William had stayed for three days after their night in the garden, hugging her, touching her, preparing to leave.

  He’d been kind and encouraging, praising her good sense and helpful hands. He’d done everything to mend the rift between them. He’d given her every chance to tell him what he wanted to hear. Time and again she opened her mouth to tell him; tell him she’d be his wife, give her whole self, hold nothing back. But her intrinsic truthfulness restrained her. She couldn’t surrender herself so completely, and she ached with the knowing.

  Why couldn’t she? What led her to keep her heart safe? She couldn’t understand her own mind. She’d never believed she was a coward, she’d never believed she’d be satisfied with less than complete union. So why did she step away from her heart’s desire?

  They’d fooled the servants, they’d fooled everyone. They’d seemed easy with each other, and only the two of them had heard the dreadful silences between them when conversation had lagged.

  And he’d left.

  Housework hadn’t filled the gap. She’d attacked all the duties of the chatelaine with vicious determination. She’d ordered the undercroft scrubbed, rotting fruit from the previous year discarded, and a thorough cleaning performed. Last year’s salted meat had been placed in the front to be used first, and the pickling barrels awaited the first cold snap and the butchering that would fill them. Eating apples were packed in wooden boxes, cushioned by straw, and the tiny apples were pressed for cider. Herbs were hung to dry from the ceiling.

  It had all been in vain, worthless distractions that couldn’t keep her mind from wandering. Now she walked with Bula, seeking a solution to the ache that plagued her. Together they proceeded down the path, the crisp air wrapping them round.

  Saura wanted to reach the large oak. She’d turn back there, she promised herself. It wasn’t far, but she wanted to explore the flaking bark with the palm of her hand. She wanted to feel the carving William had made for them one day as they walked the path in their honey month, a W entwined with an S, he’d explained, guiding her fingers through the loops of the letters. She wanted to find the marks, wedged in between the reminders of other sweethearts, and trace them lovingly. Like a fool, she wanted to hug the tree that kept the remembrance of their happiness.

  For the first time since William left, she descended into the depths of pathos. The whole world was unfair. Her brothers didn’t need her. Pertrade Castle still stood without her. Her husband was gone, her faithful serving maid had found a love. She tripped on a rock in the path and sobbed out loud. A branch smacked her in the face and she knocked it aside. She wrapped her hand around Bula’s collar and urged him forward.

  Bula tried to veer off, away from the rope that directed her, and Saura admonished, “Nay, boy, this way. We’re almost there.”

  He insisted they should go into the trees, and she found the rope with her hands again. “The squirrels must be allowed to gather their nuts, and we must go to the tree. We’re not getting there very quickly, between your frolicking and my laziness. Come on.” She tightened her grip on his collar and tugged.

  He came, whining insistently and leaning sideways against her guidance. His weight created an ache in her arm and she pulled him sharply. “Come on!” He yelped as if she had hurt him, and she scolded, “You fool dog. You’re the biggest baby. Don’t you want to go to the tree with me? We’ll be there straightaway.”

  Obediently, he trotted along beside her for another moment and then began his sideways pull. He stopped and sniffed the ground, tangling beneath her feet, and she let him go in exasperation. Released, he didn’t run off, as she expected, but stood in her path and barked.

  His bark puzzled her. He wasn’t sounding an alarm, yet he seemed unwillingly to let her go on. He seemed uncertain, in doubt.

  Putting her fists at her waist, she asked, “Bula, are you mad?”

  For answer, he bumped her hard with his big head, and the tears that threatened overflowed.

  “I can’t go back yet.” She stopped to suck in her breath and stifle the sobs that broke her voice. “I’ve got to be alone.”

  He nudged her away from the rope, but she found it and gripped it with her fist.

  “I can’t leave the path. I’d be lost in the forest.”

  He didn’t understand, insistent that he wanted her to go away from the cable. He pushed her, and when she wouldn’t leave, he trotted a few feet away and whined with entreaty.

  “I can’t.” Even the dog was abandoning her. Her emotions broke, and she cried with unstifled sadness. She turned away from him and groped unsteadily down the path, and when he sprang in front of her and tripped her once more, it was too much. “Go away!” She smacked him with the side of her hand, hurting her bones and his feelings. “Go on and leave me. I don’t need you!”

  He whined and ducked, tried to insist and whined when she swung at him and deliberately missed. Then he sat in the middle of the path behind her and complained as she followed the cord around the bend—and stopped in midflight, in midsob.

  This wasn’t right.

  She trusted that dog. Not even her own battered emotions could shake her faith. He was her eyes, and if he tried to stop her from going where she wished, there had to be a reason.

  Sniffling, she dug her handkerchief out of her sleeve. Wiping her nose, she listened. The woods sounded quieter today. Deeper. With a subdued hush. Shuffling her feet, she found deep leaves, leaves so deep it seemed they hadn’t been disturbed by feet tramping a worn path. Odd. And jagged stones, lots of stones. Lifting her hands out, she swung around. Trees hung their shaggy branches thick about her and broke the ground with their untamed roots.

  She stiffened; she clasped her fist to her chest. Her fingers kneaded the handkerchief and her teeth chewed her lip.

  It almost seemed as if she were in a part of the forest where she’d never been before.

  It was impossible.

  Unless the ropes had been moved.

  “Bula,” she called uncertainly.

  He barked in reply and scuffled in the leaves.

  Raising her head, she sniffed and smelled it: the sour smell of men who had spent many hours in the woods.

  Whirling, she grasped the rope in her fingers and ran back toward her dog. “Bula!” She heard his bark of recognition, but he wasn’t barking at her. She ran faster, stumbling in an agony of dread, and she heard heavy footsteps racing toward her. She heard Bula growl, deep in his chest, and heard it grow to a full, hostile snarl. Men yelled warnings. A human being screamed. From Bula came the noise of desperation.

  She gasped at the sound of a heavy thump, like a rock against a hollow log. Abruptly, the agonized canine noises stopped, and she called Bula again, but he didn’t answer her.

  As her panic rose up to choke her, she heard a man speaking the same words she’d heard before, but now his voice was unmuffled and recognizable.

  “Fear not, fair lady. I love you.”

  eighteen

  William was a man who prided himself on his logic. The world would have been shocked to hear he didn’t believe in witches or wizards or imps. He’d been a skeptic since the day he’d captured a squeaking goblin. The goblin had turned out to be nothing more than a stained and frightened man, a charcoal burner who lived deep in the woods. Nothing in his later life had changed William’s firm conviction that men feared the unknown fo
r no reason. No one, be they magician or juggler, had displayed powers he couldn’t understand, and so he dealt with logic and found it a convincing substitute for humbug.

  He’d used logic to decide Charles was the bastard who sought his downfall, but there lodged in his mind a tiny niggling doubt.

  Something was missing from his logic.

  Staring at the stronghold where Charles lived, William tapped his fingers on his saddle and wished he knew what to do. Somehow, as he’d ridden farther from Saura and closer to Charles, he’d convinced himself she spoke the truth. Slower and slower he’d ridden, the burden of his uncertainty growing heavy. The trip that should have taken three days took seven as he debated the wisdom of his move. He ached to turn around and ride back to Saura, to tell her she was right and he was wrong. But perhaps he simply felt guilty.

  He’d thought he could slowly teach her to love him as he loved her. He’d thought the patience he possessed was sufficient to lay siege to her restraints. He’d found, to his own amazement, that it was not. How could he have demanded so much of her? Saura’s brothers had told him of her legacy from Theobald; he’d been prepared for years of slow and steady support to wean her from her idée fixe. Instead he’d discovered he couldn’t tolerate her gratitude, offered him at the end of a halcyon interlude.

  Gratitude: It made him want to spit. How could she cheapen their matrimony by offering nothing more than what other women gave? How could she demand less than he was willing to give?

  Shaking his head in disbelief, he stared again at the battlements before him. Was he ignoring Saura’s conviction from vindictiveness or good sense? She swore it wasn’t Charles, but offered no other candidates. With feminine illogic, she’d deemed Charles innocent, but could offer no other suspects.

  She couldn’t be correct.

  Like a well-oiled wheel running in a well-worn track, he again reviewed the facts. Charles needed the money. Charles was weak-willed and envious. Charles was always at the right place, at the right time for the attacks. Charles…Charles was all that was logical. And unlikely.