Candle in the Window

by Christina Dodd

  He murmured, “Cold, little one? Let me cover you.” Slowly, so slowly, he descended on her body, covering first the vulnerable skin of her belly, then her breastbone. Her nipples nestled into the rasp of his hair and the weight of his chest descended on her, flattened her, opened her to the miracle of flesh on flesh for the first time.

  Her life usually rumbled along, dull and routine or horrifying and terrifying, broken occasionally by golden moments. This moment she relished the most. Her golden man. His lips floated across her eyelids, his spice teased her nose, and she lifted her head and captured his kiss with her own, as fresh and ardent as any apt pupil’s.

  Now his lips opened under her probing, now he let her lead them down the path to paradise, and when they came up for air she was gratified to hear the gasp of his breath and feel the heavy thump of his heart, so close to her own.

  “Pleasure,” he said, his voice out of control and amplified by the bare room. He moderated his tone and repeated, “Pleasure is a marvelous thing. It can be slow and fiery, burning every inhibition in its path.” Leaning sideways across her body, his hand glided from its resting place on her ribs and down to her hip. “Our conflagration has ignited everything. Saura, I’m on fire.”

  Almost inaudible, his eloquence meant less to her than the fine tremble in his arm as he supported himself above her.

  “Saura, show me what you want.”

  She found her fingers shook, too, as she gathered his hand in hers and put it on her pubic bone, but he asked no further urging. It was a honeyed delight when he opened her to his probing. One by one he found, and recognized, the organs of her response, showed her that all that had gone before was a preparation for this. When first one finger, then another, skimmed inside her, her soul began the slow glide to pleasure. Not his whispered warning of pain, not his careful probing, not the slow introduction of his essence into her body could stop the updraft that lifted her.

  Her tissues yielded slowly: not all her will could force her body to part for him. Yet the discomfort was nothing compared to the agony of rapture his hands supplied her. His litany of, “I can’t wait, I can’t wait,” meant only that he eased into her in tiny increments, backing off and returning until she clawed at him in frustration. Then he fought his way past her maidenhead and chuckled in choked amusement when she groaned, “At last!”

  Her impatience blossomed. She kneaded his waist, pulled at his buttocks, gasped his name. That ignited his spark.

  What had been a patient and gentle loving grew to a tumultuous fierceness. Unbearable delight, gratified distress, she’d never been here before. William pulled her into the center of turbulence and propelled her from one extreme to the other until her body could no longer demand, could no longer receive. She captured him in her arms and legs, hugging him, following his dance, and she found that place of color and light.

  In this blessed place, there was gold beneath her fingers, gold in the scented air. There were golden sounds for her ears and golden dishes for her taste. The gold ebbed and flowed with William’s thrust, grew to be more than gold under his encouragement, and in one glorious revelation they welded themselves into one entity. William and Saura, Saura and William. Together, where the treasures of their bodies transformed into the treasures of their souls, and lodged there past the time of passion.

  Perhaps, Saura dreamed, these treasures would never disappear.

  She returned to a kind of consciousness when his weight collapsed on her. “Sorry,” he groaned and lifted himself from her body. Regret made her hug him close for one last moment, and then she released him. Understanding her with an affinity that dazzled, he settled himself and brushed her hair back from her face. “There’ll be more for us,” he promised.

  “Aye,” she said, not because she agreed, but because she hoped. Strength returned to her limbs, and in a surge of activity she shoved the blankets to the foot of the pallet and complained, “I’m so hot.”

  In the night, she put her feet on him and he woke with a jolt. “Damn, woman, you’re freezing again.”

  “Aye.”

  “If you’d keep the covers on you—”

  “You can warm me,” she suggested, snuggling tight under his arm.

  “Aye, you wanton, I could. But I won’t.” He cuddled her close and kissed the top of her head. “You’re too inexperienced and I’m—stop that! Where’d you learn that?”

  She raised her mouth from his nipple. “From you. Don’t you like it?”

  “I don’t know. ’Tis…different. I suppose I like it. Stop that!” He caught her under her chin and held her while he shifted so they were face to face. “Wait another night, love, and I’ll bring you satisfaction again. There’s too great a difference between us for you to be comfortable with further joinings tonight.”

  “Don’t you want me?” Her voice quivered with rejection.

  “Not want you? God, woman,” he took her hand and wrapped it around his organ, “that’s as large a want as I’ve ever had. But more than that, I love you. You’re the most honest woman in the world. And generous and clever.”

  “I sound like a nun again.” She sighed.

  “Oh, nay.” He laughed and shook his head in an emphatic negative. “You’re also stubborn and determined and feisty and I’ll never put a rock in your way,” he raised her hands and kissed them, “when my head is close and I’ve made you angry.”

  “I’ve never hit anyone before,” she protested. “At least, not with stones.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  She could hear the smile in his voice.

  “Only in my defense do you become an effective fighter. I’ll teach you to defend yourself. No woman of mine will be raped or murdered without a struggle.”

  Woman of mine.

  The words stood out and thrilled her, but beneath the thrill rested a cold fear and confusion. Did he really believe any woman was capable of defending herself? Her own defenses were guile and watchfulness, honed by years of danger. Was she deceiving him unnecessarily? Should she tell him, before someone else did, of her blindness? She hated it so much, when one of the slack-witted fools made a game of her, and she feared he would think she had done so with him.

  They were easy words to say: “William, I’m blind, too.” But those few syllables could destroy the cocoon of trust and passion that surrounded them, and so her innate honesty struggled with her craving to procrastinate, for just one more night. For just a few more hours.

  “You’ve wandered far away from me,” he murmured, tugging at a lock of hair. “Come back and sleep in my arms till the morn. Then we’ll discover who’s made such a torment for us, and after I cure his pretensions we’ll be on our way.”

  Analyzing the emotions from the voices around her had kept Saura from harm more times than she could count, and now she heard the false confidence in his tone, the projection of assurance that he did not feel.

  But what could she do? Putting her own assurance in her voice, she murmured, “Of course, William,” and drifted off to sleep.

  The sun leaked its rosy light through the two arrow loops, illuminating the sorry furnishing of the room, and William stared and wondered. It looked so real. Since his accident, he had dreamed vivid, sighted dreams, but this one looked so real. Since the days of his boyhood, when William had wakened with anticipation, he had never shaken his irrational assurance that each new day would be a landmark day. This morning was no different. The pleasure had been made sharper, perhaps, by the events of the night, but still he had stretched and embraced the morning, and opened his eyes: and seen this.

  He closed his eyes again, and the vision disappeared. His remaining senses, the senses he trusted, fed him information. Borne on the wind, early morning air brushed his face with its dewy kiss. Outside, he could hear birds practicing their salute to the sun with increasing vigor. Beside him, Saura still slept. He could hear her even breathing and feel her warmth against his arm. Aye, it was morning.

  He opened his eyes. Those dam
n arrow loops seemed brighter, the increasing light flattered the grey stones. He flicked his gaze across the narrow room. Table, stools, tall empty candle holder. How odd. Wooden buckets. Cocking his head up, he stared down at the pallet.

  Look at that. Two bumps under the brown blanket where his feet should be, and they moved when he moved. This seemed so real.

  Look at the woman beside him. God’s teeth, now he knew it was a dream. This woman, this dream Saura, was gorgeous. Vers sprang to his lips under the influence of her sensuous face. A lovely bone structure, indeed, and a willful chin. And red lips and long black lashes that brushed her cheeks. Long, shiny, black hair artfully placed across her chest, hiding and revealing the proud arch of her breast. Her skin, all over, creamy and clear, unmarred by freckle or blemish. What a dream. What a dream.

  He shook his head at his own gullibility, and his imaginary scenery rocked back and forth. He lay back, chuckling, and raised his hands to rub his eyes. But before they connected, he stopped. They looked so much like his own hands. Look, there was the scar in the pad of his thumb where he’d broken the skin polishing a helmet in his squire days. And look, his middle finger cocked to the side, just a little, from the broken bone he’d earned in battle five years ago. And look, his hands didn’t seem as muscular as they had, just as his hands should appear after months of inactivity. And look, he flexed his whole hand. Look.

  Look.

  His heart began a slow, hard pounding.

  Look. Look at the way his hands obeyed his commands.

  He sat up on his elbows.

  Look at this room. Look at this place.

  Look at the light.

  six

  “Only hope will greet us tomorrow.” Was it his own incantation that had healed him? Or was it the love of a good woman, a virgin, that old panacea for every ill?

  William stood and peered out the arrow loop. He knew where they were. He’d been in this castle once before on a hunting trip. Below him he could see—dear God, the miracle contained in that simple word!—he could see the wall walk, and that told him this room was located at the top of a tower. Far below the wall curved a river, and he saw a shallow-bottomed boat preparing to tie at the dock and disgorge its single impudent stooge.

  He couldn’t believe it. Or he didn’t want to believe it. The villainy of this whole plan astonished him. The stupidity of it amazed him, too. He’d dressed, then he’d checked out this prison. There were no restrictions here, not for a sighted man. If he wanted to, he could break down the door. If he wanted to, he could rouse Saura, wisk her past those pitiful sentries, steal two horses and ride back to Burke. It would not have been horribly difficult without the use of his eyes, and now that his vision had returned, it was ridiculously simple.

  But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. This man who held them, this worm, this misbegotten knave, he would pay. And he would speak. William couldn’t think of one thing that could render this âme damnée courageous enough to stand against him. A modest man, William knew that in a rage, he was a force no one, certainly not that filthy whoreson who imprisoned them, could withstand.

  Walking to the bed, he stood and stared at Saura. Her beauty shocked him. He was a pragmatic man, one who expected no more from life than it gave. But this woman was a prize.

  A maid at nineteen. He’d known she was a maid by her amazed reaction to pleasure, but the confirmation of her state made it difficult for him to control himself.

  What a reward! The girl became a woman in a burst of flame, burying him in passion, pulling at him with exquisite convulsions. She burned him with her erotic flame, but she credited him with the heat they created, and perhaps she was right. Apart, they functioned as two normal human beings. Together, their fiery union lit the night.

  A maid at nineteen. Uneasy, he pulled a stool up to the table and tore off a chunk of bread. Dry, chewy, it tasted like heaven to a man denied both his dinner and his supper the day before. But his attention wandered back to Saura, her eyelids tinted a delicate blue by the tracery of veins beneath sheer skin. Any heiress with her looks should have been married at thirteen. Why wasn’t she? The question nagged at him. She seemed perfect. Beautiful, compassionate, accomplished, rich. How had her stepfather kept her from marriage? Of course, a bigger bastard than her stepfather had never existed. The distaste Theobald had given her for kissing was soon vanquished, and she’d shown a remarkable ability to improvise on William’s own theme. She’d kissed all the parts of his body until his muscles ached with rigid constraint. The memory of it brought him to his feet again, unable to sit with any kind of serenity beneath the prod of nostalgia. If she weren’t so new, if she weren’t so tiny, if she were awake and smiling at him. He swore at himself. With a smidgen of encouragement, he’d jump on her in a moment. How had he checked himself last night, when she’d asked for a repeat?

  He paced away to the window. Something nagged at him, something one of the servants had said, but he couldn’t quite resurrect it. He looked out the window again, down to the river. Where was that little twirp who had imprisoned them? If he didn’t come through the door soon, William would have to break out. He couldn’t bear being in the same room with her and not slipping the blankets from her body. Clenching his fist, he pounded his forehead and groaned. What a fool he was, to torment himself.

  A soft sigh alerted him to her waking. Swinging on one heel, he watched with eager eyes as she stretched like a cat, first one arm, then the other, first one leg, then the other, then the whole long length of her in one sinuous motion. Her skin glowed with health, light against the dark cover over the palliasse. Her long hair concealed and revealed as it shifted over the mounds and valleys of her flesh. She was the loveliest thing he’d seen in—he laughed at himself. She was the loveliest thing he’d ever seen.

  A belated desire for drama caught him unaware. He wanted to surprise her, please her with the return of his sight. Hastily, he faced back to the arrow loop, never thinking that in itself would alert a sighted person, for what blind man stares out the window?

  “William?” Her word sounded with the musical allure of a flute. When he didn’t answer, in a frantic tone, “William?”

  “Here, love.” He found he couldn’t face her yet, and rubbed his palms across his face with boyish glee.

  “Are you well?” she asked, concern lacing the clear notes of her voice.

  In answer he turned and faced her. Her eyes astonished him. The violets of the spring lost the contest for velvety color, or perhaps the contrast of her black lashes against her white skin created an unfair advantage. Her lips, like petals of carmine peonies, drooped with the worry absent in her slumber. Asleep, her face turned the envious beauties of the world to stone; awake, the compilation of fine bones, delicate muscles, and fragile skin created a classic animation he could study for hours.

  But she wasn’t really watching him. So he winked at her. And she didn’t react. So he grinned at her, a boyish, look-at-me grin. And the worry lines on her face deepened.

  “William?” She threw back the covers and rose in one swift, graceful movement. “What is it? Your head?”

  She started toward him. His throat closed with appreciation of her body, and his warning remained unuttered. He threw out his hand to her. But she kept coming, not seeming to see his gesture, not seeming to see the bucket until her toes caught around the leg of the stool, her knee whacked the bucket and the whole contrivance, and Saura, went flying.

  Jumping after her, his mind buzzing with concern, he was relieved to hear a very normal shout of “Plague take it!” from those petal-soft lips. Wrapping his arms around the fallen beauty, he lifted her with tender concern. He let her stand first one foot down, then the other. “Any broken bones?” he queried.

  “Of course not,” she answered scornfully. “I’ve done worse. But you, William, are you healthy?”

  “Aye.” He stared down at her shins, tracing the redness already beginning above the bone. “T’will be painful.” He realized he wasn’t l
ooking into her face as he should. A man who wished to surprise his lady with the return of his sight had to alert her somehow to his good news. So why was he afraid?

  He froze. Afraid? What was he afraid of? What had he seen, with his new eyes, that he hadn’t wanted to admit to?

  “What ails you?” she insisted, shaking his shoulder. “You’re stiff as if you were paralyzed. Is that it? Are there parts of your body not functioning? You must tell me, trying to keep it from me only makes it worse.”

  “All my body parts are functioning. All of them.” He raised his eyes to her face and saw it there, that gaze that looked through him, that gaze that didn’t touch him. His first incredulous thought was that her sight had been taken so his could be restored, but her very natural demeanor relieved him of his suspicion. The whiplash of remorse convinced him. All his scorn and rebellion had been directed at this beautiful, sightless girl. A shiver ran through him. “Saura.”

  “You’re ill,” she said. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you love me.”

  She tried to disengage her arm from around his neck, but he stopped her by swinging her up into his arms.

  “If you’re ill, let me help you,” she insisted. “Put me down.”

  “Aye, I’ll put you down.” He lowered her all the way to the palliasse on the floor. He pulled the loose cover around her, tucked her tight in its folds.

  She let him, unresisting, not understanding. “William?” she whispered, touching his face as he knelt before her.

  An immense guilt swallowed him. “Oh, my God, Saura, you can’t see.”

  Saura sat straight and tall, her legs curved beneath her, hugging the blanket to her bare body until she understood the import of what he’d said. The bleakness of her existence rushed over her, and her mind screamed, No escape! You’ll never escape.