Candle in the Window by Christina Dodd Read Free Book Online

peace reigned in the chamber, the door shut
tight against drafts.
    Lady Saura and her handmaid were in consultation
over his clothing trunk, and the murmur of their voices washed over
him.
    “This feels like a fine, light wool
tunic.”
    “Aye, and ’tis dyed a serviceable brown
with braid at the sleeves and hem.”
    The other serving women worked quietly under
Saura’s direction or settled with their sewing. Their hushed
chatterreminded him of a spring bath four years
ago, and in his mind’s eye he saw the large chamber as it
looked then.
    Built off the great hall, it was dominated by the
polished wooden master’s bed, raised on a dais, fitted with a
canopy and hung with curtains to keep out the winter winds. The
clothing trunks sat against the opposite wall, close enough to the
hearth to keep the contents dry but not to catch a stray spark.
Blessed with more light than any other room in the castle, the
solar contained clusters of stools and benches in the window seat
where the women worked. Windows overlooked the fenced garden of the
bailey. The iron grille protecting them cast square shadows into
the room and the wooden shutters were finished with elaborate
carvings.
    William chuckled as he remembered how his wife had
insisted on first the windows, then the carvings. His father had
shouted she would beggar them with these ridiculous ideas, and Anne
had shouted back, telling him to fix his own dinner and mend his
own clothes and bear his own grandchildren. It had been quite a
violent altercation, and in the end Lord Peter had cheerfully
ordered the shutters carved and Anne had continued to bear him
grandchildren.
    Until she died with the last one. William had laid
her to rest beside the four tiny graves of their children who had
gone before.
    He waited for the familiar rush of grief, but there
lingered only a sweet melancholy. He missed her: her boisterous
laugh, the scent of lavender on her clothes, the plump cushion of
her body against his at night. But he no longer mourned her, and if
this monstrous handicap had not been visited on him, he would have
cast his eye around for a woman to marry and live with.
    He didn’t like this process of pursuing one
woman until she capitulated and then forsaking her and pursuing
another. He knew men who did: Arthur, and to a
lesser extent, Charles, sought the myth of the perfect woman in
every bed. During the years they were fostered by his father, no
serving maid beyond her first flowering lay on her pallet
alone.
    But that particular pattern of male behavior was
foreign to him. His energies were better utilized as a warrior, his
desires better cared for by a woman who loved him. He had used the
serving women around the castle to sate his bodily needs, but he
yearned for the one lady who would heal his soul. He sighed and dug
the rag out of the bottom of the tub.
    A rustle of material caught his ear, and one of the
maids stepped up to test the water. William perceived the swirl of
her finger by his thigh and smelled the spicy scent of carnation,
and grinned. Catching her hand in his, he rubbed the soft skin
beneath his thumb and rumbled, “Wench! Is my leg so
interesting you yearn to touch it?”
    The girl said nothing, only laughing in a startled,
breathless way and tugging against his hold.
    Emboldened by her laughter—she was obviously
not afraid of him or his blindness—he tugged back.
“Don’t go, I have more I can show you than mere
leg!” With a jerk, he pulled her into the tub and onto his
lap.
    Water rose in a great splash and they were
instantly wet from head to toe. The girl gasped and struggled in an
inept, careless manner, as if she weren’t accustomed to
having a man hold her. The quick skim of his hand down heŕ
soaking body assured him this couldn’t be the case. Any wench
blessed with generous bosoms and hips and a tiny waist had been the
recipient of many an embrace.
    Her amorous struggles grew wilder and less
effective and a pleasured smile split his