shutters. “I’d have done more than touch
Mistress le Gros if her husband had not come upon the scene.” He could feel the
smoothness of her skin, catch her scent on the wind—imagination, he knew. If
the truth were known, he would have taken her there in the chapel even if he
was to be damned for all eternity.
In his chamber, Durand paced from corner to corner. Every
step on the rushes reminded him of Cristina. The scented soap in a silver bowl,
stamped with the raven, filled his head, made him ache to call for a bath even
as midnight drifted toward dawn.
He fell into a chair. “Ah, Marion, who am I to condemn you
for your lovers? Surely, I’m as dishonorable to your memory and to Simon’s vows
as you were to ours. If Cristina put out her hand, I would take it up.”
Several hours later, he still stared into the hearth fire,
desires rampant. “ Jesu .” He rose and threw open the door. With a brisk
nod, he passed the sentry at the foot of his stairs and then walked quietly
through the hall to the east tower. He would see if the child was injured from the
fall in the bailey. At Cristina’s door, he hesitated but a moment before he
opened it.
The act took him past some boundary heretofore he had never
violated.
The scent of roses filled the air.
He felt as if he’d stepped into a rose garden. And in the center
of the bower lay Cristina, curled on her bed, one hand beneath her cheek,
childlike, her lips slightly parted. Innocent. What would he make of her if he
persuaded her to his bed?
An adulteress .
Would she come if he asked? He sensed something between them,
like the perfume when she passed that lingered in his head, an intangible thing
not seen, but felt low in his belly.
The shift she wore gleamed white in the chamber lit only by
the lingering embers of a banked fire. He roamed her chamber, skimming his
fingers over her mantle draped on a bench, still wet from their dash across the
bailey. The cradle lay in deep darkness, the babe indistinguishable from the
shadow. Alice snored noisily on a corner pallet, blankets about her head.
Durand returned to the bed. His body ached for the woman
lying there, her hair tangled across her pillow—hair that would flow through
his hands like silk. What would it be like to bury his face in that hair?
The blood of desire filled his body.
His breath caught in his throat as she moaned softly and
shifted, rolling to her back, her breasts now straining the cloth, dark nipples
thrust against the linen.
Against all sense, all the crying fears of discovery that
webbed the night, he moved to the head of the bed.
In his dreams, in the days to come, he would touch her
cheek. She would open her eyes, lift her arms, and welcome him to the warmth of
her bed…and body.
In this, the cold hour before dawn, he retreated to his
chamber, where he watched the morning rise over the land, cool air washing his
face. Glass had once filled his window until Marion had thrown a dish at his
head. Thrown it because he had locked her garden and banished her lover.
Tossing open his coffer, he dug to the bottom, to a painted
box carved with ravens. A box of keys. He immediately saw what he wanted—a
large iron key, rusty with disuse.
* * * * *
He found Cristina later that morning near the castle wall in
the cook’s garden, the edge of her hem damp with dew, gathering wild roses in a
basket. Her skirt swayed with her walk as she bent and cut the blooms. He
watched her lift each flower to her face, then skim it across her cheek before
placing it carefully in the basket.
Her profile was serene, her cheeks tinted with the same
color as the flowers she held.
“Mistress le Gros?” He waited for her to look up.
She turned. “My lord.” She dropped into a deep obeisance but
kept her gaze on her basket of flowers.
Two kitchen boys ran past, chasing one another. The scent of
baking bread filled the air and yet, he thought he could smell the roses in her
hands. He sensed a disquiet in her
Mistress le Gros if her husband had not come upon the scene.” He could feel the
smoothness of her skin, catch her scent on the wind—imagination, he knew. If
the truth were known, he would have taken her there in the chapel even if he
was to be damned for all eternity.
In his chamber, Durand paced from corner to corner. Every
step on the rushes reminded him of Cristina. The scented soap in a silver bowl,
stamped with the raven, filled his head, made him ache to call for a bath even
as midnight drifted toward dawn.
He fell into a chair. “Ah, Marion, who am I to condemn you
for your lovers? Surely, I’m as dishonorable to your memory and to Simon’s vows
as you were to ours. If Cristina put out her hand, I would take it up.”
Several hours later, he still stared into the hearth fire,
desires rampant. “ Jesu .” He rose and threw open the door. With a brisk
nod, he passed the sentry at the foot of his stairs and then walked quietly
through the hall to the east tower. He would see if the child was injured from the
fall in the bailey. At Cristina’s door, he hesitated but a moment before he
opened it.
The act took him past some boundary heretofore he had never
violated.
The scent of roses filled the air.
He felt as if he’d stepped into a rose garden. And in the center
of the bower lay Cristina, curled on her bed, one hand beneath her cheek,
childlike, her lips slightly parted. Innocent. What would he make of her if he
persuaded her to his bed?
An adulteress .
Would she come if he asked? He sensed something between them,
like the perfume when she passed that lingered in his head, an intangible thing
not seen, but felt low in his belly.
The shift she wore gleamed white in the chamber lit only by
the lingering embers of a banked fire. He roamed her chamber, skimming his
fingers over her mantle draped on a bench, still wet from their dash across the
bailey. The cradle lay in deep darkness, the babe indistinguishable from the
shadow. Alice snored noisily on a corner pallet, blankets about her head.
Durand returned to the bed. His body ached for the woman
lying there, her hair tangled across her pillow—hair that would flow through
his hands like silk. What would it be like to bury his face in that hair?
The blood of desire filled his body.
His breath caught in his throat as she moaned softly and
shifted, rolling to her back, her breasts now straining the cloth, dark nipples
thrust against the linen.
Against all sense, all the crying fears of discovery that
webbed the night, he moved to the head of the bed.
In his dreams, in the days to come, he would touch her
cheek. She would open her eyes, lift her arms, and welcome him to the warmth of
her bed…and body.
In this, the cold hour before dawn, he retreated to his
chamber, where he watched the morning rise over the land, cool air washing his
face. Glass had once filled his window until Marion had thrown a dish at his
head. Thrown it because he had locked her garden and banished her lover.
Tossing open his coffer, he dug to the bottom, to a painted
box carved with ravens. A box of keys. He immediately saw what he wanted—a
large iron key, rusty with disuse.
* * * * *
He found Cristina later that morning near the castle wall in
the cook’s garden, the edge of her hem damp with dew, gathering wild roses in a
basket. Her skirt swayed with her walk as she bent and cut the blooms. He
watched her lift each flower to her face, then skim it across her cheek before
placing it carefully in the basket.
Her profile was serene, her cheeks tinted with the same
color as the flowers she held.
“Mistress le Gros?” He waited for her to look up.
She turned. “My lord.” She dropped into a deep obeisance but
kept her gaze on her basket of flowers.
Two kitchen boys ran past, chasing one another. The scent of
baking bread filled the air and yet, he thought he could smell the roses in her
hands. He sensed a disquiet in her
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