Page 59 of The Falcon Laird
“A figure of Saint Michael might look well there,” he said. “A fitting design, my lady?”
Her blush deepened. “Do not tease me.”
“Not at all. Saint Michael must be a favorite of yours. Your daughter is named for him.” He remembered that she once said she had mistaken him for an archangel in a fevered state. He valued that. “I thought you might like a guardian in your bedchamber.”
“I would.” She gazed out the window with a subtle inner focus in her eyes. He wondered what thoughts ran through her mind.
He had hoped to see Christian delighted with her newly refurbished bedchamber. He had even been prepared for a blast of her temper if she did not like it. But faced with this quiet, sad mood, he did not know what to think. He had wanted to see her happy, and wondered how that had failed.
But there was one improvement he had not yet shown her. “Come here,” he said, guiding her from the window toward the corner of the room where a narrow door led to a tiny privy chamber. Beside the door, an angle had been extended with a curving wall, like an interior chimney, forming a shaft with an opening cut into it. Fat ropes, attached to a ceiling rafter, dangled inside the shaft to run through a hole in the floor.
She looked at it, puzzled. “What is this? A well shaft, here?”
“Aye. We can draw water from the well, two floors below, into our bedchamber.” The plural came so easily to his lips—we can, ours.He craved that sense of belonging, of family, wife, home.
“Water—up here?” She looked at him in amazement. Then she smiled. “For a bath?”
“Exactly. The masons constructed a similar draw-well for the great hall just below here. It is fine to have a well in the ground floor of the tower, as you do, but it is even more convenient to have water brought directly to the upper rooms.” He tugged on the ropes, which swung lightly, unburdened as yet, with no bucket affixed to them. “You can have water brought up here and warmed in the fireplace for a bath, once it is all done. And the carpenters made a fairly large tub. It is stored in the privy corridor.”
“Oh!” She straightened. “A hot bath whenever I like?”
“For both of us,” he said. She glanced at him, curious and away. “What do you think?”
“About the well shaft? I like it very much.”
“And the rest?”
“Oh, aye. It is wonderful, Gavin. Truly,” she said quietly.
She said his name with rare gentleness. He wanted to spin her into his arms and see joy in her, wanted to kiss her and feel her returned embrace. But she was still and quiet. He saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes. He touched her shoulder. “Christian, what is it?”
She shook her head. Raising her hand to the window again to grasp the edge of a shutter, she began to close it. With a soft cry, she pulled her hand away, wincing.
“A splinter? Let me see,” he said, taking her hand in his. A long sliver of wood was deeply embedded in the mound below her thumb. When Gavin touched it, she sucked in her breath.
Unable to coax it loose with his fingernail, he reached down and pulled his dagger from its sheath. Holding her hand still, he laid the slender edge of the blade on her skin. “A moment, now. Hold,” he murmured.
A deft flick of the sharp tip, and the end of the sliver was caught. He pulled it out quickly and held it up. “Huge, my lady. Nearly a log,” he teased, shoving the dagger back into its sheath.
A fat drop of blood welled on her skin. She winced. “It is tender.”
“Such a tiny wound can be painful.” Catching her thumb in his hand, he wished he could blot the pain for her. He felt a subtle heat where his hand covered hers, and as he drew a breath, he heard her do the same. A peaceful, tranquil moment spun out from the shared breathing.
He felt as if a sunbeam, or a candleflame, spilled down his arms into his hands. Suddenly he imagined her pain dissolving in the light like a shadow.
Then the heat increased and spread like honeyed fire through his body to pool in his heart, sinking rapidly and luxuriantly to fill his loins. He inhaled deeply and tugged on her hand, insistently drawing her nearer. His whole body ached now, hot and hardening, with the urge to pull her into his arms.
He brought her hand to his lips to kiss the tender place at the base of her thumb, lingering at the task. Christian looked up at him, clear teardrops trembling in her eyes.
“Does it hurt so much?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head. “The pain is gone, very suddenly. And the bleeding has stopped.” She looked up at him. “You have a healing touch, I think.” He heard a soft tease in her voice.
He smiled and shrugged. “My mother did, mayhap I do too,” he said lightly.
“I did not mean to moan about such a wee injury.” She half-laughed, watery and soft.
“You could take a battle blow and say no word of complaint.” He wiped a tear away with his fingertip. “These tears come from some other hurt, Christian.”
