Desmond watched out the tower window and watched the people walk across the courtyard. A flash of deep red caught his eye. Her dark brown hair flowed across her back in the long braid of a maiden. He followed her as she moved below him. He sighed when she disappeared out of view.
Walking over to his desk, he added to his sketches. Her face, her figure graced the scraps of paper they allowed him. His body may be imprisoned, but his mind was free. He filled in details on the sketches and then went back to gaze out the window. While he waited for the Baron to decide his fate, he lived through the books he was allowed and the window that faced out into the court yard. The other window faced the gallows, and he avoided that view as often as possible. When the light faded, he moved back into his rooms and occupied himself with his studies.
The door rattled and Kerr opened the door. He put Desmond’s supper tray on the small table and took the empty one. “Bath night tomorrow,” he said and then left. When he was gone, Desmond got up and picked up his tray. Stew, bread and an apple. He ate. Once he was finished, he returned the tray. “Bath night,” he thought. “What a farce. Two buckets of water, a scrap of soap and a piece of cloth that serves as both wash cloth and towel.” He sat back down and read until his candle reached the hour mark. He blew it out and headed for bed.
As Desmond lay there in the dark, he thought about the woman he called Cara. His soul. His heart. He imagined wrapping her in his arms. A kiss. His hands flowing down her back, reaching her hips and cupping her against him. The touch of her breasts against his chest and the throb of his cock against her body. Desmond let his imagination flow as he stroked his cock. The feel of her breasts beneath his fingers. The heat of her body as she slowly sank down onto his shaft. With each stroke of his hand, he imagined it was her body wrapped around him. That it was her that pulled the soft cries from him as his body convulsed in orgasm. That she too cried out in pleasure. He drifted off to sleep, the stickiness of his seed coating his hand, cradling her in his mind.
She slept fitfully. In her dreams, she heard his voice.
She felt his touch on her body. Lips brushing hers. Warm hands on her breasts. She rolled in her dreams as the hands touched her, making her feel alive, on fire.
“Oh Cara, how I desire you! Want to touch you my love.”
Her thighs grew wet and her breathing raspy as she fell deeper into the dream. Hands touching her where no man had dared. Filling her with emotions she thought were dark, rich and passionate. Her body felt full, complete. Her senses rolled and the pleasure cascaded over her.
Sorcha woke up suddenly, not understanding why she felt her heart pounding and her body so alive. It was buzzing with emotion she didn’t know how to explain. Looking around, there was no one in her chamber. She climbed out of bed and looked. No one. She climbed back into bed, the feeling of being touched was so strong. Sorcha crawled back under the covers and curled up. As she drifted off, she had the strangest feeling she was being held.
“Wake up Sorcha! Why are you such a sleepy head?” asked Kate, her companion and lady-in-waiting.
“I had the strangest dream. I swore someone was calling my name, only it wasn’t my name. And in the dream, I felt such touches and passions that I… I think are more in the realm of a married woman than a maid as myself,” said Sorcha.
Kate smiled. “Perhaps it is high time you were married. Then you wouldn’t dream such lusty dreams.”
“I’m eighteen, not an old maid! I’ll marry for love, and not the whims of my father,” said Sorcha crawling out of bed. The scent of her own arousal hit her nose. “I must have had a fever and sweat in the night. I need a bath.”
Kate smiled, shook her head and turned to one of the maids. “You need to not listen to the bards at night singing of love, romance and being swept off your feet. Your mind is overheating your body.”
Sorcha rolled her eyes and waited for the bath water to be brought up. Once she bathed, she slipped on her leine and then the dark green over dress. Kate helped her plait her hair. “If you don’t wed soon, this will drag the ground,” she teased Sorcha.
“Most likely. I don’t know how I will ever keep the length of it tied to my head as you or mother does.”
“As a married woman, you learn,” said Kate. Kate had been married less than a year, and had been delighted when she could pin her own plaits up under her coif.
Sorcha looked at the ceiling and sighed.