Secret Song

by Catherine Coulter

  And she said, “I hope you’re no good to Gwyn anymore. I hope you’re no good to any woman anymore.”

  Roland sucked in his breath, all his fear for her dissolved at her words.

  She was gasping out the words, her eyes dilated, unheeding of him or what he could do to her. “I hope you return to the Holy Land and that you find Lila and Cena and tell them that you’re no longer a man and that—”

  He didn’t strike her. He clapped his open hand over her mouth, shutting off her spate of words.

  “Enough, damn you.” He pulled her against him and his face was close to hers, his breath hot on her flesh. “Now, madam wife, I am taking you back. You have caused quite a commotion. You have caused me no end of trouble, what with your attack on me and your mad dash from the keep. You left Philippa telling me that your violence was caused by the babe, that you weren’t thinking clearly because of it—by the saints, she was trying to protect you, even after you tried to bring me down.”

  “I did bring you down. You fell on your knees and I was the one who made you do it.”

  “Daria, I do recommend that you close your mouth and keep it closed. You defy logic, wench, you surely do. Now, will you come along with me willingly or do I beat you here?”

  She wondered if he truly would strike her. If he did, would she cry and plead with him to stop? Would she grovel and whimper at his feet? She wouldn’t. She would die before granting him such pleasure. “When you beat me, will you use your hand or a whip?”

  Roland couldn’t believe her words. Nor could he believe the entire situation. Well, she’d finally shown spirit, more than he’d ever wished to see, more than his aching groin would ever have wanted. As to his emotionlessly spoken threats, it rocked him to his core that such things had come from his mouth. Never in his life had he struck a woman; he believed men who hurt women to be despicable, of no account at all. But here he was telling her that he would beat her, and she’d accepted it, accepted it even though she should know he wasn’t that kind of man, for she’d traveled through Wales with him, known him to prefer laughter to scowls, good dirty fighting to torture and cruelty. “I don’t use whips, even on recalcitrant animals.”

  She dusted off her gown and straightened her back. She didn’t speak again, nor did she look at him. She got to her feet and started walking back toward the keep. She felt her muscles begin to tighten and knew she would be painfully sore before too many more hours passed. Perhaps more than her muscles would be sore. Perhaps, if he beat her—

  She noticed sheep now, so many of them that the air was filled with their scent. The trees that covered the gentle hillocks were green and thick and straight. The land was beautiful and soft, not harsh and savage and barren like the northern shore.

  “How far inland are we here?”

  Roland gaped at her. Was she simple, with this abrupt change of tone and subject? “About twelve miles.”

  “I miss the smell of the sea.”

  “So do I. Keep walking.”

  “Will you humiliate me in front of Dienwald and Philippa?”

  “You attacked me in front of them. Why shouldn’t I do the same to you?”

  “Why did you take that girl to your bed?”

  Roland shrugged. It was difficult to give an outward show of indifference, but he managed it. He shrugged again for good measure. “She is pretty, clean, and enthusiastic. I was in need of a woman, and she had many talents. She was available and willing.”

  “I see. So a wife is just another vessel for you to use. Every woman—every comely woman—is to be available, as is your wife. I don’t like it, Roland, but I see now that there is naught I can do about it.”

  “You overheard me tell Gwyn that I wouldn’t come to her again, that I wouldn’t because my wife had come.”

  “I see. So it is in your man’s code of honor not to disport with other females when your wife is present. I am gratified, sir, by this show of chastity and male honor. However, I care not now what you do. Take all the wenches that appeal to you, I care not. It keeps you from me, and I thank the saints for that. You’ve done naught but hurt me—”

  “It was just once, damn you. Our wedding night. It’s true, I wasn’t as gentle as I could have been, but—”

  “Nay, it was twice. Our wedding night and that first time, in Wrexham.”

  He cursed, long and fluently and loudly. Her words pushed him beyond sanity, beyond reason, and he was a man, astute and logical and not at all mean-spirited. Until he got near her, his wife, his damned lying wife.

  “I should send you back to Wolffeton, but I doubt Graelam would want the keeping of you now. By God, he’d have to have you watched just as the Earl of Clare did. Nay, I shan’t ask that of him. I wonder. Perhaps after several weeks, would you try to convince him that the babe you carry in your womb is his?”

  He caught her wrist before she could strike him. He hauled her close and said very softly, not two inches from her nose, “Do not strike me again, Daria. I give you fair warning. Never again.”

  17

  To the surprise of all the visitors present, the evening meal was delicious. The herring was baked to perfection, tender as snowflakes melting in the mouth, the slabs of beef spicy with herbs Daria couldn’t identify. Whoever was the cook here deserved to be praised. The myriad rush torches that lined the stone walls cast vague shadows and softened the harshness of the great hall, and in this gentle light the lacks weren’t all that noticeable. Indeed, Daria thought as she was savoring a particularly fine bite of stewed mutton, it was warm and cozy. She swallowed blissfully, then grinned when she chanced to see Sir Thomas smiling at her.

  “You are surprised at the quality of my food.” He shook his head. “At my age, food is one of the few pleasures left. The cook is an individual I would send my men to protect. Aye, I wonder what your husband would say if I asked to take my cook with me when I leave.”

  “I think I should hunt the fellow down, Sir Thomas, and offer him the world to remain.”

  “Where did you find this god of a cook, Sir Thomas?” Dienwald called out over a mouthful of sweet almond bread dripping with dark amber honey. “Can I steal him away with me under the cover of darkness? Or perhaps steal him under cover of my large and beautiful wife?”

  Daria laughed, as did everyone else. She hadn’t believed earlier that she would ever want to eat again or even smile again, and here she was eating her head off and laughing until her ribs ached.

  Tomorrow, she knew, Dienwald and Philippa would return to St. Erth, and she would be alone with her husband. She smiled at Sir Thomas. Perchance he’d choose to remain longer. At least he would be here until the king’s men arrived with her dowry.

  “Actually,” Sir Thomas said, lifting a delicate herring fillet for all to see, “my wondrous cook is a bent old crone who tells me that her great-great-great-grandmother cooked for the Conqueror himself. Supposedly it was Mathilda herself who gave instructions to that long-ago Alice. You needn’t worry that I’ll steal her or that Dienwald will whisk her away. I believe all her magic lies here at Thispen-Ladock.”

  “I’m devoutly thankful for that,” Daria said.

  Roland was chewing thoughtfully on a piece of braised mutton. It was so tender that his mouth watered even as he chewed. “I don’t know how you remain so thin, Sir Thomas. A man could become a stoat quickly enough.”

  “A young man newly wed, Roland? Fie on you. You will be far too busy, far too occupied with your new bride, to gain flesh on your belly.”

  “Aye, that’s true,” Dienwald called out. He stood suddenly and pulled up his tunic, baring his belly and his chest. “Look and feel pity for me, Roland. I was once possessed of a magnificent manly body, just weeks ago, in fact. But now my ribs stick out like barrel staves, my belly sinks into my back like a riverbed in a drought, and all because of the demands placed on me by my new wife. She works me harder than the meanest of our serfs work our oxen. This marvelous food keeps me alive, Sir Thomas, to toil at least another d
ay in her demanding service. Then once again I shall have to avoid strong winds. And—”

  Suddenly, without warning, Philippa de Fortenberry jumped to her feet, grabbed her husband’s neck by his tunic, and stuffed a large handful of green peas into his open mouth. He sputtered and choked, spitting the peas in every direction. He turned on his wife, blood in his eye, and yelled, “My strength after this meal is awe-some, Philippa. I can even reduce you, an oversize female with the strength of a female water buffalo, to begging within seconds.”

  Daria shook her head, she was laughing so hard. The two of them never seemed to tire of baiting each other.

  “Begging for what, Dienwald?” Sir Thomas asked.

  “Why, begging me to pleasure her, naturally.”

  Philippa squeaked, scooped up another handful of peas, but her husband was quicker. He reached down, grabbed her by the waist, and threw her over his arm. He kissed her then, hard and long, in front of the entire company. When he finally released her, she was laughing and pummeling at his chest. Only Daria saw the desire in her eyes, the flush on her cheeks, the softness of her open mouth as she looked into her husband’s face.

  Daria turned away, unable to bear their unity. She wondered if perhaps Philippa had known that Dienwald was meant for her and only for her, when she first saw him. The men were cheering and shouting out jests and trying to catch the serving wenches who were near to them, and they were successful most of the time because the women were laughing just as hard as the men and wanted to be caught and wooed so humorously.

  Roland remarked to her, “There was a time when there wasn’t such amity between them. But I remember the anger that flared was all on Dienwald’s side. As I recall, he was furious that she dared to have the king for a father.”

  Daria’s head whipped up and she stared at him. “That makes no sense.”

  “When you come to know Dienwald, you will understand. Now, Daria, I have promised a game of chess to Sir Thomas. There is no reason for you to begin your duties as mistress of this keep until the morrow.”

  He was dismissing her, and she rose stiffly, both from hurt at his careless rejection, and from her sore muscles, and bade her good-nights.

  Sir Thomas watched her walk slowly and gracefully from the great hall. Then he noticed she was limping slightly and he frowned.

  “She fell,” Roland said shortly, his eyes also following his wife’s progress.

  “Aye, so I heard from one of the women.”

  Roland cocked a black eyebrow.

  “I heard she was running like a hen from the fox.”

  Roland said nothing.

  “Did the fox catch the hen?”

  “No, the hen brought herself low with no help from the fox. I see that Dienwald and Philippa are unaware of us, Sir Thomas, and likely to remain so. I venture to say they will shortly retire abovestairs. Shall we go to the chessboard?”

  Daria was awake when Roland came into the chamber, quietly closing the door behind him, but she held herself very still. She didn’t want to argue with him, didn’t want to hear his cold emotionless orders, or, perhaps worse, his silent indifference, his contempt. She could see him clearly from the silver stream of the moonlight through the window slit; he was disrobing and she couldn’t keep herself from watching him if she’d been ordered to. His movements were beautiful, supple and lithe, and as he turned or bent down, moonlight glittering off his back, his arms, the long shadowed line of his leg, she felt his grace touch her deeply.

  She didn’t move. She thought she heard him sigh, but wasn’t certain. The bed gave under his weight. He settled on his side, his back to her. Within moments she heard him breathing deeply and evenly. Still she didn’t move. She awoke during the night to the sound of rising winds. A storm would probably blow in from the sea before morning. But it was cold now, and would become colder soon. Slowly Daria curled up against her husband’s back. His legs were drawn up and she fitted herself against him, snuggling closer, feeling the warmth of him, and settled her cheek against his back. She lightly laid her arm over his side onto his chest. His breathing didn’t change.

  She kissed his back and pressed closer. His flesh was smooth and firm and the muscle beneath solid. He was naked. She was wearing a shift, but it had ridden up and her legs were bare against his. In the dark, in the deep silence of the night, she could pretend that he loved her, pretend that he was once again the Roland who’d come to her as a priest, who’d saved her from those two bandits in Wales. Not that other Roland who was her husband.

  She kissed his back again, savoring the feel of his flesh, the scent of him, the taste of him. She wished she could tear off her shift and be naked against him, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t imagine what his reaction would be. He would leap from the bed, cursing her, or perhaps he would take her, as a man could a woman, and he would hurt her.

  She closed her eyes against that pain. This moment of time was hers and she intended that it be what she wanted it to be. She would deal with tomorrow when it came. She fell asleep unaware that his hand clasped hers now.

  Roland was fully aware of softness and warm breath against his back. He awoke alert, his eyes wide in the dull light of dawn. It wasn’t yet raining, but the winds were high. Daria was pressed against his back. He felt the smoothness of her bare legs against his. He closed his eyes a moment, savoring the feel of her. He held her hand against his chest, his fingers lightly caressing hers. He supposed he’d held her hand all night, but he hadn’t awakened before. He’d accepted her closeness, something that was odd, for he was a light sleeper, having learned through the years that a man drawn deep into sleep was very likely a dead man soon enough. But she’d lulled him.

  He was hard as a stone. He wanted to laugh at himself, at his randy body. Instead, he grimaced even as he very slowly turned to face her, drawing her close against him. Her shift rode higher; he felt her thighs against his. Felt her warm breath against his throat, her long hair tangled over his shoulder and chest. Her legs moved, twisting until his covered hers. He closed his arms around her back, drawing her closer to him. His sex was near to bursting. He could simply ease her onto her back, come over her, and slide deep inside her, all within the space of a moment. The thought nearly sent him over the edge. But no, she wouldn’t be ready to accept him. She’d be tight and cold and he would hurt her as he’d done the night of their wedding. No, he would control himself. He would make her ready; he would have her moaning for him before he sank deep inside her. He would give her a woman’s pleasure, he would make her tremble with the power of it, and when she accepted him through her pleasure, then and only then would he take her.

  His touch light as a moth’s wing, Roland’s fingers stroked down her back, curving inward, and he realized he hated the shift, hated anything between his fingers and her flesh. He shoved the linen upward, pausing only when she moaned against his throat, then burrowed more closely against him. He closed his eyes against he regained some semblance of control. He wanted to touch her, ease his fingers inside her and feel the tightness of her, the damp that his caressing would bring to her.

  His fingers closed between her thighs, and to his surprise, her thighs opened and she was pressing back against his fingers, her back arching slightly, pressing her breasts more firmly against his chest. Was she awake? Did she know what she was doing? But then she sighed softly, and she was soft and relaxed again, and her breath was deep and even once more. He wondered at the dreams that were coming into her mind now, and he smiled, a nearly painful smile as he gently eased his middle finger inside her. He sucked in his breath, holding his finger still with a will he didn’t know he possessed. The feel of her—it was something he couldn’t have imagined, and yet he’d known many women, caressed them with his fingers and his mouth, knowing them as well as it was possible to know a woman, but this was beyond his experience, beyond anything he’d ever felt, and it frightened him. Suddenly he shoved his finger upward, deep inside her, and he felt her muscles clenching around him, tight
ening and squeezing, and a harsh moan came from his mouth.

  “Daria,” he whispered, and he was kissing her temple, her cheek, nudging back her head with his other hand, kissing her lips, her throat. And his finger moved deep inside her, widening her for him, feeling the heat of her and wanting his sex where his finger was, and his belly was cramping and hurting, his sex heavy and aching with his need. She was ready for him now, soft and moist, and all he had to do was ease her onto her back and draw her thighs apart . . .

  But still he held back, even though he couldn’t stop kissing her. He eased his finger very nearly out of her, then pushed and probed, sliding in deeply again, and she groaned, her body stiffening, then shuddering slightly. He wanted to shout with the pleasure of it. Then he touched her woman’s flesh and found it hot and swelled. He couldn’t wait further. He eased her onto her back and came over her, still kissing her face, and then he reared over her, coming up to his knees.

  “Daria, wake up.”

  Even as she focused on him over her, he pulled her shift up, baring her breasts.

  Just as suddenly, he was covering her, and he was kissing her breasts, kneading them gently, sucking at last on her nipple, and she wanted to scream with the sensation of it. The dream had been making her wild, but the reality of Roland and his fingers and his mouth knew no comparison. She wanted him, no dream of him, no soft illusion of him.

  But he couldn’t wait, simply couldn’t, and he slid down her body, parting her legs wide, and his mouth was on her as she wailed, a high, thin sound, and he smiled even as he felt himself near to bursting. She was tightening all over; he felt it, felt her thighs tensing around his shoulders, felt her fingers clutch his hair, heard the tearing moans from her throat. He raised his head just a bit, his breath hot on her swelled flesh, and he commanded her, “Daria, let go now. Let go and come to me.”

  She didn’t understand his words, but her body did. Her flesh heaved with the knowledge, she opened the very depths of herself to him, fully and eagerly, and in the giving she found a pleasure that neared pain, so intense it was, so powerful and demanding, so urgent.