Secret Song (14 page)

“Ah,” he said, and he sounded profoundly pleased with himself. “You are always ready for me, aren't you? Always ready to take me. I'm pleased. Shall I give you pleasure now? Before I come into you? Before you ride me wildly?”

“Nay, come into me now.” She feared this pleasure he spoke so confidently about, feared what it would do to her. She held herself stiffly above him, feeling his fingers begin a rhythm on her flesh even as his other hand was pressing against her belly, and then he stopped.

“All right, I'll take you now, you're wet and ready for me.” Daria no longer saw this Lila, this other woman he believed her to be, this other woman who was no longer in his life. She was in the past; she didn't matter.

What mattered was now.

She closed her eyes a moment. He spoke again, and this time it was in that strange tongue, but more strangely still, she understood what he wanted and she felt no hesitation.

Daria knew if she did what he asked, she would no longer be a maid. She refused to consider the consequences more than she had already done. She raised herself above him again and took his man's rod in her hand. Slowly, so very slowly she pressed him against her, and felt him come easily inside her because she was slick and wet. He strained against her fingers. She eased down just a bit and took more of him. He was moaning, his hands were tightening on her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh. She felt herself stretch for him, felt the tension building in him, powerful and vigorous, and in herself as well, and knew the moment before he thrust upward that the pain was coming and she wouldn't like it. He grasped her hips hard and jerked her down on him even as he bucked his hips upward. The pain was a sharp burning stab that made her cry out, but nothing more, and then he was deep inside her, touching her womb, and it was something she couldn't have imagined. His urgency seemed to lessen and he began to move gently and slowly, nearly pulling out of her, then coming in deeply once more. His chest heaved with effort and sweat covered his brow, matting his hair, and he was murmuring over and over, “Nay, don't move, Lila, don't move. It's been so long, far too long . . . don't move.”

She held still, knowing everything was beyond her now, knowing whatever would come, she had done it to herself. She had set into motion her own future and she was the only one responsible. But she hadn't imagined his touching her like this, his body coming into hers, so deeply, so completely, possessing her so thoroughly. The pulsing, intense feelings of before had faded, lost in the pain of her ripped maidenhead, and they didn't return. But it didn't matter. Only he mattered. He was moaning now, harsh raw sounds from deep in his throat, and then he lifted her nearly off him. He held her above him, his rod barely inside her body, and stared up at her and smiled, and brought her down hard and fast, and she shuddered with the shock of it as she took him completely yet again. He clutched her to him then and jerked wildly.

“Roland,” she said, and he looked at her, his eyes clear and bright and dark; then he closed his eyes, hiding the pain his control was costing him.

“You aren't like yourself. I'm stretching you, I can feel it, and it's bringing me madness, this smallness. And I ripped you. How can that be? You aren't a maid. How can you still be so narrow? How can I hurt you? Have you found some cream that brings you a maid's tightness again? Or do you cry out with passion? Is that it, Lila, is it passion?”

“It's passion, Roland. It could be naught else but passion with you.”

He smiled again, a smile so sweet that she felt as if a fist were clutching around her heart. She hurt, deep inside, but it didn't matter. He wanted her and she would do anything for him. She rode him hard, for that was what his hands directed her to do, and as he jerked and moaned, his fingers wildly kneading her buttocks and belly, she said again, “I'm Daria. Please know me, at least for a moment, know me.”

He suddenly froze and she felt him lurch upward, felt his seed spurt deep inside her. He was heaving, his breath fast and raw, and still she rode him until he whispered, “Enough, Lila. By Allah, you're good, so good. You've worn me down to my bones. I don't think I'll take Cena now. No, she must wait, even though she is hungry, I know, always hungry. You've reduced me to ashes and it was so good, so very, very good.”

She stared down at him. He was deep inside her body and he was talking of two women in his bed. She slowly eased off him and saw his seed and her virgin's blood on her thighs and on his man's rod. She quickly pulled the blankets over him again and bathed herself with the cool water. She felt soreness deep inside her.

She returned to him and slipped beneath the covers to hold him to her.

It was during the night that she made up her mind not to say anything to him about what had passed between them. He hadn't known her. He'd believed her to be another woman, a mistress he'd known in a foreign land. It was then she rose and pulled down the blankets. She quickly bathed the blood and seed from his member. She held him gently, marveling at his differentness, at the beauty of him. She raised her eyes to his still face. “I love you, Roland. I will always love you and I will always belong to you and to no one else.” She wished she knew the words in Welsh. She wished he could hear her, and she wished that he had smiled at her and known her as Daria.

She would be safe from his questions, if he chanced to remember what had happened, which she strongly doubted. If he did, he would believe it a dream, nothing more. She felt, oddly, content. He was the man destined for her and she'd given herself to him. That, she reminded herself, or she was as mad as her grandmother and seeing things because they were what she wanted to see. Or he was the man she'd been destined to have only for this night and then he would leave her, and all her precious knowledge of him, her deep
knowing,
had all been a lie, a sham. No, she wouldn't accept that.

Someday, perhaps, he would realize that he was tied to her. Perhaps someday he could care for her as she did for him.

She laid her palm on his forehead.

He was cool to the touch. The fever had broken.

So had her maidenhead.

 

Roland opened his eyes and stared around the small dismal chamber. He had no idea where he was. His head pounded but his stomach wasn't twisting and churning, nor was there the dreadful bone-aching pain that had dragged at his body and reduced him to the strength of an ant. He'd enjoyed excellent health his entire life, and the illness frightened him. It meant he wasn't in control; it meant he had to depend upon others. And he was vulnerable to anyone who took it into his head to do him in. He raised his hand and realized with something of a shock that he was still very weak. He turned his head ever so slightly at the sound of breathing. There was Daria, sitting on a lone chair, sewing a tunic—one of his tunics. She was still dressed as a boy, but her hair was loose and tumbling over her shoulders and down her back. Very beautiful hair, he thought inconsequentially. He'd forgotten how lovely her hair was, with all its dark rich colors. Her brows were as dark and finely arched above those green eyes of hers. Then he noticed that she was pale, very pale.

He felt his throat tighten, and said, “Daria, may I have some water?”

Her head jerked up and she smiled at him, a dazzling smile that would have brought an answering smile to his mouth if he'd had the strength. She bounded up from her chair and her abrupt movement made him wince.

He sipped at the cup of water as she held his head, so gently, as if he were naught but a babe. Again he felt fear, fear that he was helpless and out of control. She, a female, was succoring him, seeing to his needs, nurturing him. It wasn't to be borne, yet he didn't seem to have a choice for the moment. He sipped at the water. She seemed content to allow him all the time he wanted. He breathed in her scent, turned his face slightly so that his cheek was against her breast. She was soft, too soft, and that frightened him as well. He tried to pull away from her.

“Nay, Roland,” she said, her breath sweet and warm on his face as she lightly stroked his cheek. “You're not ready to do battle in a tourney just yet.”

“What do you know of my strength?”

To his chagrin, she smiled sweetly at him. “Romila told me you would be testy. She says that all strong men hate illness, hate being dependent on others.”

That bit of philosophy drew him up. Damn her for being in the right of it. He realized he also hated being like everyone else, hated acting as he was expected to. “No, I don't mind it at all. Your breasts are soft against my face and—”

Water dripped down his chin. He tried for a cocky smile but couldn't manage it. For an instant he saw her expression change into one of wariness and something akin to fear. No, how could that be possible?

“Where are we? How long have I been ill?”

Her smile returned. She said nothing until she'd gently wiped his chin and given him more water to drink. Still, she held him, and he felt the soft thud of her heartbeat against his face. He wanted to stay there, warm in her arms, for a very long time.

“We're in Wrexham, in a small chamber in the priest's house. We've been here for nearly three days now. When you collapsed in the cathedral, Father Murdough helped us.”

Roland chewed that over. “The priest then knows you are no boy.”

“Aye. I told him you were my husband and that you were taking me to meet your family in Leominster. You're Welsh and a freeholder and I'm but half-Welsh, thus my lacks in the language.”

Roland groaned.

“I told him that I was dressed as a boy because you believed it wise for my protection.”

“I don't suppose the man of God agreed?”

She chuckled and he found himself smiling slightly in response. “He said nothing about it, actually. He's a very accepting sort of priest. I am expecting the leech anytime now. He's not a fool and he has aided you. Do you really feel better, Roland?”

“Aye.” He turned his head so he could see her face. “You're pale. Have you remained here, beside me, shut up in this dreary little chamber?”

“Had I not stayed with you, it's likely you would have tried to take over the cooking chores and bathe yourself and mend your own tunic.”

He gave her an absent smile, then said, “We'll leave on the morrow, at dawn.”

She was perfectly still for a moment. “No, we shan't. We won't leave until you have your strength back.”

“You dare to tell me our plans?”

Her arms were around his shoulders and she hugged him slightly. “You sound churlish, Roland. Aye, you will do what is wise. If I have to tie you down, you will remain here until the leech says you are well enough to travel without falling off Cantor's back.”

“I don't suppose you've remembered the Earl of Clare and his desire for your fair person?”

“I've not forgotten,” she said, and that was all.

His eyes hurt and he said irritably, “Dim the damned lights. I can scarce see.”

“All right.”

“You're being too agreeable. I distrust that. A female who agrees with a man is having sport with him. Have you spent all my coins?”

She lightly passed her palm over his forehead and through his hair, tousling it, then smoothing it again, paying no heed to his sharp words.

“You aren't my mother, damn you, wench.”

“That,” she said, gently pressing him onto his back and straightening over him, “is very true.”

He gave a heartfelt sigh. “You are my penance. I must relieve myself.”

Daria nodded briskly. “I will fetch the chamber pot and assist you.”

Roland looked at her with loathing. “I don't need any help, only some privacy.” When she didn't move, he threw back the blankets, and sat up. But he couldn't rise; he hadn't the strength. And he'd wanted to. He wanted to intimidate her with his size. By all the saints, at present he couldn't intimidate a dwarf. He looked down at himself and knew that even his sex had betrayed him. His member wouldn't intimidate the shiest of maidens, and Daria had proved herself not at all shy. That in itself made him want to howl with humiliation.

Daria didn't draw back. She knew his body as well as she knew her own, for she'd cared for him completely for the past three days. She crossed her arms over her breasts and stared at him. “Will you rise now? Will I have the pleasure of seeing you collapse again? I doubt I have the strength to pick you up, so you will lie on the floor, naked as the day you came into the world, until I have fetched Romila. Two women would then haul you back into bed and see to your needs. Romila, I might add, much delights in examining your body, and she's frank in her assessments. Now, Roland, what say you to that?”

“I say it was foul mischance that brought me to you.”

She saw that he was trembling from weakness. “Roland, let me help you. I would let you help me if I needed it.”

He was damned if he did and damned ever more if he didn't. He nodded. It was torture, every moment of it. Once he'd finished, he was tucked by her gentle hands back into the cot without a word being spoken. He closed his eyes. He considered slipping out whilst she slept and escaping her. He cursed her uncle's coin. He didn't want it, not if it meant that he had to relieve himself in front of her. She had turned her back, but it mattered not.

He was embarrassed beyond what he could tolerate, and there was nothing at present he could do about it. In the normal course of events, he didn't imagine that he would care in the least if she watched him doing anything at all; but he was helpless and weak, a pitiful specimen, and that made all the difference; that made it intolerable.