Secret Song (34 page)

“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.

She screamed, but his hand was covering her mouth, and it freed her to cry out again and again, and her body bucked and heaved and she felt damp with sweat and loose and apart from herself, but it didn't matter, nothing outside them mattered, and it just went on and on. He raised his head and she wanted to weep with disappointment, but only for an instant, for his hands were sliding beneath her hips, lifting her to him, and in the next instant he thrust deep, filling her. She cried out again, her hips rising to pull him deeper, and the shocks of pleasure renewed, pulsed through her and her fingers dug into his arms. She lurched up to kiss him, even as he came into her, only to nearly withdraw again. When he emptied himself into her, he covered her mouth with his and she took his moans and knew the dream could never rival the man.

He fell on top of her, still deep inside her. Almost as soon as she felt the wonderful weight of him, he pulled back and she wanted to protest, but he was mumbling, “I don't wish to hurt your babe,” and then he brought her with him onto her side and he was still inside her, only not so deep now, and she felt his words sear through her mind.
Your
babe. She wanted to weep with the pain of it, but her body was languid and soft and his body was against hers and he was gently rubbing his hands up and down her back, over her side, lightly touching her belly, then moving quickly away, to her breasts, weighing them and caressing them lightly, as if he'd guessed at their new tenderness.

“You liked that,” he said, nibbling her earlobe. “You liked that very much.”

“You're inside me, Roland. That is wondrous—you're a part of me.”

“Aye, and I always will be. Every night I'll come deep inside you and you'll cry out to me to bring you more, and I won't disappoint you, Daria. Never again will you accuse me of misusing you. You now understand a woman's pleasure. I'll not let you forget it, and know that no other man can give you what I can. You screamed when I brought you to your release, and you screamed again when I came inside you. I liked that very much. Your breasts are as soft as the flesh between your white thighs. The way you feel—” His voice hitched and he fell silent.

She was exhausted from the force of this pleasure, and he seemed to know it. “Sleep now, dearling. Sleep.”

And she did, knowing that he held her tight, knowing that in this she had pleased him, yet knowing too that in the end, nothing had changed between them. Except perhaps—aye, now perchance he would come to her with gentleness as he had tonight and there would be no more distrust and anger. He would come to her with pleasure for both of them.

When she awoke some hours later, she was alone. There was a basin of water and she quickly bathed and dressed and made her way down into the great hall. It was still fairly early and Dienwald and Philippa were seated at one of the trestle tables, eating and talking to Roland and Sir Thomas.

Dienwald looked up and saw Daria staring fixedly at her husband, her face flushed, her lips slightly parted. His grin was wicked as a devil's as he said loudly to his wife, “Would you observe that expression, wench—nay, not your own, Daria's. Now, I would say that she was well-pleasured last night. Is it true, Roland? Did you please your wife?”

“I cannot control him, Daria, forgive me. But I can offer him food so that he can keep his strength up and his mouth closed. Here, husband, chew on this wonderful honeyed pastry.”

Just as suddenly, the odor of the sweet pastry sent her stomach roiling wildly and she gasped in distress and flew from the hall.

When she returned, Roland handed her a goblet of fresh milk. “Drink this slowly and then eat some of this bread. Alice told me it was just for you, made with special herbs that came from her great-great-great-grandmother, and it would make the babe happy.”

Daria said nothing. She was embarrassed. The bread did settle her belly, and as she chewed slowly, she listened to her husband say, “I would certainly enjoy you extending your stay, Dienwald. I would put you to work. The eastern wall needs more men and labor than I have at present.”

“You mistake the matter, Roland. I am a lazy lout, of no account at all. It is my sweet wife here who is the worker. She pines to work. She languishes when she is not about some task. And she rides me constantly now to make repairs on St. Erth. She wears me down. Alas, Roland, I must return her to her home. I fear I cannot leave her to direct your reparations, for my son, Edmund, is more and more on her mind.”

“Aye, the officious little tadpole,” Philippa said fondly. She turned to Daria. “Once you've settled in and Roland grows bored with his domestication, then you must come to St. Erth.”

“My uncle has no friends,” Daria remarked later to Roland as they watched Dienwald, Philippa, and all their men ride from the keep. “No neighbor wants to see him even from a distance. He was always fighting, arguing, trying to steal their lands, debauch their daughters and wives, and I used to wonder when one of them would sneak into Reymerstone and slay all of us in our beds.”

“The king's uncle, now dead, God bless his soul, bound men together here in Cornwall with his smooth wit and his unspoken power. Aye, if any of the lords hereabouts wanted to wage war on his neighbor, he would regret it, for the Duke of Cornwall acted swiftly. Dienwald was the only renegade, and he was only an occasional renegade. The duke chose to be amused by him. And once Dienwald was wedded to the king's daughter, his fate was sealed. How do you feel, Daria?”

“Fine. Thank you for the milk and bread.”

“Actually,” he said, frowning into the distance, not looking at her, “I meant from last night. Was I too rough with you? I have heard it said that a woman's breasts grow very tender. I did not mean to hurt you.”

She shook her head quickly, and Roland, not hearing her speak, slewed his head around to look down at her flushed face.

His expression hardened. “You won't now pretend that you were forced or abused, will you?”

“Nay, I shan't pretend pain when there was naught but pleasure. You gave me great pleasure, I admit it.”

He'd looked away from her again and she joined him in searching the horizon for nothing in particular.

“You are sweet,” he said abruptly. “Your taste pleased me. If I think of tasting you, I grow hard and randy as one of our goats.”

That was a surprise. “But it is only morning.”

“Look yon, Daria, to the southeast, at the base of that small hillock. There is a field of summer flowers there, thick as a woven mat, and warm and sweet. I would take you there and strip you naked. I would caress you and let you caress me and watch the sweat dew your soft flesh as the passion builds in you, and when you are twisting beneath me, I would taste you again and then press you down in the bed of fragrant flowers and sink into you.”

He saw the pulse pounding in her throat, the heated color on her cheeks, the wild anticipation in her eyes. He smiled, pleased. There was no reason to argue with her, to constantly make her pale and draw back, no, there had been too much of that. He was wedded to her and that was an end to it. He would simply make the best of it; to discover that she was filled with passion would bring unexpected satisfaction to his future days and nights.
And what of the child? If it is a boy, he will be your heir and you will have to swallow your bile and your honor—

Roland shook his head. There was naught he could do to influence the sex of the child. Nothing. He wouldn't fret about it. He'd never really fretted in his life, yet he'd done more of it in the past weeks than he had imagined possible. It solved naught, this fretting, and it made him nervous and irritable. “Come,” he said, his voice curt, “I'll introduce you to the keep servants. You are the mistress now and they must accustom themselves to the fact. It has been many years since a lady was in residence here. Sir Thomas tells me most of the keep servants are well-meaning, but they've grown lazy.” He paused a moment. “I trust you have the training to oversee the work?”

“Aye, my mother did not neglect my household duties.”

“But she found opportunity to teach you to read and to write. Very unusual, I should say. Did you know that Philippa is St. Erth's steward?”

“I have not been taught those duties. But if someone will but show me, then—”

“Nay, there is no need. You will meet my steward shortly. If he is a cheat, well, then, I will beat him and throw him into a ditch.”

Daria grinned at that, then said, her voice diffident, “My mother, Roland. Robert Burnell will bring to us, will he not?”

“Think no more about it,” he said, and left her.

 

Alice, the many-times-removed offspring of the Great Alice, had pain in her joints. Daria stood a moment in the cooking outbuilding, watching the old woman stir a stew with a long wooden spoon. It pained her, but Daria didn't know her well enough as yet to suggest a possible remedy. She praised her cooking, and settled back to hear advice on her pregnancy.

The advice journeyed through time back to the Great Alice herself, whence all knowledge began, Daria realized. She was close to nodding off when Alice, remembering her pastries, yelled, “By all the saints. Go ye, little mistress, and lie ye down. I'll send one of those lazy wenches with something fer ye to eat.”

She slept away the afternoon. When she awoke, Roland was seated on the bed beside her. His look was intent and by far too serious for her peace of mind. Had he been there long? Just looking at her? What was he thinking?

“Hello,” she said, and stretched. “Oh, dear, is it late? Have I slept long?”

“Long enough. How do you feel?”

She consulted her stomach and smiled. “Fine. Alice's bread boasts better results than the queen's herbs. Shall I rise now and see to your evening meal?”

“Nay, it's still early. You will remain here with me for a while. I've been watching you, Daria. I'm glad you're awake. I want to take you now.”

The chamber was filled with sunlight, the high winds of the previous night had mellowed into a gentle breeze fit for a hot summer day. He wanted her now? When he'd spoken of the field of flowers, she'd felt the beauty of what he'd said, but not the embarrassment of it. “But it's very bright, Roland. There is a lot of light.”

“I know. Now, let me assist you with your gown. I want to look at my wife.”

Her hair was loose and tumbled from her rest. He wrapped a thick tress around his wrist, slowly but inexorably drawing her face closer to his. “Look up at me, Daria.”

She did, and he watched, fascinated, as her tongue lightly touched her lower lip. “You don't even realize that you make me want you, do you? Just looking at your pink tongue, and I'm harder than a stone.” He laughed suddenly, released her hair, and began to undo the lace fastening down the front of her gown.

Even as he pulled and tugged at her clothes, his movements becoming more jerky, more clumsy as his need grew, Daria was thinking: And what of Gwyn? Am I simply to forget that he broke faith with me? And if I bedded with another man, what would he say? Would he even care? She shook her head at the unfairness of it, then felt the warm summer air on her bare flesh and looked up at him.

He was staring at her breasts.

“Am I as nice as Gwyn? Do I please you as much?”

Roland had forgotten Gwyn. He'd used her unthinkingly and he'd been left feeling he'd been very wrong, that he'd broken faith with his own honor. And, truth be told, he'd had no thought for Gwyn, for his wife had filled his mind even as he'd found his release. It was no excuse, he knew that, accepted it. Her unexpected words caught him off-guard and dug at his guilt, and made him angry at himself for feeling guilt. He was thinking her breasts more beautiful than any woman's he'd yet seen. His fingers itched to stroke the soft underflesh, to move gently over her nipples she shuddered. He felt as though she'd doused him with freezing water.