Secret Song (42 page)

“No you don't. Don't lie, it doesn't become you.” And he chuckled, and in between chuckles, he leaned down and lightly nipped at her bare throat. Her gown was now ripped nearly to her waist, and then he felt the hot smooth flesh of her shoulder against his mouth, he felt a surge of desire so strong he shook with it. No, he didn't want to laugh now. By all the saints, it had been so long, so very long.

He didn't think, just acted. He grasped the straps of her chemise and ripped them apart. He pulled the soft worn cotton to her waist, baring her breasts. She wasn't moving now.

“You're so damned beautiful.”

He didn't touch her, just stared down at her heaving breasts. She gulped and tried to pull away from him, but he held her still, her arms still pinned to her sides.

“Are you well?” he said, and his voice was harsh and deep. “Inside, are you healed?”

But he didn't wait for her to answer. He couldn't. He leaned down and kissed her, hard, his hands cupping her face between his palms, holding her still for him. At the touch of his mouth against hers, Daria felt a great relief begin to fill her, but it changed and became something else, something urgent and frantic and wild.

“Part your lips. Yes, that's right. Touch my tongue, Daria. Ah—so sweet, so very sweet you are. Do you like my hands on your breasts?”

He was lightly stroking his fingertips over her breasts, lifting them in his palms, not yet touching her nipples, just stroking her lightly, as if to learn her. Then his hand dipped down to stroke over her ribs, then he was jerking away her gown, ripping it without hesitation, and finally it fell, pooling about her feet. He yanked at the chemise and then she was standing naked, supported by his arm, his hand stroking over her breasts, his mouth and tongue against hers.

She turned to him then, wanting more, wanting all of him now. When she pressed herself against him, his hands became frenzied on her back, sweeping downward to lift her, and fit her against himself, and she felt his urgency, felt the hardness of him, and he was so hot, so intensely alive, and he wanted her. A bolt of sheer lust went through her and she moaned against his mouth.

He set her away from him but her hands were on his clothes, pulling at the fastenings, and both of them were clumsily trying to strip him, but it took much more time than they'd thought it would.

But then, despite her help, Roland was naked and standing before her, and she hurled herself at him, pressing hard against him, flinging her arms around his neck, and she raised her face for a kiss and he gave her all his need and desire. Then he lifted her. “Wrap your legs around my waist, quickly. I'm going to come upward into you, Daria, deeply into you—” And she felt him fitting her legs around his flanks, felt his fingertips between her thighs, stroking upward until he found her. He parted her swelled woman's flesh with his fingers and she gasped and lurched, wanting to help him but not knowing how to. And he was breathing so harshly, and she was too, that neither of them heard the shouting. Then he was easing inside her, pushing upward, slowly, just a bit at a time, his body trembling at the control he tried to exert, and she was gasping at the feel of him, wanting more, yet it was tight and so sweet, the feel of him inside her—

“Roland! Daria!”

He shoved his full length into her, driving upward, kissing her breasts as she arched her back at the feel of him. “By all the saints,” he gasped, and eased her down upon her back against the sweet-smelling grass. And he began to ride her hard and deep.

“Roland! Daria!”

He froze over her, a look of astonished chagrin coming over his features. “Oh, no,” he said, and his voice was filled with pain. “By all the saints, I don't believe it.” He began to curse.

She stared up at him, not understanding, until she heard their names shouted a third time.

He pulled out of her, his chest heaving, his member swelled and hard and wet from her. He looked for a moment utterly bewildered and uncertain of what he should do. Then he shook himself into action.

“Quickly, dearling, quickly. It's Sir Thomas and he draws very close.” Roland saw that she was still not aware of what was happening. He ignored his own nakedness to help her dress again in her ripped clothes. “Hold them together. That's it. Are you all right now?”

She was holding the bodice of her gown together over her breasts and she was just looking up at him.

“Are you all right?”

She shook her head, no words in her mind, not a single one.

He smiled, a painful smile, and touched his fingertips to her mouth. “I know, dearling. This night there won't be any interruptions. By all the saints, you're lovely.”

When Sir Thomas and Lady Katherine appeared at the top of the slope, it was to see Roland clumsily pulling on his clothes and Daria, standing there like a half-wit, watching him.

“I think,” Sir Thomas said to Lady Katherine, “that our presence is more than a nuisance.”

“You don't think he'll hurt her, do you?”

Sir Thomas smiled down at her. “Hurt her? I'll warrant he was making her wild with pleasure until we came along and ruined it all.”

Katherine jerked just a bit at his words, and said slowly, “I don't think that's possible.”

“So it was like that with you, was it? A pity. If you'll allow me, I will show you that a man can please you. Come, let's leave them. I daresay Roland won't particularly wish to converse with either of us at the moment. Actually, he is probably beyond putting two words together.”

Roland couldn't clear his mind. He couldn't seem to focus on anything outside himself, outside her. His body was in control, or out of control, he thought blankly, his senses filled with her, her sweet wild scent, the tangled masses of hair tumbling down her back, her ripped gown showing patches of smooth white flesh. He grabbed her hand and pulled her around. He didn't care that they were in plain sight of the castle. He simply didn't think about it. He looked down at her mouth, soft and slightly parted, and moaned.

“Daria.” He kissed her, pulling her up tightly against him, bringing her to her tiptoes. When she responded to him, arching upward, he trembled with the force of his need. He lifted her in his arms and strode toward a small copse of oak trees just to the east.

She wasn't pliant in his arms. She was as frantic and wild as he was. She kissed his chin, his mouth, his nose, wet, soft kisses that sent him into a near-frenzy. He felt her warm tongue on his ear, her sweet breath on his cheek. He started running. She wrapped her arms around his neck, choking him in her fervor to get closer to him.

Her ripped clothes became quickly shredded. He eased her down on her torn gown and found he couldn't wait. He came over her, parting her legs, bending her knees, and he nuzzled her white belly, kissing her, nipping light kisses, his hands stroking up and down the backs of her thighs, widening her legs, drawing nearer and nearer, and she was lifting her hips, wanting him there, closer . . .

When his mouth touched her, she cried out and lurched up. His breath was hot on her flesh, or perhaps she was the one who was hot, for her need was beyond what she could have imagined, the roiling sensations were pushing her, making her twist and arch her back, making her legs tremble uncontrollably. It was beyond anything she could understand, and when he pressed his palm against her belly to hold her still, she lay there staring up at the sunlight that filtered through the oak leaves like silver spears. It was so beautiful, she thought, so very beautiful. But it wasn't the glistening sunlight that filled her senses, it was his mouth on her flesh, and she wanted more and more. Her breasts were heaving and her hands kneading his shoulders, pulling his head closer to her, and suddenly she spun out of herself, crying out again and again. Roland held her thighs, feeling the rippling spasms, the tightening of the sleek muscles. At each wrenching cry, he felt himself grow and swell, both his spirit and his sex, for he reveled in her pleasure, the pleasure he was giving her. He was throbbing with need, but her release was more important, this wild pleasure of hers that went on and on and drew him into her, sending both of them beyond all thought. He gentled his mouth on her, drawing softly and slowly now, feeling her legs relax, feeling her entire body loosen, and he came up between her legs and said, “Daria, open your eyes. Look at me. I want you to see me coming into you.”

He came into her powerfully, his entire body shuddering, not slowing in his pace, and he wrapped his arms around her thighs, lifting her and sending himself deeper inside her. His rhythm was hard and fast and deep, and he felt so frenzied, so out of control, he thought he would die of it. Suddenly he came out of her, the sensations too much, driving him too quickly. He lurched back and gently eased her legs off his shoulders. He pulled her upright to her knees, facing him. “I want to kiss you whilst I take you,” he said, and pulled her legs around him and eased her down on his member. He closed his eyes at the feel of her. He kissed her, his tongue deep in her mouth just as his sex was deep in her belly. So deep inside her he was, she thought, and he was hers, in this precious moment he was hers and he was part of her, and there was nothing but him, and she was filled with him, and she was crying with the wonder of it.

He buried his face against her neck as he gained his release, trembling, then tensing incredibly, moaning against her throat, and she felt the wet of him deep within her and she held him as tightly as she could.

Roland lazily kissed her throat until his heart had slowed its furious pounding. Gently he eased her back onto the ground, covering her, his member still deep inside her. He lay over her, balancing himself on his elbows, looking down into her face. Her eyes were more green now than before, and he wondered how this could be so; green and vague and soft, and he saw himself reflected in her eyes and wondered if he filled her mind as he filled her belly. He prayed so, for she filled him. Her hair was tangled with stray twigs and bits of grass and small clods of dirt. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips warm and swelled. “You're beautiful,” he said. He kissed her mouth, remembering now when he'd first kissed her, he hadn't wanted to stop.

Very slowly he slid deep inside her, then withdrew almost completely, smiling when she lifted her hips to bring him back into her again.

“Can I give you pleasure again?”

“I don't know,” she whispered, and pulled his head down. To kiss him. She loved his mouth, the texture of his flesh, the scent of him, as much as he craved her. Her body moved with his.

“I like the sound of that,” he said, and eased his hand between them. To his besotted surprise, the moment his fingertips touched her, she cried out, twisting and bucking, nearly throwing him off her. And she was quaking with the nearly painful feelings that held her, and he doubted there was a more beautiful sight in the world.

She shouted out his name in the moment of her release, and in that same instant he was unable to wait, unable to do anything except to surrender to this joining, this incredible mating with her, with his wife.

It was many minutes before he could raise himself on his elbows. His muscles felt fluid. “I think you've killed me, wife.”

To his pleasure, she flushed, and he laughed. He dipped his head down and kissed her mouth. How he loved to kiss her. It was many minutes before he raised his head again.

“I like to see you blush. It pleases me, but know, Daria, that a wife is expected to lose her head over her husband. It's a requirement of marriage, I understand, this display of lust. Now, it appears you've twice lost your head, and that makes me feel like a conquering warrior.”

“What about your head?”

“It wasn't my head I lost, dearling. It was my seed.” She ducked her face into his chest and she breathed in deeply. He smelled of sweat and of the sweet earth and of her as well.

“What is this? Embarrassment from the most wanton of my women?”

“Women? I am your only woman, Roland.”

“Aye, the females hereabout aren't all that comely, so perhaps I shall have to rely on you for my pleasure.” He kissed her again, marveling as he did so how she drew him, charmed him with her mouth, her taste, and how he'd forgotten that during the past months, how he'd kept himself apart from her, not wanting to think of her, not wanting her to touch him in any way. He frowned as memories razed through his mind, memories he didn't want now.

She poked him in the ribs, bringing him back to her. “Nay, don't move, Roland.”

He sighed. “I'm sorry, sweetling, but I must rest for a while and garner my strength. Then you can have your way with me again.”

“All right,” she said, and snuggled against him. After a moment she raised her head and gave him a siren's smile, her green eyes so wicked he was again utterly charmed with her. “Will you need much time?”

He groaned loudly; then, because her mouth was there, just inches from his, he kissed her.

They were silent for some moments; then Roland said, “Rollo is a huge fellow, a rock of a man, and stronger than an ox. Also, he is slow of foot and of reaction. That is what evens the contest.”

“I don't wish to speak of that. I made a fool of myself.”

She could feel him smiling. His entire body seemed to warm with his humor. “True, but had he been a knave, why, then, you would have saved me. Rather than being a fool, you would have been a heroine.”

“I'm a fool and I can't go back. And look at me—my clothes are in tatters. Everyone will know what you have done to me. But your clothes are in nearly as sorry a state. Nay, they'll know what we've done.”

“That is a problem—the condition of our clothes. I will set my mind to finding a solution.”