Secret Song

by Catherine Coulter

  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.

  Daria watched him from beneath her lashes. She was pretending to sew the rip in his tunic, but her eyes and her attention were focused on him. She wasn’t certain she understood the depths of his feelings, but she accepted his anger. She cou
ld only imagine what she would feel like if she were ill and had to relieve herself with his help.

  When the leech arrived, she was profoundly thankful. He eyed Roland, spoke in soft Welsh to him, and seemed pleased. At one point, he gestured toward her, but Daria didn’t understand his words or Roland’s reply. She doubted her husband would be complimenting her.

  And as Roland and the leech spoke, she felt free to look at him, and felt such a surge of relief that he was improved that she wanted to shout. When at last the leech turned to her, she was smiling despite her supposed husband’s foul humor.

  “Yer husband does well,” the old man said. “He tells me he will leave on the morrow, and I told him if he does, he’ll die and leave ye alone to the tender mercies of lawless bastards. He is now considering things.” He paused, giving her a significant look, and Daria quickly paid him. “Nay, worry not, lass, he’s not a stupid man.” He gave her a small salute and took himself off.

  “You give him my money, do you?”

  “Since I have none of my own, there’s no choice.”

  “So, you found where I’d hidden my coins and now you make free with them?”

  “Perhaps I should have pleaded poverty and the priest could have dumped both of us in a ditch. As for the leech, of course I pay him. To put up with your temper, he deserves all the coins I give him. Of course, since he’s a man and not a simpleminded female, you accorded him more courtesy and attention.”

  “You should have told me.”

  “You’re right. I should have somehow roused you and asked humbly for your permission to use the coins. Such a pity I also am paying for the stabling and care of your destrier. Should I tell the priest to throw Cantor into a ditch, perhaps let him run loose until you are ready for him again?”

  “You become a shrew, Daria.”

  “You are merely bad-tempered because you cannot bear the fact that you, my stalwart rescuer, are all too human. You aren’t a god, Roland. You’re only a man.”

  “So you have noticed that, have you?”

  She gave him a smile that, had he but realized it, would have shown him just how much she did know. “Aye,” she said. “Be patient, my l—have patience.”

  “How can I? The damned earl will come, and then what will you do? Tell him to be patient until I am well enough to protect you?”

  She shook her head and spoke without thought. “I should protect you.”

  He snorted and lost some of his newly acquired healthy color. “No, say nothing more. Bring me food. I must get my strength back.”

  Daria considered starving him. He was ungrateful and seething all because he himself became ill. As if it were her fault. She sighed. Men were difficult creatures. “Very well. Please rest whilst I’m gone. I will return shortly with food for you.” She marveled that she’d sounded so calm. She snapped the chamber door closed with a bit more force than was necessary and walked with a bit more pressure than was fitting for a priest’s abode.

  Romila took one look at her face and cackled. “Aye, yer pretty husband makes ye furious, eh?”

  “Aye, I’d like to strangle him.”

  “He’s a man, child, nothing more, nothing less. Feed him; he’ll chirp in harmony again once his belly’s full.”

  If Roland didn’t chirp, he at least seemed to regain his calm after he’d eaten Romila’s stewed beef and coarse brown bread covered with sweet butter.

  “We leave on the morrow,” he said, not bothering to look at her. He was calm and sure of himself and of her.

  “No.”

  “In the afternoon.”

  “No.”

  “Daria, you will do as I tell you. I am not your husband but I am the man in charge of you, the man responsible for you and, thus you—”

  “No. We won’t leave until you are well, completely fit, and not before. I have hidden your clothes, Roland. If you go, then you will go naked. You cannot force me, nor can you threaten me. I won’t let you go until you are well again.”

  He cursed, but Daria only smiled. He’d lost and he knew it. His foul language was just a man’s adornment for his frustration. After he’d cursed himself out of words and into a near-stupor, he fell asleep and she moved to sit beside him. She lightly touched her fingers to his face, and leaning close, whispered, “You have no memory of two nights past, do you? I have wondered what I would do and say if you had. Would I have denied it and claimed it a fevered dream? Or a fancy, mayhap? But it hurts nonetheless, Roland, very much. Now I find I’m disappointed that you don’t have any memory of ridding me of my maidenhead.

  “I do know, Roland, if you force me back to my uncle and he forces me to wed Ralph of Colchester, I would at least have had one night of love.” She paused a moment, aware of tears pooling in her eyes. “Damn you, Roland. You are the most stubborn, the most obtuse of men. Mayhap I will simply inform my uncle that I am no longer a virgin and you are the man responsible. Then would I be safe from Ralph of Colchester?

  “But at what cost? Would my uncle kill you? Kill me for my inheritance? Knowing Uncle Damon, I doubt he would have any scruples about doing away with both of us, but—”

  “You carry on like a fanatic preacher. What are you talking about? I try to sleep to regain my strength, but you babble on and on, numbing my ears.”

  She very slowly moved her fingers from his face. What had he heard? She tried to remember all of her soliloquy, but couldn’t. A silly argument with herself, but it appeared he’d just heard meaningless sounds.

  “It’s nothing, Roland. Forgive me for disturbing you. Sleep.”

  He grumbled some more, but she didn’t understand him, which was probably just as well.

  He slept soundly until late that night. After she’d fed him again and seen to his needs, which still caused him to curse and his expression to become taut with humiliation, she slipped into bed beside him, careful not to disturb him. But during the dark of the night, he found her and drew her against him. If was as if he knew her and accepted her and recognized also on a deep level that she was his and he would act as he pleased. His hands were on her hips; then she felt his fingers pushing between her thighs, skimming over her flesh to find her. She squirmed as his fingers probed, his middle finger easing high up inside her and his other fingers gently rubbing her swelled flesh. She turned her face into his shoulder, moaning through her clenched teeth, as her body shuddered with the intense feelings.

  Then suddenly his breathing slowed and he fell back into a deep sleep, sprawled on his back, his fingers cupped over her hip. The frantic feelings slowly faded, and again she wondered where such feelings would lead.

  She eased her hand down over him and discovered that his sex was full and heavy, but he hadn’t moved to come into her. He hadn’t had the strength, nor had he really awakened. What he’d done, he’d done simply because she was there beside him, a female whose flesh was eager for him. Had he realized it was her, Daria, he was holding and stroking, he would have probably fallen off the bed in his haste to get away from her. But he’d slept through his assault.

  She awoke first the following morning and eased out of bed. She stared down at him and wanted to shout at the wondrous feelings that surged through her when she simply looked at him. “I love you, Roland,” she whispered, then repeated in Welsh, “Rwy’n dy garu di.” Romila had chuckled when Daria had asked her the words in Welsh the previous day, but had obligingly told her. Daria dressed hurriedly and left the chamber.

  She wanted to visit his destrier and see that his care was proper. On the northern side of Wrexham cathedral, down a long narrow street, stood a public livery, a long low building built solidly of straw and dung and covered with a slate roof. Cantor was in the third stall and the toothless brawny individual who showed him to her babbled on about the amount of oats the horse was eating and how the beast had bitten him but good.

  Daria finally paid him extra coins, and he beamed, scratching his armpit vigorously.

  “He’s a fine bit of horseflesh,” he said,
speaking loudly and slowly to her in his own tongue. “Aye, it’s true, and ye say yer husband be a freeholder?”

  So much suspicion, she thought, nodding. She hadn’t had time to think of a better lie, and this one wasn’t serving her all that well. There was nothing for it but to stick to her story.

  “Aye,” the liveryman continued, “another couple of men in here earlier, and they asked me about this beauty. I told ‘em yer husband were that, a freeholder.”

  Daria felt her guts twist painfully. She knew who the men were, she knew.

  “They were saeson, the slimy louts.”

  Of course they were English; they were the Earl of Clare’s men; she had no doubt of it. What she didn’t know was what she should do about it. She scratched her own armpit, saying indifferently, “I wonder if they’ll come back. Think you they want to buy the horse?”

  The stableman sought his way through her clumsy Welsh, and nodded. “They’re coming back,” he said, and Daria knew everything had changed. Thank God the stableman didn’t know their names or where they were staying. But the Earl of Clare would find out quickly enough. She ran her tongue over her dry mouth. Oh, God, what to do?

  “Oh, aye,” the stableman suddenly said. “There they be, yon.”

  She turned to see two of the earl’s men some thirty paces up the narrow street, speaking to a vegetable vendor. She recognized MacLeod, his master-at-arms. He was making descriptive movements with his hands as he spoke. Both men looked tired and impatient.

  “I think I will take the horse for a gallop,” Daria said.

  “Ond—”

  She waved away his objection and quickly saddled Cantor. The destrier, impatient and bored, neighed loudly, flinging his head up, and it required all her strength to get the bit between his teeth and the reins over his head. “I will return soon,” she said to the stableman, and click-clicked Cantor from the stableyard. “I ride toward Leominster,” she said, and prayed with all her might that he would repeat that to the earl’s men.