Secret Song

by Catherine Coulter

  She didn’t move. As an order from a loving bride-groom, it lacked even a dollop of warmth.

  He raised a dark eyebrow. “Since you carry a babe, I can assume that you have seen a naked man. Indeed, you have seen me as well.” He rose straight and tall and naked, and the look he gave her was mocking. She didn’t want to look at him but she couldn’t help it. Her eyes fell immediately to his groin. His sex lay flaccid in the bush of thick black hair.

  But she knew he would grow large, very large, and he would want to thrust himself inside her body. She swallowed and turned her back to him.

  She heard him chuckle. “It’s best to begin your caressing of me while I’m still like this. Now, get off your clothes.”

  “All right.” Quickly she doused the three candles, throwing the tent into gloom. The torches from without cast dim shadows into the interior, but at least he couldn’t see her clearly. She was embarrassed. Before, he hadn’t known her, hadn’t really touched her, hadn’t really taken her. But now he was well; now he was virile and eager; now he was her husband and would look at her.

  “What are you doing?” She whirled about, consternation writ plain on her face.

  “I’m merely lighting one candle. I don’t wish to fumble in the darkness. Get off your clothes, Daria. I wish to see your breasts and your belly. I have paid dearly for the privilege. I will not tell you again.”

  With those emotionless words, he climbed into the narrow cot and pulled a fur to his waist. He crossed his arms behind his head and looked at her. Her hands stilled, then fell to her sides. She couldn’t bring herself to remove her clothes in front of him; she didn’t want to respond to his indifferent command. She was afraid; she knew he didn’t want her, she knew that he would take her tonight simply because she was here, she belonged to him, and she could have been any woman to ease him.

  Yet this man was her husband, and she must make the best of it. She tried again to untie the ribbons on her overtunic, but her fingers were clumsy and cold. Finally she loosened it enough to pull it over her head. Her gown was loose-fitting, but again she couldn’t manage to unlace the strings that crisscrossed over her breasts.

  Her husband simply lay there looking at her, his eyes hooded, just looking, as if he didn’t really care, as if he simply wanted her to obey whatever order he gave her because he was the master and she wasn’t, and because he was angry at her and wanted to punish her.

  Suddenly it was simply too much. She looked at her shaking fingers, looked at him and saw that his expression was as cold as the waters of the North Sea, and whispered, “Nay, I cannot.” She saw him jerk upright, and slowly, very slowly, she eased down to her knees. She felt tears sting her eyes; felt despair wash over her. She covered her face with her hands. And she cried silently.

  Roland drew back as if he’d been struck. There was his bride, in a heap on the floor, crying. Damn her. Aloud he said furiously, “You have what you want, you cursed wench. And for whatever reason you wanted me as your husband, not the Earl of Clare, not God in a precious convent. Well, now you have me. Cease your damnable wailing. It but enrages me. A woman’s tears mean naught; they’re a sham. I won’t stand it. Stop it now, Daria.”

  She got a grip on herself. She was being foolish, and crying, indulging herself, her mother had told her, was something a girl shouldn’t do with a man she loved because it wasn’t honorable or honest. As if Roland would care. “Yes,” she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, “I’ll stop crying. I’m sorry, Roland.”

  She rose slowly to her feet. He watched silently as she regained her control. She hiccuped even as she stripped off her gown. When she stood in the soft candlelight wearing only her thigh-length linen shift, he could see the faint outline of her nipples, the outline of dark hair at her groin. He wanted to see all of her. After all, he’d paid dearly for the right. “Remove the shift.”

  Her fingers went to the narrow straps on her shoulders, then stopped. “I cannot.”

  “Why can’t you? You’re certainly not a maid, so why this excessive modesty? Do you prefer that I strip the shift off you?”

  “No. It’s the only one I have. I must be careful with it.”

  “Take it off, Daria. If you’ll remember, you promised before God to obey me.”

  She felt humiliated. She searched for a shred of pride and managed to find enough so that she could stare straight ahead, not at him, and quickly pull off the shift. Pretend you’re alone; pretend he doesn’t exist, that he doesn’t lie there, watching you, seeing you. And she didn’t look at him, simply stared beyond him, feeling the soft linen shift pooling at her feet. She removed herself from the naked girl standing there for his examination, a man who was her husband, a man who disliked her and believed her a liar and a female with no honor.

  Roland stared at her, unable to help himself. He’d had no idea she was so very nicely shaped. Her breasts were high and full and as white as her belly, her nipples a pale pink. She was too thin. Her ribs were visible, and her breasts appeared almost too heavy for her slight torso, but he didn’t mind that. He did wonder how she could be carrying a babe in that flat stomach of hers. He imagined she would begin to fill out soon enough. Her legs were long and sleekly muscled. He liked that. He remembered many of the women whose beds he’d shared whose bodies were white and soft, too soft. Daria was firm, and even in her thinness, she looked strong and able. He pictured her legs tightening around his flanks and felt his muscles tighten and his sex swell. He wanted her, but then again, he told himself silently, he would want any decent-looking female who was standing before him naked.

  “Come here,” he said. “Let me examine more closely what I have bought with my future.”

  “You forget that my money purchases a much nicer future than you expected.”

  “Aye, you do indeed improve my lot with your vast array of coin, but I pay with myself, Daria, and I keep paying until I die. I told you to come here. I am weary to my bones of your lies and protests, and I know I must take you at least once this night, even though I don’t particularly wish to. It is my duty and I won’t shirk it.”

  “You could pretend that I’m Lila again.”

  He sucked in his breath, rage and frustration pounding through him. “I told you once that you are nothing like her, more’s the pity. If you don’t come here, you will regret it.”

  Still she stood there in the center of the tent, naked and white and stiff as a lance. “Will you strike me as my uncle did? As the Earl of Clare did?”

  His guts twisted at her words. It was rage at her pretense, nothing more. He rose from the bed and strode to her. He suddenly saw the fear in her eyes, and something else—She jerked back.

  He clasped her upper arms and pulled her against him. At the feel of her body against him, he felt a leaping of nearly painful need, felt his sex jutting against her belly. “Yes,” he said as he grabbed at handful of her hair and pulled her face close to his, “yes, I will pretend you’re Lila. Even if that fails, even if I recognize you, my wife, it still shouldn’t be too difficult for me. I haven’t had a woman for a long time, and even you will do.” He kissed her closed lips, and he was hard and demanding. He was the master and he would prove it to her.

  “I’m not Lila.”

  He released her, her quiet words flowing warmly into his mouth and into his soul, helpless words, despairing words.

  He stepped back and looked at her face. She was not the girl he’d believed her to be. He pressed his open palm to her flat belly. “A babe is within, yet you are so small.” His fingers kneaded her. “You say it is my babe, but I know that isn’t true. You are a mystery to me, Daria. I remember the girl I rescued from the earl, the girl who traveled with me through Wales, the girl whose gift for languages rivals my own, the girl who was brave and fearless when those outlaws took her.

  “And then there is the other Daria, the girl who has lies forming in her mind even as she thinks, and she, I fear, is the girl I married. Who are you, nay, what are you, and wh
y have you done this to me?”

  She closed her eyes against the pain. “I didn’t wish it to be this way, I swear it to you, Roland. When you were ill, when you believed I was Lila, it was my decision to come to you, to give myself to you. I swore then to myself that you would never know, that I would never tell you, for I wanted no guilt from you, no pity. I even bathed my blood and your seed from you so that you wouldn’t wonder. I was stupid, for it didn’t occur to me that I could become pregnant. It never occurred to me that such a thing was possible.”

  He pushed her away from him. “Come to sleep when it pleases you to do so.”

  He doused the candle, and as she stood there naked and shivering in the middle of the tent, she heard him burrow beneath the furs on the low bed, and she said, “You have so quickly forgotten your duty?”

  He cursed her then, his voice low, his words crude. He rose and she felt his fingers close over her arm. He dragged her to the bed and threw her down upon her back.

  “Well, wife, evidently you desire my body. Or will any man’s body do? No matter, since I have no choice, it will have to be my man’s body you endure. But it’s all you will have of me. And know, Daria, that a man can take any woman, it matters not to him. To see a woman’s parted legs, that’s all that is necessary for a man. That’s all you will be to me—an encumbrance, a duty, a body to take until I tire and grow bored.”

  He came down over her then, his body pressing hers into the furs, and he kissed her hard, forcing her mouth to open, and when her lips parted, he thrust his tongue inside and she felt his anger, tasted it, and her body froze. He reared over her and laughed. “You regret your desire now, sweet wife? Well, that’s a pity, for it’s too late, for you are now mine legally and in the eyes of God. Open your legs and do it quickly, for I wish to be done with it. I look forward to losing myself in sleep and mayhap I will be lucky and dream about Lila and Cena, two women who were honest in their need for me, and hadn’t a traitorous thought in their heads.”

  “Roland, please, don’t do this. Please, don’t hurt me, don’t—” Her voice broke off on a gasp when he grasped her thighs and pulled them apart. “Let me see if you are ready for me. I have no wish to rend your woman’s flesh, that would make you hurt to walk and to ride, and thus prove an inconvenience to me.” His fingers were probing at her, delving inside her, exploring, and she tried to pull away from him, to free herself from him, but his hand came down flat on her belly, holding her still and silent even as his finger slid inside her, stretching her, working her. She felt her flesh become damp and soft because her body recognized him and wanted him even though she wanted to weep with the pain of what he was doing to her.

  “By all the saints,” he said, his finger pressing more deeply into her. “You’re small. I shan’t force you. No, you shan’t scream of ravishment to me, ever. I have never forced a woman in my life, and besides, with you, it would be impossible. You’re eager as any wench, probably more so than the two ladies who advised you.”

  She tried to reach him just once more. “Please, Roland, don’t do this to me, not in anger, not—”

  But he was paying her no heed and she knew he was apart from her. He was between her thighs, spreading them wider still, bending her knees and lifting her hips with his hands, bringing her upward. “No pleasure for you, wife, save what you can gain for yourself. Actually, little enough for me. My duty . . .’tis naught but my damned man’s duty.” And without warning, without another word, his fingers pried her open, and he thrust himself into her in one powerful stroke.

  She yelled at the shock of him and the burning of her flesh as he plunged deep, spreading her for himself, and then she was crying, but she stuffed her fist into her mouth, waiting helplessly, waiting silently, for him to finish with her. He’d been right, there was no pleasure for her. She wondered dully in those moments if there was such pleasure to be had for a woman ever.

  He was breathing hard, plunging repeatedly into her, pulling out, then thrusting deep again. Again and again, until she heard him suck in his breath as if he’d been struck. Then he was hammering into her, deep, then shallow in short strokes, his hands frantically kneading her hips as he brought her higher for his penetration. Then he moaned, and she felt his seed come into her body. That was familiar to her, that deep joining that had eased her virgin’s pain, for he’d belonged to her then, completely, and she’d possessed him.

  She sobbed, unable to keep the sound to herself, not from any pain in her body, but from the pain in the very depths of her. For even in his man’s possession of her, she was alone, deep within herself, as was he.

  He was gasping for breath over her, his chest heaving from his exertion. He was still deep inside her and she could feel his member moving and shifting. There was still no pain, for his seed eased her and his member wasn’t as swelled now. No, he hadn’t ravished her body, but he had ravished her spirit.

  “There,” he said once he’d regained his breath, “I’ve done my man’s duty by you, wife.” He pulled out of her quickly, eagerly, and her body flinched in reply.

  “What, Daria, no passionate little moans from you? No thanks for my taking you as you wished? Do you mean to tell me that you were unable to give yourself a woman’s pleasure? You surprise me. Your body was more than willing to take me in. You’re a stubborn girl, but no matter. I will sleep now. Do not disturb me further this night.”

  He climbed off her and fell upon his back. She felt him pull the furs up. Slowly, very slowly, she straightened her legs. Her muscles protested. She felt his seed seeping slowly from her body, but she was too uncaring of it, of him, of herself, to pay much heed.

  She lay there quietly. She heard his breathing even into sleep. She realized that she should have never told him the truth. She’d placed the responsibility on his shoulders just as she’d sworn to herself that she wouldn’t do. But it was his babe she carried. How could he believe her if he had no memory of it? Well it was over now. She listened to his deep slow breathing and knew that she still loved him but that now it wasn’t enough, this love of hers, not nearly enough. Mayhap it would never have been enough, in any circumstance. He hated her and there was no reason for him to cease doing so.

  Unless the babe looked like him. Unless somehow he remembered that night in Wrexham. It was her only hope, a slim one she knew, for she herself looked nothing like her own mother or like her father. But there was nothing else for her.

  12

  There was complete silence in the great hall of Tyberton Castle. The Earl of Clare stood tight-mouthed, fury blotching his face, turning it as startling a red as his hair. He stared at the man who’d stolen Daria from him. The man who had made a fool of him twice. Hell and the devil, what was the damned knave doing with the king?

  The earl said in a loud voice, “I see you have returned this man to me, sire. He’s a thief and I will hang him this very day.”

  “Not as yet, my lord,” Edward said pleasantly. “Not as yet. Come, have ale fetched. My queen is weary, as are her ladies.” He added his famous Plantagenet smile, which had no discernible effect at all on the Earl of Clare. “I have a great thirst as well.”

  It was then that the earl saw Daria. He started toward her, then pulled himself upright. He held his peace. There were too many present to overhear him. He would wait.

  After the queen, her ladies, and Daria were seated comfortably, the earl approached the king. To his chagrin, the whoreson Roland remained at the king’s side, drinking from his flagon as if he had not a care in this world. He looked young and fit and strong—a warrior—not a pretty priest covered with a frayed cowl. How had the man gotten Daria away from him again? What kind of disguise had he used?

  “I would beg to speak with you, sire. In regards this man here.”

  “Ah, yes,” Edward said, his voice deep with amusement that the earl didn’t hear, “I believe you wish to accuse this man of something?”

  So the king wished the knave to remain. So be it. He drew himself up and co
ntempt dripped from his voice. “Aye, he’s a thief, sire, and he stole her.” He pointed a finger toward the queen’s group of ladies. “Did he tell you that he pretended to be a Benedictine priest? That he, a savage and a heathen, even pretended to say a Mass for me? Not only did he rob me, sire, he blasphemed God’s name and profaned the Church.”

  The king, diverted, turned to Roland. “Did you really play the priest?”

  “Aye.”

  “Did you do it well?”

  “For the most part. Only Daria knew that I misspoke some of my Latin Mass. The earl here understands naught but what he speaks. I could have recited Latin declensions and it would have made him feel holy just the same. It was Daria who understood immediately I was a fraud.”

  “Daria. You call her Daria. That’s absurd. A female cannot understand God’s word. You lie to me and to your king. I understood all your mistakes, but I am a good man, a tolerant man, and I merely believed you nervous in front of me, and I chose not to humiliate you. Aye, I willingly forgave your lapses. Sire, give him over to me and I will deal with him quickly and fairly.” He panted himself to a halt, then, unable to help himself, yelled, “I demand that you turn the man over to me, sire.”

  “Hold, my lord,” Edward said. He shifted in his chair—the earl’s own ornate carved chair—and continued mildly, “Listen well, for I grow bored with your commands to your king. This man is Roland de Tournay. He is my man, sent by me and none other to rescue that girl, Daria, from your imprisonment. Her uncle, the Earl of Reymerstone, pleaded for my help and I gave it. I told Roland to use whatever means necessary to accomplish his mission. Of course I didn’t wish any blood to be shed, and he accomplished that as well.”

  Roland said not a word. He simply gazed at the king in admiration. He’d never believed the king so quick of wit before. He’d rather looked forward to this confrontation, but he’d assumed that the king would allow him to handle the earl, to do whatever he had to do, short of murdering the man.