Earth Song

by Catherine Coulter

  “Philippa . . .” he said, his voice low as he rolled over until he half-covered her with his body.

  “I’m so glad to see you, Dienwald,” she said, and raised her hand to stroke his hair, to touch his jaw, his mouth. His tongue stroked over her finger, and she shivered. “Dienwald,” she said again, and parted her lips, staring up at him as if he were the only man on earth, and she was so close to him, but a breath away from his mouth, and he couldn’t bear it and leaned down and kissed her, gently at first, then more deeply because it was what she wanted and what he’d done in his dream, yet now the dream was real and his tongue was stroking her mouth. He didn’t think, didn’t consider his actions. He wanted her, wanted her more than he ever had.

  He’d been terrified that Walter would kill her, and at the same time he’d hated her because she had perhaps betrayed him. He couldn’t have borne that, but now she was here and it was all that mattered, and she was his at last.

  The night was still and she was here, beneath him, and she wanted him. Her dream was his, and they were together. He stroked her face with urgent fingers, easing himself over her. He felt her part her legs, and he lay between them, hard against her woman’s flesh, and she was making soft noises deep in her throat and her arm was around his neck, pulling him down, bringing him closer and closer.

  She’d been hurt. God, she’d been hurt. Dienwald, his senses restored for an instant, drew back, saying, “Philippa, your arm, I can’t hurt you. If your arm . . .”

  She simply smiled up at him and said, “I will hurt more if you leave me. Don’t leave me now. Please, Dienwald, debauch me. I’ve wanted you to for so long.”

  He laughed, he couldn’t help himself. Then his laugh turned to pain as she said, “I didn’t want to die, because if I did I would never have you, never know what it was like to have you come inside me.”

  He groaned now, her words burning deep, and he was drawn back into the intense feelings that were conquering all of him. But he realized even in his delirious state that she was a maid and he didn’t want to hurt her more than was necessary. He saw his sex tearing through her maidenhead, and he moaned with the excitement of it, the triumph in claiming her, of possessing her, finally. He eased himself up until he grasped the hem of her gown, and he pulled it up and felt her naked flesh beneath his hand. Until he reached her upper thighs. She wore a shift, and it stymied him for a moment, for in his dream she’d been freely naked and open for him. He worked in growing impatience until she was naked to the waist, then came over her again, wanting only to feel her body against his, but he couldn’t, for he was still dressed. He cursed, softly and foully, and came up onto his knees.

  She was watching him, her eyes large and vivid as he clumsily jerked off his tunic, his cross garters, his hose, and then he was finally naked and she found him beautiful.

  He was covering her again, his male flesh against her, and she was kissing him wildly, her tongue probing until she found his. He held her head between his hands and kissed her face, his words fast and frantic between kisses, telling her of his need for her, how he loved the feel of her, how he was happy she was still a maid and he would be easy with her, and how he wanted to come into her and meld into her flesh and stay there even as he spilled his seed in her.

  She watched his face as he looked down at her, and she felt his fingers parting her flesh, then his sex pressing against her.

  He threw back his head, his eyes closed. “Don’t move,” he said, and his voice trembled, for he was coming very slowly into her, and despite his instruction, she was lifting her hips for him, wanting to feel all of him, now, this very moment. He came deeper and she whimpered as he stretched her and it hurt, but it was what she wanted because he was what she wanted. She could feel him so exquisitely, the hard smoothness of his member easing so gently, just a bit of himself at a time, pressing into her.

  In the next instant he felt her maidenhead stretched against his sex. “Philippa,” he said, his eyes on her face, “look at me!” He had wanted to be gentle at this moment, but he found he could not. He thrust deep. She cried out at the wrenching tear inside her. He fell over her, his mouth covering hers, and he soothed her with his tongue, even as he held himself still and deep inside her, saying again and again, “No more pain, my sweet Philippa, no more. Hold me and feel me and let me lie deep inside you. ’Tis where I belong.”

  Then slowly he began to move, his breath soft and warm against her mouth. “Nay, love, accept me now and hold me tight inside you. Aye, that’s it, lift your hips for me and bring me deeper . . . ah, Philippa . . . no, don’t move, I can’t bear it, and—”

  She watched his beloved face distort with the pain of his need, and he was heaving, delving deep, his breath sharp and raw and her body burned as he thrust again and again, his hands drawing her up to meet him. She couldn’t help herself and cried out but he couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. He threw back his head and she felt his release, felt the wetness of his seed as he emptied himself deep inside her body.

  He was limp and weak, torpid in mind and drained in body, and he came over her and she welcomed his weight and he lay with his head beside hers and he was still deep within her.

  He said, his voice echoing from the dream, “I’m sorry, Philippa. I wanted you badly. Hold still and the pain will fade.”

  Philippa regained her breath and her equilibrium. He was still inside her but there was only stinging now, not the tearing pain of before. It was strange, this lovemaking. She’d wanted him, very much, felt desire for him that overcame the pain in her arm, that, actually, made the pain as nothing, and she’d been whipped about with wild, urgent feelings, wanting to touch him, feel him, urge him to come to her, but the incredible feelings had fallen away when he’d come into her and ridden her so wildly. She’d been left stunned, bewildered, and hurting.

  Not hurting now, she thought, smiling as she lightly stroked her hand over his naked back. His flesh was smooth and warm and she felt the muscle beneath and she said quietly, “I love you.” And she said it again and again and she knew he didn’t hear her for he slept soundly. She felt his member sliding out of her, and the wet of his seed and her wetness as well, she supposed.

  She kissed his ear and settled herself beneath his weight. Soon she slept.

  It was nearly dawn when Dienwald opened his eyes and came abruptly and horrifyingly awake. He was lying naked, half covering Philippa and he was cold and shivering in the night air, and his rod was swelled again and pressing against her. He cursed his randy sex, and gently and slowly eased himself off her, his mind still not accepting what had happened, for the dream was still strong in his mind, and it had become more, that vivid dream. He shook his head. What he’d done he’d done and it hadn’t been a dream, but it had been in the dark of the night and he’d cleanly lost his wits. The early morning in the copse was an eerie grey and thick white mist hovered overhead. He could see her clearly though, her beautiful body bare from the waist down and her parted legs, parted for him when he pushed them apart to come over her, and there was her virgin’s blood mixed with his man’s seed smeared on her thighs, and he closed his eyes and swallowed.

  He’d done himself in. He cursed softly, then smiled, feeling yet again the tightness of her, her urging hand, how she’d lifted her hips to him, how he’d driven into the depths of her, touching her womb. He wouldn’t worry about it now. He looked down at her and wanted her again, powerfully, but he saw her wounded arm and the wound he himself had inflicted inside her. He would wait. He pulled a blanket over both of them and pulled Philippa into his arms. He would think soon, once the sun was shining down on his face, warming his brain. He would think of something, he would save himself and somehow he would at the same time protect her from dishonor. How, he didn’t know, but an idea would come to him; it was still very early, his brain foggy with sleep. He slept again, holding her close, breathing in the scent that was uniquely hers, but only for a few moments.

  He was brought painfully and abruptly to
his senses by his son’s outraged voice.

  “Father!”

  Dienwald opened an eye and saw Edmund standing over him and Philippa, his hands on his narrow hips, his eyes wide and disapproving.

  “Father, you’ve taken Philippa.”

  “Well, perhaps . . . but perhaps not. Perhaps I am simply holding her, for she is hurt, Edmund—aye, very hurt and cold in the night and—”

  “I won’t allow you to dishonor her. You are holding her too close to just warm her, Father. And just look at her! She’s hurt and yet she’s asleep and she’s smiling!”

  Dienwald, startled, looked at the still-sleeping Philippa. She was smiling, her lips slightly parted, and the sight made him feel wonderful.

  “Edmund, get you gone for a time. I am weary and the wench here will awaken soon and I must think—”

  “You will wed her, Father. Aye, you must wed her. You’ve no choice now.”

  Dienwald looked with horror at his son and forgot that his men were all within hearing distance. “Wed her! God grant me death instead. ’Tis possible that she betrayed me, Edmund, aye, that she told her cousin to save her from me and took you as a hostage.”

  Edmund just shook his head and looked disgusted.

  “You don’t even like her! She bullies you and corrects your every word. You call her witch and maypole and you stick out your tongue at her and—”

  “Father,” Edmund said with great patience, “Philippa is a lady and you have taken her virtue. You must wed her.”

  Dienwald cursed and looked back down at Philippa. She was awake and staring up at him, and there where tears in her eyes.

  18

  “Why are you crying? For God’s sake, cease your wailing this minute! I hate a woman’s tears. Stop it, wench. Do you hear me?”

  “She’s not making a sound,” Edmund said, peering down at Philippa.

  Dienwald made no reply to this, simply kept staring down at Philippa.

  Her tears didn’t immediately do his bidding, and he turned further onto his side and leaned over her, his nose nearly touching hers. “Why are you crying? Did you hear Edmund and me, curse the boy’s interfering habits?”

  She shook her head and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “Then why are you crying?”

  “My arm hurts.”

  “Oh.” Dienwald frowned at that. Her revelation was believable, yet somehow he felt insulted, and perversely he said, “Well, did you hear what my son demanded we do?”

  Philippa lay on her back, looking up at the man she’d willingly given her innocence to during the night. His jaw was dark with whiskers, his hair tousled, and his naked chest made her heartbeat quicken. He looked beautiful and harried and vastly annoyed. He also looked worried, hopefully about her, which pleased her.

  She smiled up at him then and raised her hand to touch his cheek. He froze, then jerked back.

  “You’re besotted,” he said, his voice low, “and you’ve no reason to be. For God’s sake, wench, I took your maidenhead but three hours ago, and you’re smiling at me as if I’d just conferred the world and all its riches upon you. You got no pleasure from our coupling, I hurt you, and . . . ah, Edmund, you are still here, then?”

  “Will you marry Philippa?”

  “You know but one song, and its words more tedious than Crooky’s. By St. Anne’s knees, boy, the wench couldn’t wish to wed with me, for—”

  That was such an obvious falsehood that Philippa laughed. “Good morrow, Master Edmund,” she said, facing him for the first time, her tears dry now.

  The boy grinned down at her. “We must soon be on our way back to St. Erth,” he said. “Northbert sent me to awaken you. Both of you,” he added, meaning dripping from his voice. “Philippa, does your arm pain you sorely?”

  She shook her head. “Nay, ’tis bearable, and thus so am I, unlike your father here, who must bring himself to the morning with foul words.”

  Dienwald said nothing, merely stared off into the thick maple trees. “Go, Edmund, and strive to keep your opinions beneath your tongue.”

  Edmund frowned down at his father. “We are close to Crandall. Sir Walter could come this very very soon. Shouldn’t we—”

  Dienwald’s expression changed suddenly. It was austere now, cold and forbidding, his eyes narrowed, and he said very softly, in such a deadly voice that Philippa could but stare at him, “I want the whoreson to come out from the safety of his walls. I owe him much, and the time has come to repay the debt. I’ve men carefully watching the road from Crandall. Aye, I want the bastard to come after you and Philippa, and ’tis I who will greet him.”

  Edmund grinned suddenly. “But Philippa struck him hard, Father. Perhaps he still lies in a heap.”

  Dienwald’s expression lost its cruelty and he shook his head. “We’ll see, but I doubt it. We will leave soon, Edmund, for St. Erth. The wench here needs to rest, and I can’t very well wed her here in a forest. Search out Northbert and tell him that if Sir Walter hasn’t shown his weedy hide within the next hour, we’ll ride to St. Erth.”

  Edmund, swaggering with importance, took his leave. Dienwald stared after him, shaking his head, seemingly all thoughts of Sir Walter and his hatred of the man gone from his mind, for he said to Philippa, “I can’t believe that my own son, a boy of good sense, would yell at me, and carp and bellow.”

  Philippa said nothing to that, and Dienwald, in a spate of ill-humor, flung back the blanket and jumped to his feet. For a moment it appeared he didn’t realize he was naked, but not for a single instant was Philippa unaware of it. She stared at him in the gray light of dawn and was pleased with what she saw, very pleased. Before, she’d admired him, but this morning, now that she understood how men used their bodies to attach themselves to women . . . well, now she had a different way of looking at him, a softer way, a more intimate way.

  He scratched his belly, stretched, looked down at himself and saw her blood on his member. He cursed then turned to frown down at her. “Open your legs.”

  “What?”

  “Open your legs,” he repeated, then dropped down to his knees beside her. He pulled the blanket to her ankles, then without asking her again, pulled her shift to her waist and pried her thighs open. His seed and her maiden’s blood were on her inner thighs. Soft flesh, he saw, very soft, and he wanted to touch her, to ease his finger into her, feel her tighten about him. Curse her and curse his member that hadn’t the good sense to remain calm and uninterested. Well, soon he wouldn’t have to deny himself. He could have her again and again, as much as he wished and whenever he wished it until his member stayed quiet in exhaustion and his heartbeat stayed slow and steady. He drew in his breath and said, “By St. Peter’s toes, there’s no choice for me now. We’ll wed upon our return to St. Erth.”

  His duty done, at least in his mind, Dienwald rose again and began pulling on his clothes. He frowned and said, turning to look down at her, “Don’t fret about the blood, Philippa, ’tis your virgin’s blood and all females are so afflicted their first time with a man. It won’t happen again. Now, pull down your clothes else I’ll be tempted to think you wish my rod between your thighs again.”

  She thought it was a fine idea but jerked down her clothes. She could hear Dienwald’s men moving about in the woods, very close to them. “Wouldn’t you at least like me to tell you what happened at Crandall?”

  “You did,” he said shortly. “I couldn’t force you to keep your woman’s mouth closed last night and you babbled until you finally slept. I learned everything, finally. Are you very sore?”

  “But I didn’t get to sleep all that long, did I? You didn’t wish me to! Sore where?”

  He shook his head, giving her a sour look. “Nay, it wasn’t all my doing. You wanted me and you had me, curse my man’s weaknesses. Your soreness is in your female brain and between your female thighs. You are small, Philippa, at least inside you are.” He paused a moment, frowning toward her. “I was dreaming about you, wench, empty-headed dreams
they were, and then there you were, beside me, and holding out your arm to me, making me want to debauch you, and making all those whimpering noises in your throat—” He stopped, finished fastening his cross-garters and took his leave of her, not looking back.

  “Well,” Philippa said aloud as she slowly got to her feet. “He will wed me and he won’t mind, once ’tis done.” She could still see the appalled look on his face when his nine-year-old son had demanded that he marry her. Truth to tell, that had surprised her as much as it had Edmund’s father.

  The boy didn’t seem to mind that she would be his stepmother. So be it. She clutched her arm and gently began to massage it. The pain was a steady throbbing now, but she could bear it. She looked down at herself and shook her head. Her single garment, the once beautiful yellow gown, was now fatally wrinkled, and rents parted its folds, material torn off to make a bandage for her wounded arm. But she had become so used to wearing rough clothing, even rags, that she gave it not much thought.

  She was standing there wondering where she could go to relieve herself when Crooky appeared.

  “God gi’ you grace, mistress,” he said, and sketched her a bow. “I hear from the lad that you will soon wed the master. ’Tis well done. I knew his lust for you would plant his body in his brain, and so it has. Strange that it struck him so swiftly and here in a wild forest, and with you hurt and all, but perhaps that’s what pushed him, fear for you and seeing you hurt.

  “But the master holds strong feelings for you and missed you, though he cursed you more than he sang of your bountiful beauty. Father Cramdle will speak wondrous fine words for your ceremony.” He paused and added, “Don’t mind the master. He’ll get used to the idea once it seeps into that thick head of his. Aye, ’twill be fine.” Crooky gave her another bow and took himself off. She was left standing alone in the small clearing.

  Crooky’s words had sounded to her like an attempt to convince himself. Well, perhaps Crooky’s master didn’t love her, but at the moment Philippa didn’t care. But she did feel discomfort that she was nothing more than a waif, not a coin in her possession, her only clothes those Lady Kassia had sent her. Once she and Dienwald were wedded, she would dispatch a message to her father. He would have no choice but to send her possessions to her. She knew little about marriage contracts, dowries, and the like, but it seemed that there had been none for her, so how could her father complain? He’d had no intention of forming a grand alliance with another house of Beauchamp’s stature. She no longer brooded on his reasons. Indeed, she no longer cared. Beauchamp seemed a lifetime ago, and surely that was another girl who’d had servants attending her every whim and clothes to suit her every mood. That girl had had a mother who didn’t like her and a sister who carped constantly at her. Both the pleasant and the unpleasant were gone, forever.