Secret Song (Medieval Song 4)

“All right, I’ll take you now, you’re wet and ready for me.” Daria no longer saw this Lila, this other woman he believed her to be, this other woman who was no longer in his life. She was in the past; she didn’t matter.

What mattered was now.

She closed her eyes a moment. He spoke again, and this time it was in that strange tongue, but more strangely still, she understood what he wanted and she felt no hesitation.

7

Daria knew if she did what he asked, she would no longer be a maid. She refused to consider the consequences more than she had already done. She raised herself above him again and took his man’s rod in her hand. Slowly, so very slowly she pressed him against her, and felt him come easily inside her because she was slick and wet. He strained against her fingers. She eased down just a bit and took more of him. He was moaning, his hands were tightening on her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh. She felt herself stretch for him, felt the tension building in him, powerful and vigorous, and in herself as well, and knew the moment before he thrust upward that the pain was coming and she wouldn’t like it. He grasped her hips hard and jerked her down on him even as he bucked his hips upward. The pain was a sharp burning stab that made her cry out, but nothing more, and then he was deep inside her, touching her womb, and it was something she couldn’t have imagined. His urgency seemed to lessen and he began to move gently and slowly, nearly pulling out of her, then coming in deeply once more. His chest heaved with effort and sweat covered his brow, matting his hair, and he was murmuring over and over, “Nay, don’t move, Lila, don’t move. It’s been so long, far too long . . . don’t move.”

She held still, knowing everything was beyond her now, knowing whatever would come, she had done it to herself. She had set into motion her own future and she was the only one responsible. But she hadn’t imagined his touching her like this, his body coming into hers, so deeply, so completely, possessing her so thoroughly. The pulsing, intense feelings of before had faded, lost in the pain of her ripped maidenhead, and they didn’t return. But it didn’t matter. Only he mattered. He was moaning now, harsh raw sounds from deep in his throat, and then he lifted her nearly off him. He held her above him, his rod barely inside her body, and stared up at her and smiled, and brought her down hard and fast, and she shuddered with the shock of it as she took him completely yet again. He clutched her to him then and jerked wildly.

“Roland,” she said, and he looked at her, his eyes clear and bright and dark; then he closed his eyes, hiding the pain his control was costing him.

“You aren’t like yourself. I’m stretching you, I can feel it, and it’s bringing me madness, this smallness. And I ripped you. How can that be? You aren’t a maid. How can you still be so narrow? How can I hurt you? Have you found some cream that brings you a maid’s tightness again? Or do you cry out with pa

ssion? Is that it, Lila, is it passion?”

“It’s passion, Roland. It could be naught else but passion with you.”

He smiled again, a smile so sweet that she felt as if a fist were clutching around her heart. She hurt, deep inside, but it didn’t matter. He wanted her and she would do anything for him. She rode him hard, for that was what his hands directed her to do, and as he jerked and moaned, his fingers wildly kneading her buttocks and belly, she said again, “I’m Daria. Please know me, at least for a moment, know me.”

He suddenly froze and she felt him lurch upward, felt his seed spurt deep inside her. He was heaving, his breath fast and raw, and still she rode him until he whispered, “Enough, Lila. By Allah, you’re good, so good. You’ve worn me down to my bones. I don’t think I’ll take Cena now. No, she must wait, even though she is hungry, I know, always hungry. You’ve reduced me to ashes and it was so good, so very, very good.”

She stared down at him. He was deep inside her body and he was talking of two women in his bed. She slowly eased off him and saw his seed and her virgin’s blood on her thighs and on his man’s rod. She quickly pulled the blankets over him again and bathed herself with the cool water. She felt soreness deep inside her.

She returned to him and slipped beneath the covers to hold him to her.

It was during the night that she made up her mind not to say anything to him about what had passed between them. He hadn’t known her. He’d believed her to be another woman, a mistress he’d known in a foreign land. It was then she rose and pulled down the blankets. She quickly bathed the blood and seed from his member. She held him gently, marveling at his differentness, at the beauty of him. She raised her eyes to his still face. “I love you, Roland. I will always love you and I will always belong to you and to no one else.” She wished she knew the words in Welsh. She wished he could hear her, and she wished that he had smiled at her and known her as Daria.

She would be safe from his questions, if he chanced to remember what had happened, which she strongly doubted. If he did, he would believe it a dream, nothing more. She felt, oddly, content. He was the man destined for her and she’d given herself to him. That, she reminded herself, or she was as mad as her grandmother and seeing things because they were what she wanted to see. Or he was the man she’d been destined to have only for this night and then he would leave her, and all her precious knowledge of him, her deep knowing, had all been a lie, a sham. No, she wouldn’t accept that.

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?”