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Then he lowered her legs and brought his mouth down to her. When she wailed, he came quickly into her again, and felt her legs close around his flanks, drawing him deeper and deeper still.
“Daria,” he said, and let his release overtake him.
For many minutes neither of them moved.
“It is a good thing that Burnell brought the rest of my clothes. You have destroyed many of my gowns, Roland.”
He grunted, his mind still so blurred from the pleasure that he couldn’t think.
As he came back to himself, Roland recognized that he was changing, and it frightened him. He was coming to need her, his wife, and seek her out. Not any deep part of him, not the spiritual part of him, but his body recognized her as its mate and his body’s need seemed to grow stronger and more demanding. And it wasn’t simply because she gave herself so sweetly to him—no, it was more, and more still, and it maddened him. It was as if this particular girl was meant to be his.
He withdrew his sex and his spirit from her. Then he withdrew his presence.
It was relatively simple to keep his distance from her, for Burnell wished to rest for several days and it was Roland’s duty to show him the countryside and tell him his plans for Thispen-Ladock. As it was Daria’s duty to provide for Burnell’s pleasure, she was also occupied. And with her mother. He knew she spent many hours with Lady Fortescue. It wasn’t until the last evening of Robert Burnell’s stay that Lady Fortescue came into the great hall for the evening meal. She was lovely, he saw, her red hair warm and vibrant, her eyes bright and soft. Roland greeted her warmly. Sir Thomas insisted that she sit beside him.
At the close of the meal, which made everyone sigh with pleasure, Roland rose from his chair, his goblet of ale raised high. He said to Sir Thomas, “You have provided me with my home and the home for my sons and my sons’ sons. I thank you, Sir Thomas. You have given me land and a home that will remain in my spirit until the day I die. You have told me, Sir Thomas, that I must make Thispen-Ladock mine completely, that I must select a new name that will reflect what I am and my line. It was difficult to find such a name until I realized at last that I was a wanderer, and a lover of many lands. I saw the world, and I would bring the essence of what I saw here, to Cornwall, here to this keep, and all will come to know it as Chantry Hall. Chantry is the name of a man I knew in the Holy Land. He saved my life and he taught me that freedom of the spirit was the most precious of God’s gifts to man. My thanks to you, Sir Thomas, and to you, Robert Burnell.”
“Hear. Hear.”
Daria stared at him, emptiness filling her even as her goblet overflowed with wine poured by an excited servant. The speech he’d just made was wonderful and fluent and moving. She hadn’t known about it. She hadn’t know about any of it.
She turned slightly and saw that her mother was looking at her, and she quickly lowered her eyes, raised her goblet, and sipped at the wine.
I am nothing more to him than one of the mules who brought his riches to him. She very slowly rose from her chair and walked from the great hall.
Only one remarked her leaving.
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p; “It will rain soon. Do you miss Wales and the endless rain that soaked you to your soul?”
Daria didn’t look back at him. She stood on the northern ramparts, wishing she could see the sea from its vantage point, but there was naught but the soft moonlight over the green rolling hills. It was warm this evening, the air heavy from the rain that would fall before midnight.
“Aye, I miss Wales,” she said.
“Why did you leave the hall? I had thought it a good time to celebrate. I had thought Burnell would enjoy his final night if I filled it with laughter and jests and Alice’s incredible array of food.”
“Worry not, Roland. He is enjoying himself, as is everyone else.”
“Why did you leave?”
She shrugged. “It didn’t matter if I was there or not, Roland. All this”—she turned then, spreading out her arms—“all this is yours. It has nothing to do with me. I hope you enjoy it, Roland, for to your mind, you’ve accepted dishonor and lies to gain it. I hope every sheep gives you delight, every shaft of wheat endless bliss.”
“Your wishes for my joy warm me, Daria, but they seem a trifle incomplete. You don’t wish me mindless pleasure from all the cows that graze the eastern acres?”
She thought her eyes would cross with fury, but she held on to herself, turning away from him, leaning on the stone ramparts. She swallowed, still saying nothing.
“Did you drink too much wine?”
She shook her head.
“Then you aren’t ill?”
She was silent.
“You haven’t vomited for nearly a week now. If you are feeling ill now, it isn’t right.”
