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“Come, that’s quite enough.” Roland was holding out his arms to her.
“But I don’t wish him to hurt you and—” She sent her fist into the side of the man’s head one more time.
“By all the saints, stop it. Rollo has few enough brains without you pounding the rest out of his head. Cease your attack. Come.”
She released her hold on the man’s neck and dropped her legs from his waist. She flung out her arms and Roland caught her and lifted her down to stand on the cobblestones.
But she was still gripped in her unreasoning fear. But Roland seemed to be all right. She was crying now, not realizing it, her hands running over his face, down to his shoulders, touching him, probing at his flesh, assuring herself that he wasn’t hurt. “I was so afraid—I thought he was killing you, he is so large and—”
It was the complete and utter silence that made her slow. Not a whisper of a sound. Her voice dropped off and she became as still as everyone around her. Slowly she turned to look at the man. He was still standing quietly, just looking back at her, a curious blend of confusion and amazement writ on his ugly face. And all their people were now in a loose circle around her and Roland, staring at her and whispering behind their hands.
She raised her face. “Roland? He didn’t hurt you? You’re all right, truly? I don’t understand.”
Something was very wrong. She saw the myriad of emotions cross his expressive face. There was anger, oh, she could feel waves of anger flowing from him, but then it was gone, swept away by something else—something—He was laughing. He threw back his head and roared with laughter. Soon the entire inner bailey was filled with people who were howling with laughter, holding their sides, screaming with laughter. She stood there, not understanding. The huge man was now laughing as well, deep gritty laughter.
They were all laughing at her.
What had she done?
She realized at that moment that her gown was ripped under her left arm. Sweat was streaking down her face—nay, not just sweat, but tears of rage at the man who’d been attacking Roland. One of her leather slippers lay on the ground near her. Her hair had come loose from its bound coil and was hanging over her shoulder. The laughter swelled, overwhelming her. She felt ridiculous; she felt a complete fool.
She cried out, a small broken cry, and grabbed her skirts yet again, and began running toward the narrow tunnel that connected the inner bailey to the outer bailey. The portcullis was raised and no one blocked her way.
“Daria. Wait!”
Roland’s laughter died as quickly as it had sprung up. He looked at Rollo, the hulking fellow he’d been wrestling with.
“Thank you for not hurting her,” he said. “All of you—back to your chores.”
The laughter quieted a bit, but the men and women watched the master dash after his wife.
Salin said to Rollo, “Mayhap it’s the best wrestling match I’ve ever seen. Mayhap it will bring an excellent result.”
Rollo banged the side of his head with the heel of his hand, as if to clear it. He said with genuine surprise, “She jumped on my back and pounded my head. She tried to break my neck with those skinny little arms of hers.”
“Aye, you’ll have a bit of a black eye for your labors, but your neck’s thicker than an oak tree. No danger she’d twist that part of you off.”
Rollo shook his head, staring after Daria. “I could have killed her, yet she attacked me.”
“Aye,” Salin said. “He’s her husband.”
“A female attacking me,” Rollo said, shaking his head. “I will leave now and return to my farm. Tell the master I will return whenever he wishes to continue our match. When I
tell my wife of the little mistress attacking me, she will laugh until her eyes cross.”
Roland gave up yelling after his wife. He would catch up with her soon enough. And he did, just outside the castle walls, just at the top of a slight hillock covered with thick green grass. He grabbed her arm, but she jerked free of him, and he stumbled at the same time and lost his balance and the two of them went tumbling over the side of the embankment down the grassy slope. They’d done this same tumble before, he thought blankly even as he fell. Roland tried to protect her, but it wasn’t possible. They came to a halt at the bottom, Roland on his back and Daria on her side.
She lay there gasping for breath, quite unhurt, at least in body. She was so humiliated that she regained her breath more quickly than she probably would have, and lurched to her feet. She saw Roland lying there, looking up at her, a huge grin on his face. She cried out and scrambled back up the slope, only to feel his hand around her ankle. He pulled, very gently, and she fell backward against his chest. He was still laughing. At her. She saw red and turned on him, crying out, smashing her fists into his chest.
“Stop it! You bastard, stop laughing at me!”
Roland stopped quickly enough. He pulled her against him, flattening her arms to her sides to protect himself, and held her still. “Hush,” he said, “Hush.”
“I’m not the one laughing. I hate you.”
“No you don’t. Don’t lie, it doesn’t become you.” And he chuckled, and in between chuckles, he leaned down and lightly nipped at her bare throat. Her gown was now ripped nearly to her waist, and then he felt the hot smooth flesh of her shoulder against his mouth, he felt a surge of desire so strong he shook with it. No, he didn’t want to laugh now. By all the saints, it had been so long, so very long.
He didn’t think, just acted. He grasped the straps of her chemise and ripped them apart. He pulled the soft worn cotton to her waist, baring her breasts. She wasn’t moving now.
