Free Secret Song by Catherine Coulter Page A

only she’d fit through it. She no longer cared. She leaned back her head and spit at him, full in the face.
    In the next moment he jerked her to the bed and threw her upon her face. His hand at the small of her back held her still. The chamber door stood open, but he didn’t care. He wanted to see her and he wasted no more time. She was his and he would do just as he pleased. He would honor her in marriage and take her now because he couldn’t bear to wait longer. He’d already waited too long, been too careful in his deliberations regarding her. He ripped up her gown, baring her to her waist. He stood then and looked down at her sprawled legs, the rounded buttocks, the narrow waist. His loins ached and prodded. His breath hitched. He wiped her spittle from his face. He spread his open hands over her buttocks, kneading and caressing, and he marveled at the softness and the whiteness of a woman’s flesh.
    She made a sound deep in her throat and tried to roll away from him. It was nothing, this woman’s token resistance of hers. He merely wrapped his hands around her waist and flipped her onto her back. He pulled up her gown and again forced himself to slow, to study this wondrous gift that he had brought to himself. He stared at the mound of dark hair that covered her woman’s flesh. He touched her and felt her flinch. He lifted his hand and said, “Now. Open your legs, Daria. I wish to see you.”
    Instead, she lifted her legs, rolled up on her shoulders, and struck him in the chest with her feet. He grunted with pain and surprise and tumbled backward. But he caught her, easily, so easily, and she knew she would weaken soon and there could be but one conclusion.
    She was screaming at him, kicking when there was naught but air to kick, for he was standing now beside the bed, watching her flailing, holding his hands over his chest, trying to regain his breath. And he was still staring down at her. Then he laughed, a low satisfied laugh. He was amused by her foolish efforts. Even as he unfastened the knot on his chausses he laughed. As he freed his manhood, he stopped laughing and looked at her. He saw her eyes lower, saw that she was staring at him, and was pleased, for he was hard and erect, his sex thrusting out from his groin. He was a good size, many women had told him so, and he wanted some healthy fear from her, at least that first time.
    He came down on top of her, pinning her thrashing legs beneath his weight. She felt his sex between her legs, shoving upward, and she closed her eyes against the awful pain she knew would come when he managed to shove himself inside her. She struck his shoulders with her fists, scratched and pounded at his muscled arms. It did her no good at all. Her arm jerked back for yet another blow, this one to his head, when her hand brushed against the brass candle holder atop the small table beside the cot. A fierce joy went through her. She clutched its rough base, raised it as high as she could, and brought it down on his head.
    The earl had reared back, his sex held in his own hand to guide himself into her, and the blow struck the side of his head. The pain was searing and it rattled him. He fell sideways, still pinning her beneath him. She heard him groan, then fall silent. She struck him again and felt a slight shudder go through him. Then she dropped the candlestick. She tried to push him off her. She heaved and prodded, but she couldn’t move him. He was deadweight on her.
    She felt tears sting her eyes. She was so close to escape and she was still trapped by him. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t . . .
    â€œWhat in God’s name have you done?”
    At the sound of Roland’s low voice, her tears dried, though she still wanted to cry, but in relief. “Please, hurry, get him off me.”
    Roland quickly pushed the earl off her and let him roll onto the floor. He saw that her gown was shoved up to her waist and that her legs were parted