Warrior's Song by Catherine Coulter Read Free Book Online

man doing that to her, overcoming her, sticking himself into her, sending pain throughout her body, reducing her to nothing. She remembered clearly the times she had seen her father take any female he happened to fancy, any female who chanced to be near when the need was on him. It never seemed to matter how old or young they were for either the women or for him. Just heaving and laughing, and the women seemed to be enjoying themselves as well. She couldn't begin to imagine such a thing.
    Â Â Â Â "Your home is Wolffeton," Graelam said. "It was built by my great-grandfather, back when Eleanor of Aquitaine was Queen of England. He was smitten with her, I have heard it said. He died when her son Richard the Lionhearted came to the throne. Wolffeton is a mighty keep. I have many vassals, many men-at-arms. You will always be safe there."
    Â Â Â Â She looked at him, but said nothing.
    Â Â Â Â "I will try to get you with child this night," he said, and this time she attended him, her head jerking up, her eyes cold and frightened, until she gained control and her eyes became blank. "I do not believe so," she said.
    Â Â Â Â "I will take time with you. There will be some pain, but for a warrior like you, it will be nothing. Perhaps you will even enjoy my taking you."
    Â Â Â Â "I will enjoy nothing about you, save your death," she said.
    Â Â Â Â He smiled, pleased. The thought of bending her to his will, of her submitting to him, her yielding to him, made him want to yell with the power he felt flowing through him. He would have her, at last he would have her.
    Â Â Â Â Graelam wanted very much to get the ceremony over. He wanted her, had wanted her for so very long that just the thought of her made him hard. He let her be. Soon, he thought, soon.
    Â Â Â Â Time passed. The air grew thick, heavy with the men's laughter and jests. Graelam appeared not to care that she didn't speak to him, that she merely sat beside him, mute. A servant came to her side, slowly pouring more of the sweet wine into her goblet. She was so locked into herself that when the man spoke low, close in her ear, she didn't hear him. He said again, more loudly this time, right in her ear as he poured her wine, "Look around you, my lady. I am Sir Mark de Gwen, here with Jerval de Vernon and twenty men. We are here to save you. When Father Tolbert comes forward for the ceremony, that is the signal. Get your brother and your mother to safety. Can you do this?"
    Â Â Â Â She nodded slowly, staring into her wine goblet. And then he slipped away, back into the shadows before she could think of anything to say, which was just as well because Graelam was looking at her again. Someone was here to save her? Chandra looked around the Great Hall. This time she easily picked out all the strangers, men all, at least twenty of them as Mark had said, wearing servants' clothing, serving all the men ale and more ale. They were getting them drunk. She smiled. Now there was a chance. She saw one cowled priest walk slowly forward. He didn't move like Father Tolbert; he was much larger than the meager priest who had spewed his foul breath into her face since she'd been a child. Jerval de Vernon, she thought. She waited, muscles tense, ready to leap into action, and wished the stranger had given her a dagger, anything.
    Â Â Â Â "It is time," Graelam said, and lightly stroked his fingers over the back of her hand. Her flesh was very cold. He frowned a moment, then said, "It will be all right. All you must do is bend to me, trust me. I will be your husband, your master. I will protect you and our children. Give over, Chandra. It is too late for you to fight me now."
    Â Â Â Â She said nothing, merely pulled her hand away and nodded.
    Â Â Â Â He didn't like that, she realized, but he said nothing. She was afraid that if she spoke, he would hear something in her voice, the anticipation, the