The Dark Knight's Captive Bride

by Natasha Wild

  He frowned. “She is important to you?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then I will apologize to her.”

  Gwen gaped at him. Black Hawk de Claiborne apologizing to a Welsh maid? It hardly seemed believable. “What do you desire of me, my lord?”

  Leather and steel stirred against one another as he walked toward her. Instinctively, she moved to keep the table between them, glancing at the sword strapped to his side.

  He followed her and she had to will herself to stop. No matter how hard her insides shook, he’d not have the pleasure of knowing he intimidated her.

  “Desire is an apt word,” he said softly.

  Gwen gripped the edge of the table for support. “Do state your business, my lord, and then leave me be. I am not your wife yet. You cannot order me around for another two days.”

  “You have changed, Gwen,” he murmured, his gaze sliding down her body. “In more ways than one.”

  His breath fanned warmly across her face. Gwen started at the stale smell of ale. She noticed then that his striking silver eyes were slightly glazed, bloodshot.

  “You are drunk, my lord.”

  “Aye, drunk,” he agreed, picking up a tendril of damp hair and rubbing it between his fingers. “Drunk with desire.”

  He allowed his gaze to trace the hollow of her throat. Linen, still damp from her bath, clung seductively to the soft fullness of her breasts. He hardened with hot need.

  Richard wanted to carry her to the bed and ravish her. He wouldn’t though. He wanted to hear her admit she desired him too. He was going to seduce her.

  He traced her jaw, her throat, the ivory skin above her towel. She stared at him warily. Her eyes were mesmerizing. She parted her lips, and he centered on them, remembering the feel of their dewy softness beneath his.

  Three years since he’d kissed her. It seemed a lifetime.

  In that moment, he knew he stood on the brink of madness with his desire for this woman.

  “Did you enjoy Ned’s kisses?” he growled, pulling her against his body, all thoughts of slow seduction suddenly gone. Unable to feel her softness through his mail, he groaned inwardly.

  “Nay, I—”

  “Did you wish him to make love to you?”

  “I—”

  “None but me will ever touch you. Ever. Do you understand?” he demanded, cupping her face between his hands. He did not wait for a reply. He had a sudden desperate need to erase the memory of any kiss but his from her mind.

  Gwen opened her mouth to protest and his tongue slipped inside. She heard a soft sigh, and was surprised to realize it had come from her. She was no longer in control of her own body; she was clinging to him, meeting the eager thrusts of his tongue with urgency. It was as if she’d waited for this moment her entire life.

  His arms wrapped around her, and he pressed her against him so hard that the steel rings of his mail bit into her flesh. Gwen barely noticed, a tide of conflicting emotions doing battle in her head.

  She suppressed a whimper when his mouth found her earlobe. Liquid heat flowed through her, an incredible ache spreading from deep in her stomach to the apex of her thighs in one agonizing leap.

  He kissed the hollow of her throat, then moved to the sensitive curve of her shoulder.

  An inner voice screamed that she should stop him.

  Now.

  But she could not. The sweet sensations he was arousing made her bones melt, her legs tremble, her mons ache. She had lost her will to resist from the moment his mouth branded hers.

  Her breath caught when he cupped her breasts, squeezing them as he pressed hot kisses along her shoulder. Firelight played across his dark head and she bit her lip, stifling an urge to bury her fingers in his hair.

  He straightened, and she tilted her head back to look up at him. His face was a mask of fury and desire, and her heart lurched. She’d never known a man’s passion could be so frightening and so breathtaking in its intensity.

  “I have waited a long time for this,” he murmured thickly.

  Deliberately, his hands came up to linger on the top of her drying cloth. She felt the air rush in as he loosened it to slide down her breasts.

  Gwen grabbed at the linen. “Nay!” she cried, backing away from him. She was not ready for this, not yet! She still had two days!

  “Gwen,” he said huskily, cradling her head in one large hand, “what is the harm of letting me taste your sweetness now? ’Tis only a couple of days until the wedding.”

  “No.”

  His voice was oddly mocking. “You would withhold from me what you were so willing to give the king?”

  “’Tis not true!” She raised her hand to strike him.

  “Not this time, wildcat.” He caught her arm and propelled her toward him. The kiss was sweet, long, and wet.

  Gwen forgot why she was angry. She couldn’t think. Her blood stirred and she put her arms around his neck, giving herself over to his heady kisses.

  She shivered, though not from cold, as he slowly pulled the cloth down. A distant part of her knew he was baring her body to his sight, but she no longer cared.

  The towel slithered to the floor.

  Gwen sucked in her breath as his calloused palms touched her bare breasts. His skilled fingers toyed with her nipples, the delicate peaks becoming taut and sensitive beyond belief.

  What was the matter with her? She should be screaming at him, telling him to stop, to go away. But dear Lord, even in her dreams she’d never known such bliss was possible. She arched against him, not knowing she was applying pressure to the rigid flesh beneath his armor.

  He groaned. “Yes, Gwen. God, yes!”

  He dropped to his knees and pressed his lips to the hollow between her breasts, his hands splaying over her back and buttocks.

  Gwen teetered between fear and pleasure. His mouth closed over her nipple and she cried out with the shock of it. The sensation was exquisite. Her fingers threaded through his hair.

  And then he swept her into his arms, his lips fusing to hers as he carried her to the bed. Fear won the battle as she realized just exactly what he was about to do. He was big and savage and he thought her experienced. He would not be gentle.

  “Stop!”

  He stopped, one knee on the bed. “What is wrong?”

  “I-I am not ready—I cannot—”

  His eyes hardened. “You mean will not. Christ almighty, you’re a goddamn tease!” He dropped her on the bed.

  Gwen scrambled for her robe, her cheeks flaming. “Get out of my chamber!”

  He smiled then, a feral, savage smile. “This will not be your chamber in two days. It will be ours. And nothing will save you on our wedding night.”

  She wrapped the robe tightly around her and climbed from the bed. “’Tis not yours yet, so get out,” she snapped.

  “Consider yourself lucky this night, Princess. I’ll not take by force what you so willingly offered only minutes ago.”

  Gwen tilted her chin up and stared at him imperiously. “I never offered you anything.”

  His voice was deadly soft. “Do not make me prove the lie, Princess. You desire me, whether you admit it or not.”

  Damn the man! He was arrogant and insufferable beyond reason. And right, damn him. She was not about to admit it though. “I most certainly do not desire you, my lord.”

  He gripped her chin in an iron fist and crushed his mouth to hers. Gwen forgot to fight. She opened, moaning as his tongue stroked hers.

  “Liar,” he taunted.

  Voices came from the antechamber. Welsh voices. Gwen’s heart leapt to her throat as she recognized Rhys’s. When she looked at Richard, his eyes were ablaze.

  “Expecting a lover? ’Tis no wonder you wanted me to leave, sweet.”

  Rhys burst through the door. Gwen shook her head in warning. But she knew Rhys would not back down. He stared at her and Richard, missing nothing. She crossed her arms self-consciously as Rhys’s gaze lingered on her silk-clad form.

  On
e glance at her betrothed told her he had noticed too. And she knew a storm was brewing in that black heart, a storm of great power and violence.

  She held out her hand in a desperate attempt to silence her childhood friend. “No, Rhys!”

  “What has the bastard done to you, Gwen? I’ll kill him if he’s hurt you!”

  Richard’s face darkened. A muscle in his jaw started to tic.

  “So, this is Rhys ap Gawain,” Richard said in Welsh.

  Rhys’s eyes widened.

  Richard swept her with a menacing glare. “You are braver than I thought, Princess, to bring your lover to your own wedding.”

  “Rhys is not my lover!”

  He continued as if she’d never spoken. “’Tis sorry I am to disappoint you, sweet, but he cannot come to Claiborne castle. I may not have been the first, but I will be the last.”

  Rhys put a hand to the dagger at his waist. “If you’ve hurt her, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what, boy?” It came out as a growl. Gwen shivered. Black Hawk de Claiborne was capable of horrible, brutal things. He would kill Rhys without the slightest provocation.

  Gwen grabbed him as he started to move. “Please, my lord, I beg of you. Leave him alone.”

  “Why?”

  “He means no harm. We grew up together. Rhys has always been protective of me.”

  “Do you love him?”

  Gwen hesitated. “He is the brother I never had.”

  Richard didn’t believe it for a minute. The golden-haired young man glared at him, his knuckles white on the hilt of his dagger. Hardly a brother.

  But her eyes were luminous with unshed tears, her face hopeful and expectant. Her hair had started to dry and a stray tendril hung over her shoulder. It was like a flame against the sky-blue of her robe.

  Richard longed to twirl it around his finger.

  One tear trickled down her cheek. His blood ran cold. She’d defied him at every turn, angered him without regard to the penalties he could exact, but when her lover showed up, she became all weepy and submissive.

  He started to set her aside, but she clung to him suddenly, one hand gripping his surcoat so hard he thought she’d rip it.

  “Please don’t kill him,” she whispered.

  Richard struggled with his temper for a long moment. She actually believed he would kill her lover. He wanted to, God how he wanted to! He took a deep breath. “Very well, I will honor your request, sweet. This time.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  She sagged against him, and his anger surged anew.

  “If I catch him here again, I will not be so easily persuaded. Now get rid of him,” he bit out.

  Gwen wiped her hand across her eyes as she turned to Rhys. She used her most formal tone. “Rhys ap Gawain, you will go back to your quarters immediately. Do not disturb me again.”

  Rhys’s blue eyes were murderous. “Gwen—”

  “’Tis an order! Now, go!”

  “Not until you tell me all is well.”

  “I am fine, Rhys. Please go,” Gwen added softly.

  Rhys bowed. “As you command, Highness.” He shot a look of pure hatred at Richard before stalking from the room.

  “It seems your chamber is a popular destination today,” Richard said coldly. He stopped in the door where Alys stood pale and wide-eyed.

  He raised her hand to his lips. “Forgive me, Alys. ’Tis your mistress’s place to give you orders, not mine. I am sorry if I frightened you.”

  Gwen stood in shock for a long time after he’d gone. She’d never actually believed he would keep his word. Alys stared at the back of her hand and blushed.

  A few minutes later, a clanking and scraping sounded outside the chamber. Alys went to investigate. Low voices came from the other side of the open door, then there was silence.

  “What is it, Alys?”

  “Guards, Highness. By order of Lord de Claiborne.”

  10

  Alys’s ruddy face contorted in a grimace. Gwen dropped the lock of hair she’d been furiously twisting and clasped her hands together.

  “You’ll ruin it if you don’t stop,” Alys said, hands on hips.

  “It won’t happen again.” Gwen started twisting the end of her chemise. Two days had passed with alarming speed. Today she would become the wife of Black Hawk de Claiborne.

  And tonight, he would make her his wife in deed as well as name. Tonight, she could not escape him.

  Gwen shivered.

  Alys worked in silence, twisting Gwen’s curls around her fingers until small ringlets fell in a thick tangle of molten fire.

  When she finished, Gwen stood. Alys nodded appreciatively at the way the white silk of the chemise clung to the soft curves of Gwen’s body.

  “Your handsome lord will certainly enjoy seeing you in that, Highness.”

  Gwen pouted even as she felt the color rising in her cheeks. Since Richard had kissed Alys’s hand, the woman had nothing but praise for him. “Nay, Alys. The English completely strip the bride and groom before the bedding.”

  Alys’s eyes widened. “Barbarians!”

  Gwen nodded, pleased she knew something Alys did not. Elinor had explained that particular custom to her.

  Alys helped her into a red silk undergown, buttoning the sleeves at her wrist. Next came a forest green overgown, embroidered with the red dragon of Wales. Fitted at the waist and bosom, the skirt draped softly over her hips, swaying seductively when she walked.

  The long sleeves trailed almost to the floor and Alys knotted them to keep the velvet from getting soiled, then retrieved a golden girdle studded with precious gems. She wrapped it around Gwen’s waist, arranging it so its gilded chains tinkled musically with every movement.

  When Gwen had donned the jeweled slippers and flowing green mantle, Alys settled a golden circlet on her curls. “You are sure to take any man’s breath away today, child. I wish your mother were here…”

  Gwen swallowed. She gazed into the polished silver mirror the King had provided. Touching one of the crimson dragons emblazoned on the velvet gown, her fingers lingered over the fine needlework.

  “’Tis just you and me, Alys,” she said softly. “Like always.”

  * * *

  The cathedral entrance was blocked from Gwen’s sight as King Edward led her up the human path that magically cleared before them.

  Onlookers thronged the grounds, waiting for a glimpse of the bride. Every man, woman, and child in Shrewsbury was here today, and others besides. ’Twas not often a town got to host a wedding for the highest nobility.

  Leaden clouds blanketed the sky in misery. The wind was slight, but chilly. A lock of Gwen’s hair lifted, fluttering across her face.

  In the distance, she heard the lowing of cattle and the bleating of sheep. She focused on the cathedral. Stained-glass windows adorned the gray facade. The arch above the door was in the new Gothic style, suggesting the church had undergone a recent renovation.

  Richard waited in the entryway, his face impassive. Gwen’s feet felt like standing stones. She forced them to keep moving.

  He extended his hand without a word. He did not smile, or lift an eyebrow, or show any emotion of any kind, and that disappointed her.

  Perhaps she’d hoped for some sort of comfort from him, some sort of camaraderie. After all, neither of them wanted this marriage. She supposed he had every right to be sullen.

  When their hands touched, a lightning bolt of sensation rippled along her nerve endings. She looked at him in surprise. If he’d felt it, he wasn’t showing it.

  His presence filled her senses. He wore crimson and black, as usual. The hawk device was embroidered over his heart and the great, jeweled sword was strapped to his hip.

  He towered over her, and she schooled herself not to look up at him. Her face burned just remembering what had passed between them.

  The bishop’s voice droned in her ears and she let her mind wander. It didn’t go far, just to the man beside her.

  Who was
this man called Black Hawk anyway? Standing next to him in this setting, it was almost hard to believe he was capable of the violence attributed to him. Why could he not be ugly, with a wart on the end of his nose and a fat belly to boot?

  Mayhap evil always used beauty as a facade. If so, then this man was full of ugliness. Gwen closed her eyes.

  His hand was warm on hers. He smelled of soap and spice and danger, always danger. When he spoke, his rich voice slid over her like a velvet caress.

  From a great distance, she heard her name, but it was not Richard’s voice that spoke it. Her eyes shot open.

  “Princess Gwenllian?” the bishop was saying. “Your vows?”

  The crowd murmured. Richard squeezed her hand. She looked up at him then. Fury masked his handsome features.

  Gwen turned and stammered her vows. The noise of the crowd trickled off.

  Richard accepted the ring the bishop handed him, then turned to her. His voice was clear, but Gwen sensed the hard edge of anger beneath the surface.

  “With this ring I thee wed.” He slid it over the tips of the first three fingers of her right hand. “And with my body I thee worship.”

  Gwen felt a chill ripple over her.

  “And with all my worldly chattels I thee endow.” He slid it onto the third finger of her left hand. “In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.”

  She tilted her face up to accept his kiss. The contact was brief, but at the last moment his tongue darted over her lower lip. Gwen shuddered.

  The horde of onlookers cheered.

  Richard led her into the church for the nuptial mass. They knelt side by side before the bishop as the gathered nobles filed in behind them.

  The air was cooler inside the cathedral than out. The vaulted chamber soared high overhead. The sounds of people shuffling in and talking quietly rose to become a dull humming. The light of thousands of candles flickered, seeming lifelike in their joyful dancing. Despite whatever recent work had been done, the church still smelled old. Not musty exactly, just old, as if the air was subdued by the solemn stones surrounding it.

  A hush fell over the gathering as the bishop began to speak. His voice rose, distinct and clear, to float disembodied over the crowd.