by Natasha Wild
He groaned, and for a minute she thought she’d done something wrong, but then he was trailing hot kisses down her neck, whispering against her skin, words she only half caught.
He dragged the sheet down, exposing her breasts. Her breathing quickened as his tongue flicked across her nipple. When she thought she would die from the anticipation, he took it in his mouth, licking and sucking. The sharp tingle reached all the way to her toes.
“Richard,” she whispered. “Oh God, Richard.”
“Let me taste my name on your lips.” His voice was throaty, masculine.
“Richard,” she whispered again. He crushed his mouth to hers. She succeeded in wrenching her arms free of the tangled sheet, and she wrapped them around him, stroking the hard muscles of his back, drowning in a whirlpool of sensation.
Dimly, she heard voices. She decided her mind was playing tricks when the sound abruptly ceased.
“My lord?” came Alys’s voice beside the bed. “My lord?”
Richard raised his head. “Go away, Alys.”
“My lord, the ladies are here to inspect the sheets.”
“Send them away. They can come back later.”
“I already have. Twice, my lord!”
“Then do it again.”
“They have brought the queen this time, my lord.”
His eyes flashed in the dim light. Gwen squirmed beneath him, her passion ebbing when he was no longer mastering her senses. God above, whenever he touched her she behaved just like the whore he’d accused her of being!
He looked down, realized she was fighting him, and rolled away. Colorful Welsh curses issued from his lips as he threw open the hangings and grabbed for his braies and chausses. “Jesú, if it’s so pressing, tell them they can inspect the goddamn sheets!”
13
Gwen sat up, feeling beneath her pillow for the bedrobe. She tugged it over her naked body, heat suffusing her face. The women had been sent away twice. God only knew what sort of a sex-crazed Welsh whore they thought she was.
Richard pulled on his underclothes, then turned and held out his hand. “Ready, sweet?”
Gwen took a deep breath. “Aye.”
The queen and her ladies waited. Richard let her go, and she shrank against the wall, desiring to be anywhere but here.
He strode out in front of the women. He was bare from the waist up, his braies riding low on his hips. Margaret de Valence gasped. Last night it had been part of a ceremony, but this morning was a different matter altogether.
Catherine de Lacy merely gaped at him.
A smile played at the corners of Eleanor’s lips. “Richard de Claiborne, you are incorrigible.”
Richard bowed. “Majesty. Ladies. If you had not insisted on interrupting my sleep I am certain I could have found the time to dress properly later. Much later.”
Eleanor waved a hand, silently bidding the women to carry out the task. Alys stood in the entryway, her hand covering her mouth. The corners of her eyes crinkled.
“Really, Richard,” Eleanor said. “You must eat sometime.”
He didn’t answer, his mouth crooking in a lazy grin. Eleanor shook her head.
Gwen stood quietly, hoping to avoid any attention. Fortunately, Richard was drawing most of it. Catherine and Margaret found the stain and called the Queen over. For one irrational moment, Gwen thought somehow they knew it wasn’t really her blood.
But the three of them merely nodded. Catherine smiled at her, winking, and Gwen prayed the floor would swallow her up.
“We will expect you at table soon,” Eleanor said over her shoulder as they walked out the door.
Richard turned to her. Her breath shortened. Even in the full light of day, he was magnificent. If his chest was not so broad and his arms not so big, he would almost be a little boy with his mussed up hair and mischievous eyes.
Gwen gasped when he picked her up, holding her so he had to look up at her. His arms wrapped around her bottom and she held herself up by pressing down on his shoulders.
“You have only glimpsed the surface of things to come, sweet. There is much yet to learn of passion between a man and a woman.”
He swung her around, laughing, then slid her down his body until their eyes were level. Gwen was mesmerized. What had gotten into him?
He stared at her for so long she thought she would melt. His voice was soft when he spoke. “If I were Rhys ap Gawain, I’d have never let you go.”
Gwen wasn’t even aware he had set her down until he walked away. Her heart sped dizzily and she leaned against the wall for support.
“Dress warmly. We ride for Claiborne castle today,” he said, tugging on the rest of his clothes.
“How far is it, my lord?”
He came to her, his gaze penetrating hers once again. His finger brushed her cheek. “Have you forgotten my name so soon, Gwen?”
“Nay.”
“I know how to make you say it,” he said softly, reaching for the edge of her robe. Gwen jerked away. He laughed. “If you forget it again, I may have to.” He went to strap on his sword. “’Tis a day’s ride to Claiborne, sweet, no more. I will be in the hall with the king. Come as soon as you are dressed.”
He left and Gwen was thankful. She needed a chance to catch her breath and quiet her racing heart. Sinking down on the edge of the bed, she stared at the small stain of blood.
Alys returned, flashing Gwen a knowing look.
“Not you too, Alys,” Gwen said, groaning.
Alys giggled as she hurried about her business of readying for the journey.
* * *
The hall was almost as lively as it had been the night before. Gwen paused in the entryway, scanning the crowd. Elinor had once told her that feasts sometimes went on for days. This one might also, but Richard had chosen to leave today. In a way, she was glad. Not that Claiborne castle was the ideal destination, but at least the English court wouldn’t be there.
She wanted to search for Dafydd, but Richard picked her out, his gaze following her as she wound her way through the room. He frowned when she took her seat beside him.
“Where is your wimple?”
Gwen touched her thick braid. “Welsh women do not wear them.”
“In England, only virgins and the queen herself may wear their hair uncovered. From now on you will cover your hair as befits a lady of your station.”
“I will not do it,” she said, glaring at him.
“What?” His voice was hard, dangerous.
Gwen swallowed. God, it was like baiting a tiger. But she wouldn’t back down. “I am Welsh. You’ve taken all I have but you cannot take that from me. I will not pretend to be English.”
His face darkened. “You will do as I tell you.”
“You have the advantage of strength over me, my lord. Mayhap you should beat me into submission. Or worse…”
Richard curbed his fury. He probably deserved that remark last night, but not now. He’d shown restraint with her and he’d certainly not pressed his advantage when he could have. His voice was controlled. “Now is not the time, Gwen. I will discuss it with you later.”
King Edward turned to them, his eyes twinkling. “Sleep well, Richard?”
“Aye, Ned,” Richard said more curtly than he intended. “And you?”
Edward beamed. “Like a baby.”
Richard grunted.
A servant brought oranges to the queen. “Do have an orange, Gwenllian,” she said, leaning forward to catch Gwen’s attention.
“Thank you, Majesty,” Gwen replied.
“Richard, you will have to start getting oranges for your wife. She has fallen in love with them,” Eleanor said, peeling the fruit deftly.
Richard’s jaw tightened. “Indeed?” He turned back to Gwen. “Was one lesson enough, or do you need me to peel it for you?”
Edward coughed.
“I can manage,” Gwen snapped.
Richard drew in a deep breath. He’d regretted it the instant the words crossed his lips, but it was too late to t
ake it back. God’s passion, how she aroused his anger! And other parts of him.
That was the problem, he decided. He was unused to this state of frustrated sexual arousal. He was going to have her, soon, or he was going to find comfort elsewhere.
She didn’t look at him while she fumbled with the orange. Tired of watching her struggle with it, he grabbed it. She ignored him, picking up a piece of bread instead.
“You must both come to London for Christmas,” Edward said.
“Oh yes!” Eleanor echoed. “I will be delivered of our son by then. You must come and celebrate.”
“Thank you, Majesties. We shall,” Richard replied, handing Gwen the peeled orange. She took it, snatching her hand away when his fingers brushed her palm.
Edward sat up straight. “God’s bones, where is my mind this morning! Richard, I want you to escort Lady Ashford to her estate on your way back to Claiborne.”
“Why does she want to return to Ashford Hall?” Richard asked, suspicious of anything that put Anne in close proximity to him.
Edward shrugged. “She has been at court for six months. She wishes to visit her son.”
Richard frowned. “I plan to travel quickly. The lady will only hamper me with her baggage.”
“One night in Oswestry will not hurt you. You can make it that far. Mayhap you will find something of the brigands that have been waylaying pilgrims to Holywell.”
“I already have. I think they’re using one of the caves in the Cambrian foothills for their base. I intend to hunt them down when I have seen my wife settled at Claiborne.”
“Jesú, Richard! One night will make no difference. I have promised Lady Ashford escort and you will provide it.”
The woman was up to something, of that Richard was certain. She was vain and spoiled and not in the least bit happy living in the March. Did she think to come to Claiborne and try to insinuate herself as his mistress again? He wouldn’t put it past her, though if she did, she would not find the task easy. Besides, he’d slaked his thirst at that well too often to want another taste.
Still, there was nothing he could do except obey. Richard inclined his head. “As you command, Majesty.”
* * *
Gwen stood in the bailey with Alys, waiting for the last of the horses to be loaded with Lady Ashford’s things. Good Lord, the woman had a lot of trunks! Thankfully, her own trunks had gone straight to Claiborne when they’d descended from the mountains. She looked around for a sign of the elusive lady, but saw nothing to indicate she had appeared.
Pewter-tinted clouds hung low in the sky. It had not rained yesterday and Gwen prayed it would wait. She did not look forward to riding in a downpour.
The inner courtyard hummed with activity. Richard’s knights checked their saddles, ran their hands over their horses legs to feel for any injuries—bone splints, swollen tendons, cuts—and when satisfied, mounted gracefully despite the bulk of their armor.
They were a splendid looking group. She counted twenty of them, all turned out in crimson and black, and carrying helms that sported plumes of white and black feathers. One man bore a blood-red banner with the hawk emblazoned in the center of it.
Black Hawk’s men were frightening enough just standing here. Gwen imagined they were downright terrifying when they rode you down in battle.
A group of horsemen caught her eye. “Rhys!”
She lifted her skirts and ran across the bailey, dodging puddles and animals. An old woman shook her fist when Gwen nearly ran into her. Gwen gave her a hasty apology and kept on going.
The bay stallion tossed his head impatiently as she ran to Rhys’s side and gripped his calf.
“Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?” she asked breathlessly.
“I would not dream of it, Your Highness.” Rhys’s mouth lifted in a boyish smile, a smile that contained a hint of sadness. “Are you well, Gwen? Did he hurt you?”
Gwen fixed her gaze on his leg. “No, he did not hurt me,” she said softly. Rhys touched her hair and she raised her eyes to his.
“If he ever does…”
“Have you seen Dafydd?”
“Nay, I have not.” Rhys glanced in the direction she had come. “Be careful of him, Gwen.”
Gwen nodded, unsure if he meant Dafydd or Richard, and unwilling to ask. She stepped away, forcing herself to smile.
“Take care, Rhys ap Gawain.”
“I will.” He studied her for a moment, his blue eyes keen. “If you ever need my help, I will be there.”
She reached for his hand. “Oh Rhys—”
He shook his head. “No tears, Lady de Claiborne.”
“No tears,” she repeated, smiling past the glitter in her eyes. She knew he’d emphasized the title on purpose. She needed that reminder of her new life before she broke down and cried like the frightened girl she was.
The Welshmen who had brought her to Shrewsbury sat their mounts quietly. They all watched her, waiting. A lump formed in her throat. “Farewell to you all. Tell my father and Elinor I am well.”
Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heel and hurried away. She would surely cry if she allowed herself to wonder whether she would ever see any of them again.
Richard had emerged from the armory and stood beside Alys, a scowl on his face. He wasn’t looking at her and she turned to follow his gaze. Rhys held the bay in place, returning Richard’s stare.
Gwen’s steps faltered momentarily. She forced herself to walk toward her husband. He was menacing in his chainmail. Covered from head to foot in leather and steel, the only splash of color was the crimson surcoat embroidered with the hawk device. Gwen shivered. He looked murderous.
His face was framed in metal, his eyes like silver-ice. He didn’t utter a word when she stopped beside him.
A groom came from the stable, leading a huge black stallion. The horse pranced, snorting and neighing, and the boy’s face turned white.
Richard jerked his gaze from the retreating Welshmen and whistled an intricate five-note call. The horse’s ears pricked, then he quieted, stepping quickly. Gwen turned to stare at her husband. ’Twas a falconing call he had used.
The boy handed over the reins with shaking hands. Richard spoke to the horse in soothing tones, words Gwen could not quite hear although she recognized them as Welsh.
’Twas almost odd the way he used Welsh so naturally. But he had probably lived in the March his entire life and had learned it as a boy. It was a musical language, very suited to calming nervous animals. Or women. Awareness pricked her as she watched him smooth his hands over the stallion’s neck.
Sirocco’s body quivered. Gwen looked away suddenly. Had she trembled beneath Richard’s hand too?
“Which horse am I to ride?” Gwen asked. The mare she had ridden to Shrewsbury was unsaddled and tied to a line of packhorses.
“You are riding with me,” Richard said without looking at her.
Gwen fisted her mantle. “I am not a pampered English woman, my lord. I am capable of handling a horse.”
He turned to regard her for a moment. “The March is dangerous. You ride with me.” His tone did not invite argument.
Gwen fumed.
“Mount up!” Richard cried to the party. He turned to one of Lady Ashford’s servants. “Girl, tell your mistress if she does not get out here now, I will leave without her.”
“Aye, milord,” the girl replied, sinking into a curtsy before running toward the castle.
Richard grasped Gwen by the waist and lifted her sideways onto Sirocco, then swung into the saddle behind her. Locked within his iron embrace, she wasn’t afraid of falling from the tall stallion.
“Are you comfortable?” he asked.
“Well enough, my lord.”
“I thought we had settled that,” he said dryly.
Gwen refused to answer. A woman emerged from the castle and Gwen’s jaw slackened. ’Twas the leman, Anne!
What the hell had she expected? Richard was an Englishman. He did no
t need his wife’s permission to keep a mistress.
But the worst part was he thought so little of her that he would take no pains to hide it. It hurt to think the things he had done to her—the words he whispered and the way he touched her in places no man ever had—were nothing more than the skilled actions of a man well accustomed to lying with women.
Gwen bit back the bitter tears of betrayal that stung her eyes. She knew what kind of man he was. All men were horrible, and this one most of all.
Gwen shifted. She was much too aware of him, much too close to him right now. She did not think she could endure being held between his powerful thighs league after league.
She half-turned toward him. “Please,” she begged. “Please let me ride my own horse.”
He looked down at her and frowned. “What is the matter with you? I’ve not hurt you and yet you always want to get away from me. Do you truly find me so unpleasant?”
Gwen stared at the castle gates. No, not unpleasant. Just unnerving.
He stiffened when she didn’t answer. Sirocco began to dance beneath them, his ears swiveling backward as he awaited his master’s signal.
“Are you ready, Lady Ashford?” Richard asked irritably, his warm breath stirring past Gwen’s ear.
“Aye, my lord,” Anne replied.
As Sirocco surged forward, Gwen was pushed against Richard’s chest. That woman was Lady Ashford? She glanced at the lady perched delicately on a small grey palfrey.
Envy flared in Gwen’s soul. Anne was the court ideal, the one the romances sang about. Pale blonde hair peeked from under her headcovering, her skin was as white as snow, and her eyes were the blue of the sea. It was no wonder Richard wanted her.
But if she was not his leman, then he must have another one waiting at Claiborne castle. Gwen’s spirits sank even further.
Richard kept Sirocco to a brisk walk until they reached the open country. Once outside the town gates, he signaled the company forward, and Sirocco leapt beneath them, eating the ground with long strides.
Gwen tried to forget where she was for a little while. The wind blew in her face, cold and exhilarating. The raw power of the horse beneath her was breathtaking, and she realized Richard was holding the stallion back so the packhorses could keep up.
