The Dark Knight's Captive Bride

by Natasha Wild

  Richard obviously cared about his men. It was the sort of thing her father would do, personally telling the wife of a fallen soldier instead of sending a messenger. It was noble and honorable.

  Gwen relaxed in the iron embrace of the man behind her. Black Hawk de Claiborne had just risen a notch in her estimation.

  * * *

  When at last Claiborne castle rose in the distance, Gwen squinted as though she could see it better by doing so. They’d long ago parted company with Anne, who was on her way to Ashford Hall with some of Richard’s knights for escort. Gwen prayed that was the last she would see of Richard’s lover.

  Beyond the castle, the River Dee slashed through mountain rock on its course to the Irish Sea. Claiborne perched on an escarpment high over the river valley, the crimson banner with the black hawk waving from its turrets.

  It loomed larger and larger with each passing second. Gwen swallowed a bubble of fear. This was Claiborne castle, castle of cruelty, castle of death. It was the last, the mightiest castle between the March and Snowdonia.

  A small village clustered onto the hillside below the castle. Daylight waned as they approached the town. A cry went up from the watch and the heavy gates creaked open slowly.

  A dog barked somewhere. Chickens scattered, clucking noisily, as the big destriers disturbed their pecking. The mingled smells of food and filth permeated the air.

  The road was muddy. Thatch-roofed houses lined the street on either side. The shops were closed, their windows boarded up until tomorrow. Smoke rose from holes in the ceilings, carrying the smell of stews and meat. Gwen’s stomach growled.

  Riding steadily upward, Gwen was amazed at the sheer size of the castle. It was ringed by a second curtain wall that boasted no less than six towers. Two of the massive towers rose up on either side of the gates. Peppered with arrow slots, they looked like faces with hundreds of probing eyes. Chains clanked somewhere within the walls and the iron portcullis raised its sharp teeth. Behind it, heavy wooden gates swung open and yet another portcullis stood beyond, slowly cranking upward.

  When they rode beneath the arch, Gwen looked up. The sharp spikes of the portcullis stared back at her, and murder holes gashed the ceiling. Boiling oil would be poured on the unsuspecting enemy who managed to make it beneath the arch.

  They halted in the bailey and Richard slid from Sirocco’s back, holding out his arms for her. He set her down and she smoothed her skirts, ignoring the needling pain in her limbs caused from so many hours spent in the saddle.

  Torchlight illuminated the curious faces around her. Gwen regarded them with apprehension. She was Welsh and they were English. It reminded her of her days at Windsor, and she suddenly longed to disappear.

  “’Tis good to see you home, milord.”

  Gwen’s head snapped up. The man had spoken in Welsh. A short stocky man of advanced years bowed to Richard. His long gray hair was tied back with a thong and he had a shaggy beard that reminded her of Einion’s.

  “Owain, this is the new Countess of Dunsmore,” Richard said, pulling her forward by the hand. He had removed his helm, and Gwen was struck anew by the raw beauty of his features.

  Owain’s face split in a toothy smile. “Ah, Lady, you are even more lovely than I imagined. Be well come to Claiborne castle. I am Lord de Claiborne’s steward and I look forward to serving you.”

  Gwen stammered a thank you, momentarily caught off guard. The man was Welsh! She glanced at Richard. Black Hawk de Claiborne left a Welshman in charge of his household?

  “We’ll not dine in the hall tonight,” Richard said. “Send food and bathwater to my chamber.”

  Owain bowed again, smiling. “As you wish, milord.”

  Gwen thought he winked but she wasn’t sure.

  “And fetch Father Stephen. Hugh de Lydford has fallen in battle.”

  Owain’s face grew solemn. “Shall I send a messenger to Lydford manor?”

  Richard shook his head. “Nay,” he said, sounding suddenly very weary. “I am riding out on the morrow. I will tell Lady de Lydford myself.”

  Gwen’s heart sank. He was leaving her here alone. Not that being with him was a comfort, but at least she knew him. Her gaze skittered over the crowd.

  Owain frowned. “You cannot leave. You have only just arrived. What of your bride?”

  Gwen liked this Owain already. And at least he was Welsh. That made her feel somewhat more at home.

  “I must, Owain. You will take care of Lady de Claiborne in my absence.”

  Owain stepped closer, his voice an angry whisper. “You push yourself too hard, Richard!”

  Gwen stared at the two men. This old Welshman dared to speak to his English lord as though he were an errant child. She expected Richard to explode.

  “I do what I must do,” Richard said stiffly.

  “You have proved yourself a thousand times over. Send the knights like the other Marchers do.”

  “Owain,” Richard growled.

  The Welshman stepped back, drawing himself up. “Milord,” he said curtly.

  Richard took Gwen’s hand and led her into the castle. He hustled her through the Great Hall so fast she barely got a look at it.

  What she did see would have been enough to give Elinor fits for a year. The room was dingy from the smoke of the heating fires. She couldn’t tell if the rushes were fresh, but she doubted it since dogs trotted between the tables, begging handouts from the seated knights.

  Serving women looked more like whores than anything, their clothing disarrayed and stained with wine and handprints. Gwen even thought she saw a man and woman coupling on one of the benches, but she wasn’t certain.

  Even if she hadn’t, there were enough wenches seated on men’s laps as to leave no doubt to the sort of things that went on in Claiborne castle.

  They passed through without stopping and Gwen realized with dismay that Richard wasn’t going to introduce her to his household as his new wife and countess. How was she supposed to command any respect if he showed her none?

  He stopped in front of a large door and pressed her back against it. “I have wanted to do this for hours…” Dipping his head, he claimed her mouth in a hungry kiss.

  Gwen’s hands splayed across his chest in a defensive gesture, but his kiss was so intoxicating that she was powerless to end it. “Wh-where are we?” she asked when he finally released her.

  “Our chamber,” he said, smiling his cool predator’s smile.

  “B-but I thought I would be staying in the women’s quarters, f-for now.”

  He opened the door, then caught her in his arms before she tumbled backward. “Silly wench,” he teased, picking her up and stepping over the threshold. “Even the naivest of virgins knows a man and woman must be in the same room if they are going to make love.”

  16

  “You promised!” Gwen cried as he set her down in the middle of the room.

  A devilish smile lit his handsome face. “Aye, I’ve not forgotten. But, how am I ever supposed to get you to agree if I stick you in another part of the castle?”

  Gwen hadn’t counted on that bit of logic. It never occurred to her that he would still try to seduce her. She moved away from him, then stopped when she realized she was walking on a tapestry. She whirled to face him. “I am sorry, my lord. I did not know it had fallen on the floor.”

  Richard laughed. “You have done nothing wrong. You can walk on it.” She looked down, saw that he too stood in the middle of the colorful cloth. “’Tis from the East. The Saracens use them. ’Tis called a ‘carpet’.”

  Gwen took a step, testing the fabric. She had heard that the queen used carpets in her private apartments, but she had never gone there when she was a hostage at Windsor.

  It was not unpleasant. It would most certainly feel better on her naked feet than rushes did. She looked around the room in disbelief, finally noticing the difference between it and the rest of the castle. ’Twas the exact opposite of everything she’d seen so far!

  The
master chamber reflected the tastes and personality of the man who dwelt here. It was large and furnished with the most basic of elements. The only exotic thing was the carpet.

  A stone fireplace lay against one wall, a massive wooden tub sitting next to the hearth. Three large windows, all with glass, looked out on the river valley. A table with several plain chairs stood to one side of the room. The walls were white, painted with red lines to resemble bricks, and a large tapestry hung facing the canopied bed.

  Gwen swallowed hard. Two hawks, one larger than the other, soared side-by-side high over a lake. The larger one gripped a fish in its talons.

  Richard followed her gaze. “’Tis beautiful, is it not?”

  Gwen nodded.

  “’Tis also from the Holy Land. ’Tis the male and female. They mate for life, you know,” he said softly.

  “Aye,” she replied, pressing a hand to her throbbing temple. Where was she going to get some willow bark?

  Servants came bearing trays of food, and hot water for the bath. When they had filled the tub and laid the food on the table, Gwen found herself alone with Richard once more. She did not know what to do, so she waited for him to move first.

  “’Tis a wife’s duty to undress her husband and bathe him,” he said, coming to her.

  “You are wearing armor,” Gwen said, studying her feet.

  Richard chuckled. “An Englishwoman would know how to remove her husband’s armor.”

  Her head snapped up and she glared at him. He drew off his gauntlets and tossed them on the table, then unclasped her mantle and let it drop to the floor. She stood very still as he pulled the tie from her hair and moved behind her. His fingers deftly loosened the braid, shaking it out until her hair fell to her waist in a silky cloud.

  Gwen’s heart was in her throat. “W-what are you doing?”

  “Since you cannot attend me, I will attend you.” He reached for the girdle at her waist and unknotted it smoothly.

  “I do not need your help, my lord,” she said, trying to pull away from him. “What of your promise?”

  “Jesú, you are so worried about that, aren’t you?” A lazy grin spread across his face. “I can promise you, my sweet, that when I make love to you, ’twill be with your complete permission. In fact, you will ask me—nay, beg me—to do it.”

  Gwen stiffened. “You are outrageous.”

  “Some might say so.” He stripped her down to her chemise, and she breathed a sigh when he turned and shrugged out of his hauberk.

  Rust stained his quilted gambeson orange. He laid it out carefully beside the shirt of mail and continued to divest himself of the armor until he was clad only in a tunic and chausses.

  Gwen watched him out of the corner of her eye as he took her hand and led her to the tub. His mouth curved in a smile as he lifted the bottom of her chemise. She held her arms rigidly to her sides, stopping his progress.

  “Come now, love,” he coaxed, “the sight of your beautiful body gives me much pleasure. Would you deny me when I will be gone for God knows how long?”

  Gwen relaxed slowly. It was just this once and she was the one with the say so. It couldn’t hurt to allow him this much.

  He eased the chemise up, caressing her hips, her waist, the sides of her breasts, before lifting it off.

  “Jesú,” he breathed, his eyes darkening. She crossed her arms over her breasts and he reached up to undo them. “Let me look at you.”

  His gaze traveled down her body, slowly, slowly. Gwen resisted the urge to cover herself. Her nipples tightened, and he murmured his appreciation. He lingered so long on her triangle of flaming curls that she wondered if he’d forgotten the rest of her.

  Her eyes flickered over him, widening at the bulge straining against his clothes. She looked up in time to see him swallow hard.

  “Get in,” he said, his voice low, intense.

  Gwen obeyed. Warmth flowed down her spine like honey as she settled into the water. God, it was wonderful after the cold ride through the March! She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the edge.

  Mayhap she could forget that Richard was staring at her like she was a cup of wine and he was dying of thirst.

  “I think there is room enough for two in there.”

  Her eyes shot open. He was removing the rest of his clothes. “You promised!”

  “I said nothing about baths, Gwen, only making love.”

  This time she could not tear her eyes from him. She would see his male sex even though she was terrified of it. Her heart lodged in her throat as his clothes peeled away.

  He was beautiful, every last inch of him. Flame and shadow licked over his bronze body. His manhood only emphasized what she’d already seen. And it was every bit as big as she’d thought it would be.

  Weapon was an adequate word. It stuck out like a knight’s lance, and beneath it was a sac much like a stallion’s. Black hair curled around the base, the same black hair that trailed from his chest to the juncture of his thighs and down his legs.

  Her mouth dropped open. That thing was supposed to fit inside her. Elinor had told her so. It was the only thing Elinor had told her, but she’d assured Gwen it would work.

  “Do you like what you see, sweet?” Amusement tickled the corners of his mouth.

  Gwen turned away, her face hot.

  Richard chuckled and stepped into the tub. The water rose considerably beneath his bulk, some of it splashing over the sides to soak the beautiful carpet. He seemed not to care.

  He sat at the other end, facing her, his legs stretching along either side of hers. “’Tis heavenly, is it not?”

  Gwen glanced at him. “Aye.” She crossed her hands over her breasts, trying to ignore the feel of his skin against hers. He reached for the soap and a cloth.

  “Come here.”

  “I would rather not, my lord.”

  “Back to that, are we? Come here, Gwen. Have I hurt you yet?”

  “Nay,” she admitted reluctantly. She scooted forward until he could reach her. He uncrossed her arms and ran the lathered cloth slowly over her breasts. Gwen closed her eyes.

  Why did it not feel the same when she did it? It glided over her breasts, her neck, her face. Her skin warmed beneath his touch, then chilled when he moved on.

  He washed her arms, then moved lower, down her belly, down—

  “Nay!”

  “’Tis only a cloth, Gwen.” He slid it over her mons again.

  Gwen bit her lip at the delicious sensation. Mayhap he did not know the feeling it caused when he touched her there.

  “See, ’tis only a cloth,” Richard said huskily. “It does not hurt, does it?”

  “Nay,” she whispered, watching him, her entire body quivering with each brush of the cloth against her womanhood. When he stopped, she almost asked him not to, then caught herself at the last second.

  He turned her until her back was to him. She hesitated, then did as he directed. He lathered her hair, massaging her head with sure fingertips. She leaned further and further into him until she brushed against his stiff member.

  Richard groaned, and she jumped. He rinsed her head gently, then handed her the cloth. “Your turn,” he said.

  Gwen’s jaw dropped. She retreated to the far end of the tub and turned to face him. “My lord, surely you do not expect—”

  “Aye, I do.” He had the audacity to grin.

  She took a deep breath and moved toward him. She touched the cloth to his chest, hesitantly at first. His silver eyes glittered. She rubbed harder. It was a stretch to reach him. She got to her knees and moved closer.

  The dirt from his armor washed away, leaving the handsome face that had haunted her dreams for the last four years.

  He shifted and the unexpected motion threw her off balance. He caught her as she fell against him.

  Gwen gasped. The hair on his chest was rough against her breasts, and deliciously erotic. He pulled her closer until her torso was pressed to his, his manhood straining between them.


  “You torment me, Gwen,” he whispered. “You’ve tormented me for years.”

  He crushed his mouth to hers. Gwen opened to him like a rose to the first morning light, responding to his caresses with feverish intensity. He trailed wet kisses down her neck, and she threw her head back, arching into him. His hands moved over her, shaping her.

  She gave a little cry as his mouth closed over her nipple, pleasure bolting through her like a tongue of fire.

  He teased the hard bud, and then he was sucking on it, nipping it. When he stopped, Gwen thought she would burst, but he took the other nipple in his mouth and began again. Her fists curled into his shoulders.

  His hand glided down her body. He cupped her mound, his fingers stroking the hot flesh. A tremor shook her when his thumb brushed across the nub of her womanhood.

  Liquid heat flowed through her veins. Every nerve ending in her body came alive as his hand moved over her again and again. This was madness. Every caress, every shudder, inescapably bound her to him.

  It had to stop.

  His mouth closed over hers, his tongue probing urgently. One hand splayed across her back, crushing her against his hard chest.

  He picked her up and when she sat down again, her legs were over his thighs and his swollen manhood pressed against her mons. He grasped her buttocks in both hands and slid her upward along the length of it.

  Gwen tore her mouth from his as fear welled up inside her. “Nay!” she cried, pushing against him. He was a big, brutal warrior. His mating would be savage, feral, uncontrolled.

  “I want you,” he breathed against her neck. “God, how I want you! Do not deny me, Gwen.” His voice was hoarse, almost pleading.

  Indecision washed over her. It was happening too fast. Her body ached for him even while she feared him. He was her husband and it was only right she give in. And yet if she did, she knew she would be lost—hopelessly, irrevocably lost. He would demand nothing less than total surrender, and when he was done he would leave. She was just another conquest, and she couldn’t bear it.

  “I-I cannot,” she said.

  His arms tightened around her briefly, and then he shoved her away. His eyes flashed in the firelight. “I’ll not wait forever, wife.”