by Natasha Wild
She learned she was to have no choice in the matter as he lifted her chin with a finger. His eyes narrowed. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing,” Gwen whispered.
“Then why wouldn’t you look at me?”
Gwen felt her lip begin to tremble. She dug her nails into her palm. There was no way she was going to cry over him. “I am looking at you now, my lord,” she said coolly.
He frowned. Hurt crossed his features so quickly she almost missed it. His eyes hardened to silver-ice. “I am so relieved we settled that,” he said, taking his seat.
Gwen sank next to him. How was it he managed to make her feel horrible when he was the one in the wrong? God, what an idiot she was! She had to suppress an insane desire to beg his forgiveness, to do anything to see the warmth return to his eyes.
She forced herself to smile throughout dinner. She thanked the servants, sent her congratulations to Oliver, and talked pleasantly with Father Stephen while Owain darted puzzled looks between her and Richard.
Richard remained dark and closed. He attended her dutifully but never spoke a word to her. He ate heartily, drank wine with dinner, and then switched to ale before dessert was served.
The girl who filled his cup was buxom and pretty. Gwen figured the wench was perhaps a year or two older than she was. Her black hair was twisted in a braid and a few strands dangled over her shoulder. Her bosom strained against the rough wool of her gown as she leaned in front of Richard.
The girl spoke in English, and Richard answered. Gwen understood I and you and the girl’s name, Maude.
Richard smiled at Maude, his gaze lingering on her abundant chest. Maude slanted him a seductive smile in return. Gwen felt a hot shard of jealousy prick her.
This wench had to be the one he’d bedded before he’d ridden after the outlaws!
Gwen knew suddenly that he would not even attempt to bed her tonight. Once had probably been enough to get her with child. He would spend the night where he really wanted, which from the looks of it was in Maude’s bed.
Gwen jerked away when he turned in her direction. She let her gaze wander over the crowded hall. People engaged in raucous conversations, laughing, slapping backs, drinking toasts to health and success.
She tapped her fingers on the table. ’Twas all a stark contrast to the heavy silence between her and Richard.
After dessert was served, Richard leaned toward her, his breath tickling her ear. “Go up to bed, Gwen.” He tossed back the ale and motioned for Maude.
Gwen stared at him in disbelief. He was going to bed that wench and he could care less if she knew it. By God, she’d be damned if she’d stand for it! She threw her eating knife on the table and shoved herself to her feet. “If you touch one—one!—woman, I will cut off that which you pride so much and—”
“And deprive yourself too, sweet?” He laughed and she felt a chill run down her spine at the lack of humor in it. His voice had a hard, bitter edge to it as he said, “You’ll not do it and I’ll tell you why—because if you did you’d not get to scream my name to the heavens as you did last night when I was buried within you.”
Gwen’s eyes bulged. She flew at him. He caught her wrists and jumped to his feet. His eyes flashed pewter, his jaw tightening. “I told you before, never again,” he said from between clenched teeth.
“You are a bastard, Black Hawk de Claiborne!”
“Aye, so I am.” He picked her up and swung her over his shoulder. The hall erupted as the knights and men-at-arms cheered their lord. Gwen beat her fists against his back in impotent fury, screaming Welsh curses at him.
She barely heard herself above the din. English barbarians!
He kicked open the chamber door, then walked over to the bed and threw her down. For a minute, his face was so savage she thought he was going to rape her and she was appalled at the surge of heat between her thighs. Dear God, her traitorous body wanted him to loose his passion on her!
He turned and strode to the door, leaving her breathless and disappointed.
Gwen scrambled off the bed. “English bastard!” she screamed, running after him.
He slammed the door. She started to fling it open and follow, then stopped.
St. Dafydd’s bones, she was not going to chase him like a lovesick little girl! She crossed to the window and threw herself in the seat, staring out at the darkness beyond.
She didn’t care what he did or who he did it with.
A sob escaped her trembling body. She brought her knees up and put her face in her hands. For the last damn time, she was not going to cry over him!
* * *
Richard downed another cup of ale. The hall had long since cleared of women, except for the serving wenches, and the men diced and drank with abandon. Occasionally Richard joined in their games.
He was beginning to want things he had no right to, things he did not deserve. Was it too much to want a woman who accepted him for what he was, a woman who could see past all the tales to the man beneath?
Jesú, he didn’t even know who the man beneath the hardened exterior was anymore. How long since he had buried his self under an avalanche of honor and dedication to duty?
And God help him, he’d wanted Gwen to be the woman he could share his inner self with. But she wasn’t and he found that sorely disappointing.
He laughed. Hell, who was he kidding anyway? Men like him didn’t deserve happiness. Men like him only knew war and killing and blood. Endless, endless blood.
What woman would ever see beyond that? They flocked to him, because of his face and his position and his reputation, but none ever cared what, if anything, lay beneath their preconceptions.
“To lowest hell with all women,” he muttered.
A young knight raised his cup in agreement. “Aye, m’lord, women’s tricksome, they are. Always sayin’ one thing, an’ meanin’ another.” The boy’s head slipped to the table, cradling on his outstretched arm. He was snoring within seconds.
Richard sighed, saluting the lad with his cup. “Aye, tricksome.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Richard watched Andrew move across the room to intercept a pretty wench. The captain bent to whisper in her ear. The girl shook her head, covered her mouth and giggled.
After a little more coaxing on Andrew’s part, they disappeared into the pantry.
Richard scanned the room, looking for Maude, then dismissed the thought of lying with her as quickly as it had come.
He wasn’t capable of it, not any longer. From the first moment he’d glimpsed Gwen in Shrewsbury, he was unable to get aroused by anyone else, no matter how comely or skilled.
Richard tightened his grip on the goblet until the beaten metal started to crumple. He opened his fist and dropped the mangled cup on the table.
She was playing games with him, the Welsh bitch! All women did it—they learned it from the goddamn cradle!—but he had not expected it from her. Her response seemed so genuine this morning, but it was all a lie.
She was just like the rest. He’d seen the same trick hundreds of times. Hot one minute, cold the next, all in an effort to confuse and bewitch some poor unsuspecting male. He’d never fallen for it before and he was not about to fall for it now.
He swiped his arm across the table, knocking the cup to the floor. It hit with a dull thud, bounced, and rolled into the rushes. Several of the knights glanced up, then turned back to their dicing.
Richard bounded to his feet. Goddammit, if she wanted to play, he’d play! Why should he deny himself anyway? She would be all soft and womanly now, begging him to make love to her. The trick was always the same.
He took the stairs two at a time, then flung open the door with such force that it slammed against the wall.
Gwen jumped from the windowseat. Her hair tumbled to her waist in a glorious blaze of color, her eyes flashing with an unholy green light. The golden cloth of her gown shimmered and danced in the fireshine like an illusion born of faery magic.
Richard blinked. Winte
r howled in the mountains and valleys of the March, but he had captured autumn within the walls of his castle. She stood before him now, gazing at him with all the splendor and fury that was hers alone. His body hardened to the point of pain. He took a step toward her.
She held up her hand and he saw that it shook. “Don’t you come near me,” she said, her voice low and menacing.
Richard grinned. Good God, she was challenging him! It wasn’t what he had expected, but he was not in the mood to show any mercy. “You should realize I will always do whatever I wish,” he growled.
He moved slowly, deliberately, the hawk closing in on his prey. She backed away like a hunted animal.
She collided with the wall, then planted her feet defiantly. “Do not touch me.”
Their eyes locked and he reached for her. “Let me go!” she hissed, jerking her arm away.
Richard grabbed her again, his hand tightening around her like a vise as he pulled her to him. He cupped her breast with his free hand and smoothed his thumb across her nipple. The pouty flesh thrust upward at his touch and he smiled. “I want to feel you beneath me again, cath wyllt. And you want it too, don’t you?”
“No! Never again!” she cried, twisting in his grasp, clawing and fighting like the wildcat he named her. “Don’t you touch me! Don’t you dare touch me you filthy swine!”
He pinned her against the wall, one knee thrust between her legs, his engorged member pressing into her abdomen. His hands gathered silken fistfuls of hair. “You want me, Gwen. Admit it.”
“No!”
Gwen gasped as he lowered himself and rubbed his manhood against her sensitive flesh. She’d not counted on him assaulting her senses this way.
“Your body betrays you,” he said thickly.
“I hate you, Gwalchddu, truly hate you.”
His grip tightened almost painfully. Gwen knew an instant of fear before his mouth descended to crush hers beneath it.
She smacked her open palms against his chest. It was as useless as slapping solid rock. But his bruised shoulder, however…
She doubled her fist, hesitating an instant before slamming it into him. He didn’t stop, or cry out, or reel in pain, because the blow landed harmlessly on his chest. She couldn’t bring herself to hurt him.
“No!” she cried when his lips moved down her neck. “I’ll not have you after you’ve been with another woman!”
Richard stopped. Her eyes flashed green fire and he thought he had never seen a more desirable woman in his life. He could not help but tell her the truth. “I swear to you I’ve not been with anyone else.”
“You lie!” she screamed, pushing against him. “You’re a lying Englishman!”
“Is that what this is all about? Christ, I want no one but you!”
“I saw you stare at her! You were with her!”
“No! I’ve been with no one!”
“Liar!”
“By God, I’ll prove it to you then!”
He crushed his mouth to hers again. Despite everything Gwen promised herself, she felt her body responding. Why had she chosen to dwell on his attention to another woman, rather than his plan to kill her father?
It made no sense, but she couldn’t think of that right now. All she could think of was him. He tasted of ale and fury and desperation, and he touched her with an urgency that fired her soul.
I want no one but you.
It was a lie, but God what a sweet lie. All rational thought fled her. Her squeals of protest changed to moans of pleasure. Hands that beat against him now clutched his surcoat, lips that pressed together tightly now opened, muscles that stiffened now relaxed and melded to him.
“Yes, Gwen, give yourself to me,” he whispered against her lips. “I’ll lay the Heavens at your feet, I swear it. With my body I thee worship. I vowed it when I wed you. ’Tis a vow I intend to keep.”
He was a demon. Only a demon could say such things and make her want them so much she’d give her soul to have them. It was madness. He was madness.
“Richard…” she whispered as his mouth claimed hers. His hands slid down her body, gripped her buttocks and pulled her against the hard proof of his desire. Gwen quivered from the inside out.
Her fingers found the clasp of his mantle. The garment fell to the floor with a soft sigh.
Later… she would hate herself later.
She unbuckled his sword belt and let it fall. His hands came up to undo the fastenings of her clothes. Slowly at first, then with increasing urgency, they shed their clothes until their naked bodies pressed together, hard to soft.
Richard dropped to his knees. Gwen’s fingers entwined in his hair as his lips traveled over the sensitive flesh of her breasts and belly.
“You are perfect,” he murmured against her skin. “So soft, so sweet.” His fingers stroked her cleft, found her wet with need. “So full of desire.”
Gwen shuddered. Why had no one ever made her feel this way? Why did it take the one man she should hate most to show her how belonging could feel like?
Gwen’s fingers tightened in his hair. Oh God, what would this feel like if there was love between them? Her knees buckled with the intensity of her longing for something that could never be.
He swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed. He laid her on it, then stood above her. There was something else reflected in his face, something she could not name.
Vaguely, she thought of her nudity and that she should be blushing under his hot stare. But she wasn’t embarrassed. She felt beautiful, totally uninhibited, when he looked at her like that.
Rising to her knees, she came to the edge of the bed and pressed her palms against his flat stomach. He shuddered. Inspired, she closed her eyes and tasted his bronze skin the way he’d done to her. She was rewarded with a groan.
He joined her on the bed, pushing her back, his huge form hovering over her. He stared at her, not touching her, his fists pressed into the bedding on either side of her head.
“Kiss me,” she pleaded, her hands skimming up his belly, curling against his chest. He didn’t move. Her gaze trailed to his shoulder. How had she ever thought of hitting him there? With a little cry, she raised her head and touched her lips to the bruise, softly, gently.
“God, Gwen.”
She licked him and he shuddered. Her hands traveled up his sides, down his arms, while she tried to heal him with the gentle touch of her mouth. She lay back on the pillows.
“Love me, Richard,” she entreated.
“Jesú, I’ve never wanted a woman as much as I want you.” It sounded like a confession before the onslaught of a storm that left one wondering whether they would still be alive at the end.
Gwen pulled his head down. “Show me.”
The dam within him broke and he suddenly came alive. She melted as his mouth sought hers with fierce, demanding kisses. She ran her hands through his hair, over the planes of his face, touching, feeling.
Her lips were bruised and swollen when he finally gave them up to drag kisses down her neck and over her breasts. Her breath caught as his tongue made lazy circles around her nipple.
She writhed beneath him, aching, wanting him to fill her and be done with this madness. But he didn’t. Instead, he teased her nipples until she was certain the next touch would make her scream.
And then he was moving down, his hot mouth blazing a trail of delight over her flesh. When he pressed a kiss into the curls between her legs, Gwen thought she would explode from the anticipation.
She half sat up, reaching for him. Dear Lord, he wouldn’t really kiss her there would he? He slipped from her grasp as he moved down her thigh. A mixture of relief and disappointment washed over her. If he’d done that, she didn’t think she would survive it.
He pushed her legs apart and ran his tongue up the inside of her thigh. Gwen gasped his name.
He raised his head. His eyes were glazed, drugged with passion. “I love it when you say my name like that. It sounds like a wicked invitation. I promise I�
��m going to make you say it again and again.”
He threaded his hand through her curls and stroked her bud with his thumb. Gwen closed her eyes, moaning as sensation spiraled through her like molten steel.
When she thought she could take no more, he replaced his thumb with his tongue.
“Oh my God! Richard, you cannot—”
She sank back on the pillows, powerless to stop him. He stroked and licked and sucked, and all the while she was convinced she was dying the most exquisite of deaths.
Wanton and shameless, she rocked her hips against him, begging him for fulfillment in a throaty voice she barely recognized. The instant before she reached her peak, he thrust his searing tongue inside her.
“Richard!” she cried, clenching handfuls of bedding in her fists. Her stomach muscles spasmed with the violence of her climax, raising her off the pillows.
He loomed over her, then surged into her while she still convulsed. The walls of her sheath contracted, gloving him tightly.
“Oh my God,” he said, closing his eyes and going completely still. He bent to kiss her and she tasted herself on his lips. It was shocking and intimate and wonderful.
Slowly, he started to move. Gwen welcomed the ache his possession caused. The feeling was deeply sensual, knowing that the man who made love to her now was the source of both the pleasure and the pain.
She wrapped her legs around his waist and sank her teeth into his good shoulder, nipping him with every stroke of his body within hers.
“That’s it, cath wyllt. Let yourself go,” Richard whispered. He sucked her neck and earlobe, then raised himself on his palms to look down at her. It was a strain on his shoulder, but he didn’t care. He had a deep male need to see her response to his lovemaking, to watch as he possessed her body with his.
Her molten hair spread in a wild tangle over the pillows. Damp strands clung to the sides of her face and her glorious eyes were so dark and sensual that he was reminded of stormy Mediterranean seas.
He’d had women from one end of England to the other, from France to the Holy Land, and none had ever seemed so beautiful or roused his lust so completely as this one.
