The Dark Knight's Captive Bride

by Natasha Wild

  * * *

  “Milord?”

  Richard jerked his gaze to Sir John Frost, his estates steward. John was going over the manor accounts with him, telling him how much revenue he had collected, how much was still due, which estates had produced which goods for their lord.

  Richard knew John was fleecing him to line his own pockets. All estates stewards did it. The trick was in finding one who wasn’t too greedy. Richard figured he’d done just that. As far as he could tell, the amount was fairly insubstantial, and the man was efficient if nothing else.

  Richard set his wine cup on the table. “I’m sorry, John. My mind is elsewhere.”

  John smiled. “’Tis understandable, milord. What with being newly wed and all.”

  “Aye,” Richard said. It did seem as if being newly wed was muddling his brain. He’d thought of nothing but Gwen all morning, barely paying attention to John’s recital. No, he was not himself, not at all. He forced her image from his mind. “You were saying, Sir John?”

  “I have put together a tentative expense list for the Christmas festivities, my lord.”

  “You must take that up with Owain. I will not be in residence at Christmas.”

  “You are going to London?”

  “Aye.” Richard stood, ending the audience. “Owain will find you suitable quarters.”

  John got to his feet and bowed. “Aye, milord. Thank you, milord.”

  Richard made his way across the hall, gripping his sword unconsciously. Why couldn’t he keep his mind on business? All he could think of was Gwen. He would have even sworn he could feel her presence, as if she were a vital part of him.

  He wanted to drop everything and go to her right now. He wanted to make love to her, of course, but he also wanted to talk to her, hear her laugh, learn more about her.

  He stopped. Jesú, there were a million things he didn’t even know about her! Did she have a favorite food or a color she preferred over all others? Did she like a particular jewel? Hell, did she even like jewels?

  Richard gripped the sword hilt tighter. Since when had he ever cared about such things? Wives were for keeping households and getting heirs. He made sure she had plenty of money in her own purse. If there was something she wanted, she could buy it. She did not have to go without.

  A niggling voice told him how pleasurable it would be to give her gifts, how beautiful her face would look when she bestowed her smile upon him, how grateful her body would be when he finally loosened her gown and made love to her.

  Richard shook his head. He was a warrior, not a courtier for God’s sake! He didn’t have time to chase around the countryside looking for pretty baubles just to put a smile on his wife’s face.

  There was one place in this castle that would bring him to his senses.

  The chapel was at the far end of the fortress. It was a cool place, not too large, and set with stained glass windows that cast rainbow light onto the stone floor. Richard didn’t come here often, despite Father Stephen’s reproving lectures on his immortal soul. Richard rather figured his immortal soul was lost anyway. He’d done way too much killing in his life to ever be forgiven.

  But the chapel was not his destination. His destination lay beyond the sanctuary of God. He stepped into the crypt and let the cold air envelop him. There was a small window high overhead that sent a shaft of light into the stillness.

  Six sarcophagi greeted him in stony silence. There was his grandfather, Henry de Claiborne, the first Earl of Dunsmore. Awarded the earldom by King Richard the Lionheart for bravery in the Holy Land.

  Richard had always thought it ironic that his own position also came from service to a Plantagenet in a faraway land.

  His grandmother, Isobel, lay beside the first earl. They had both been dead when Richard was born. His father had spoken often of Henry’s gallantry and Isobel’s beauty.

  Richard touched an ornate sarcophagus. His father, William. Another only son. Perhaps a better one, too.

  He turned, traced the raised stonework of Catrin de Claiborne’s resting place. Died too soon.

  Richard thought the same thing he’d always thought: Would that I had known you better, Mother.

  But that was not why he was here. Taking a deep breath, he turned. The last two tombs were the ones he was most responsible for. Elizabeth, and beside her, a tinier version.

  His son, Matthew. She’d named him, their dead son, before she’d slipped into the sleep that was not a sleep.

  She’d named the boy, and Richard had not been there for either one of them.

  He sank to his knees beside her and pressed his forehead to the cold stone. Dear God, he had no tears to give. He’d never had any, not for either one of them. And he should have, goddammit!

  He smoothed his hands over the lifeless marble. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth.”

  He always said it. Always, and she never answered, never gave a sign. The only sound was the hollow echo of his own voice.

  He tried to picture Elizabeth, to see again her doe-eyed gaze as she’d stared at him with utter devotion. But he couldn’t see her. All he could see was a woman with autumn hair and mysterious eyes, a woman who made him feel more in the little time she’d been his wife than he’d ever felt for Elizabeth.

  Guilt stabbed through him, twisting dagger-like tentacles until he wanted to cry out from the strain of bearing it. He squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the cold stone. “You deserved more, Elizabeth. More than I ever gave you.”

  Richard shoved himself to his feet and exited the crypt. He was halfway to the lists when he realized he’d never even thought of his father or of Llywelyn.

  23

  “Milady, there are men riding into the bailey.”

  Anne looked up from the game of chess she was playing with her son. “What sort of men, Gena?” she snapped.

  Witless woman! Men. What kind of a description was that? How was a lady to know whether she should run and hide or play the gracious hostess?

  Gena swallowed, and wrung her hands. “Knights, I think, milady.”

  Tristan shot to his feet. “Knights, Mama! Mayhap Lord de Claiborne has sent for me at last.”

  Anne’s hand fluttered to her throat. Richard? Had he returned to her?

  Gena shook her head. “Nay, ’tis not Dunsmore. The heraldry is wrong.”

  Tristan’s face fell. His blue eyes, so much like his mother’s, showed his disappointment. At nine years old, he should have gone to Claiborne castle to begin his training. He would train as a squire, then he would become a knight, then he would return to rule Ashford Hall.

  Anne refused to let her own disappointment show. It angered her she could still be vulnerable to Richard after all this time.

  A servant rushed into the solar and bowed. “A man to see you, milady. He wouldn’t give his name, but said to tell you he is a prince.”

  Anne’s heart quickened. “Show him in.”

  The man bowed again. Gena followed him out. Tristan turned to his mother, his brows drawn together in a look that was not meant to grace a boy’s face.

  Anne squeezed his hand. She had never wanted to be a mother. She’d not enjoyed her son very much when he was smaller, but now that he was growing up and resembling her more and more, she felt a certain fondness for him. “’Tis all right, Tristan. ’Tis only a friend. I will introduce you to him, and then I wish you to find your tutor and see about your lessons.”

  Tristan returned her smile. “Aye, Mama.”

  The door to the solar opened. The servant who had announced the visitor held it until the man entered, then closed it behind him.

  “My lord,” Anne said. “Be well come to Ashford Hall. May I present my son, Tristan?”

  Tristan stepped forward. “Be well come to Ashford Hall, my lord.”

  “You may call me Dafydd,” he replied, clasping the offered hand. His gaze locked with Anne’s and she felt a tremor pass through her.

  “Run along now,” she said to her son.

  “Aye, Mama.”r />
  When Tristan was gone, Anne sank into a chair. “What can I do for you, my lord?” she asked coolly.

  Dafydd ap Gruffydd sprawled in the chair Tristan had occupied. “My men and I would like lodging for a night. Or mayhap two…”

  One corner of his mouth lifted in an insolent grin. Anne let her gaze sweep over him slowly, measuring his abilities.

  When she met his stare, he showed no hint of irritation, only amusement. She crossed her arms over her breasts. “Why should I even consider it? I’ve had the favor of powerful earls, and even the king himself. What could I possibly have to gain by allowing you… lodging?”

  Dafydd shot out of his chair and pulled her to her feet. His mouth crushed down on hers. Anne couldn’t stop her response. She melded to him, returned his kiss with a hunger that had not been eased by the attractive young knight she’d recently taken to her bed.

  Dear God—finally—a man. A man who knew how to please a woman. Her arms slipped around him, her breasts flattening against his chest, her woman’s center unerringly finding the hard evidence of his desire for her.

  His grip tightened as she rubbed against him. Even through the layers of cloth separating them, his fingers managed to tease her nipple into aching arousal.

  Her hand slipped between them to close over his hardened manhood. She expected him to groan, to lose control, to undress her and slide deeply into her body. Most men did.

  It was men like Richard, like King Edward, who resisted and tormented and teased until she was a quivering mass of desire.

  And men like Dafydd ap Gruffydd. Anne shuddered.

  Dafydd lifted his head. “We have a common enemy, you and I. We both wish to see Richard de Claiborne brought to his knees. I propose we work together to achieve it.”

  Anne disengaged herself from his arms. Revenge on Richard. It sounded so sweet. And was there nothing she would not do to achieve it?

  “What do you have against Richard?” she asked, partly to prolong the anticipation of lovemaking, partly to learn if his reasons were good enough to ensure dedication.

  Dafydd’s eyes hardened. “Let us just say he owes me a crown. If not for him, I would be sitting in my brother’s place.”

  Anne crossed to the door and slid the bar home. Her hands strayed to the laces of her gown, loosening them with great deliberation. “Very well, Dafydd ap Gruffydd, but you’d better make it worth my while.”

  His eyes softened, swept lazily from her feet to her head, leaving her with no doubt as to the thoroughness with which he would also peruse her naked body. “You can count on that, my dearest Anne.”

  * * *

  Richard shrugged his sore shoulder as he walked into the hall. Andrew was beside him, still laughing about the young knight who’d gotten knocked off his horse during jousting practice.

  “He’ll learn, Andrew. I’ll wager you and I both fell off our horses a time or two when we were still learning.”

  “Aye, yer right about that,” Andrew admitted.

  It was almost dinner and the hall was crowded. Richard scanned the knots of people, frowning when he didn’t see Gwen. Owain stood behind the dais, intent on a conversation he was having with a woman Richard couldn’t see. When Richard approached, the two stepped apart.

  “Milord,” Owain said, rubbing his forehead absently.

  Richard turned to Alys. “Where’s Gwen?”

  Alys’s face seemed redder than usual. Her eyes widened and she clutched her gown. “I thought she was with you, milord.”

  Richard bit down on the shred of unease curling around his heart, reminding himself not to lose his temper with Gwen’s maid. “When did you last see her?”

  Alys stole a guilty look at Owain. “Two, maybe three hours ago.”

  Richard forgot his patience. “Christ, woman! Are you always in the habit of leaving her alone?”

  Alys paled. Owain started to speak, but she cut him off. “Nay, Owain! He is right. I-I shouldn’t have left her. I’ll find her now, milord.”

  Richard raked a hand through his hair. “My apologies, Alys. Gwen is a grown woman. You shouldn’t have to watch her.”

  In a move he’d not have tolerated from anyone else, Alys took his hand and patted it like she would a boy’s. It was a strangely endearing quality she had, trying to mother him years too late. “I’ll find her for you, milord.”

  Richard’s voice was soft when he spoke. “Nay, Alys. She’s probably still upstairs. I’ll get her.”

  Richard took the stairs to the master chamber two at a time. He swung the door open and entered. The room was quiet. “Gwen?”

  He checked the bed, then went to the small adjoining solar. Next, he checked the family solar. When he made his way back down to the hall, his heart was beginning to hammer.

  Alys and Owain hurried forward, both of them frowning.

  “She’s not upstairs,” Richard said. “Do you have any idea where she could have gone, Alys?”

  Alys’s fingers dug into her gown. “Nay, I—”

  Richard spun around and motioned for Andrew. “Gather some men and start searching the outbuildings and bailey for any sign of my wife.”

  “Aye, milord,” Andrew said.

  Richard considered having him question the guards at the gate, but found he couldn’t even think of what that would imply. She couldn’t leave him, could she? A tingle of apprehension slid down his spine.

  “Owain, start searching the keep.” Owain nodded and moved off to issue orders. “Is there anywhere else you can think of, Alys?”

  “Nay, I… yes! The walls, milord. At her father’s stronghold, she went up there sometimes.”

  “You stay here in case she shows up.” Alys sank onto a bench, her face pale and drawn. Richard squeezed her shoulder. “I’ll find her, Alys, and when I do, you may have to stop me from paddling her backside.”

  “Nay, milord, I’ll help you,” the old woman vowed.

  * * *

  Gwen huddled against the stone battlements and stared at the valley. She’d come up to the walls to think, and stupidly lost track of time. The sun had not been out in days, so all she saw was a dulling of the lead tinted horizon. When she’d turned to leave, she’d realized the white glare of the snow had thrown off her perception of time. Night had fallen.

  Shadows, blacker than the night itself, yawned across the battlements, but if she kept her eyes on the snow, it didn’t seem as dark. It was childish to be afraid, but she was.

  How was she going to get down? There were no torches lit in the stairwell. The logical thing was to feel her way along the passage, but she was too scared to do it.

  She’d yelled into the bailey for help, but she was too high up and the wind carried her words away before they could fall.

  Her eyes stung with tears and she wiped at them impatiently. Some Welshwoman she was! If her father could see her now, he’d probably disown her. She was the daughter of a great man and she was weak, spineless, simpering.

  ’Twas no wonder she was such a disappointment to him.

  Dear God, what would Richard think? She laughed then, a frightened, hopeless sound. The mighty Black Hawk wouldn’t want a woman such as she to be the mother of his sons. He was strong and brave, all the things she was not.

  The joke would be on him when she gave him his heir.

  She leapt to her feet as the door to the stairwell banged open. A torch burned in the wall sconce, silhouetting a man’s shape against the opening.

  “Richard!” she cried, throwing herself in his arms, burying her face against the broad expanse of his chest. She was shivering—from cold, from fear, from relief.

  His arms tightened around her, then he thrust her away. “What the hell are you doing up here? I’ve got Andrew and Owain tearing up the place looking for you!”

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, threading her arms around his waist and pulling herself close once more. “I’m cold. Can we go inside now?”

  He drew her into the stairwell and unclasped his mantle.
“Why didn’t you come down if you were cold?” he said, wrapping it around her.

  Gwen sniffled and kept her face downcast. “I-I couldn’t.”

  He didn’t say anything for a long moment and she sensed he was studying her. She dreaded his next question, knowing what it had to be, and wondering what answer she could give.

  “Come, I’ll get Alys to prepare a hot bath,” he said, taking her hand.

  When they reached their chamber, Gwen folded herself into a window seat, vaguely hearing his rapid orders to a waiting page.

  She huddled into his cloak. It smelled of him, and she found that comforting. Closing her eyes, she buried her nose in the fabric.

  Her knight had rescued her from the shadows.

  She turned away when he came to her. Sitting beside her, he took her chin in his fingers and turned her face to his.

  “You’ve been crying,” he said. “Why?”

  “’Tis nothing,” Gwen replied, dropping her eyes.

  “It must be something.”

  “Nay.”

  Richard stood. He looked down at her for a moment, then unbuckled his sword and set it aside. Christ, he had no idea how women thought! What was he supposed to do? He was surprised to realize he was even thinking about it. In the past, he just walked out when a woman behaved irrationally.

  But why had she been crying? It ate at him until he was suddenly struck with a horrifying thought. “Was it something I did?” he asked just a little too sharply.

  Her eyes widened. “N-nay.”

  Richard wanted to pursue it, but Alys hurried in with the first of the servants bearing steaming water.

  He sat back while she chastised Gwen. He’d never seen the maid behave with anything but deference for her lady, but right now she looked like an angry mother. Gwen bore it all with quiet, almost embarrassed grace, nodding now and again.

  Richard studied his wife. It bothered him she was upset, and it bothered him even more that she wouldn’t share it with him.

  He knew he should have spent time with her today. Why had he denied himself the pleasure of her company?

  The pleasure of her company? Since when had he ever considered a woman’s company to be a pleasure unless it was in bed?