by Natasha Wild
She unstoppered a bottle and dribbled golden oil across the surface. The scent of roses drifted to him on curls of steam.
“Jesú, now you seek to make me smell like a pampered whore!”
Her only answer was a saucy smile.
He tried to remain unaffected as her hands moved over him, but his lust only grew until he thought he would die of it. He sucked in his breath when her hand brushed over his hard shaft.
That was the end of all pretense of patience. She gasped when he stood, then ran when he followed, naked and dripping.
“Richard! You are wet!” she cried, scrambling onto the middle of the bed.
“Aye, and so shall you be,” he said, crawling after her on all fours. She huddled against the headboard, trying not to laugh. When he got too close, she kicked at him playfully. He caught her ankles and pulled her beneath him.
“You are a vicious, teasing wench,” he said, burying his lips against her throat.
“You are soaking me!”
“Certes, I hope so,” he whispered hotly. “It makes the whole business much more pleasant when things slide together.”
“You are insufferable.”
“Aye.”
“Incorrigible.”
“Aye.”
“Insatiable.”
“Aye.” His hand found the edge of her chemise. She grabbed at him when he tried to lift it away.
“Nay,” she said in a rush. “I am fat and you will not wish to look at me.”
“I want to see you,” he said firmly.
Her lip trembled as he pulled the garment up and off. “You are beautiful,” he whispered, dropping down to press fervent kisses to the mound of her belly. “Beautiful.”
He retrieved the rosebud from where he’d left it on his tunic, then returned to tickle her with it while his lips followed the trail he made.
When he slipped it between her legs and rubbed it over the swollen petals of her womanhood, Gwen’s breath caught on a moan of pure pleasure. Never had she experienced anything so erotic.
“Let us see which tastes sweeter,” he murmured, “you or the rose.”
Gwen cried out as his tongue slid within her folds. Her fingers clutched his dark head until he turned her and lifted her astride him.
“Oh, sweet merciful God,” he groaned, his eyes closing as they began to move together.
Much later, when they lay entwined in the sheets and each other, and the late-day sunshine streamed in the windows and cut a swath across the bed, Gwen pressed her lips to his throat and said, “I am so glad you are home.”
She felt him stiffen and she pulled back to gaze at him. “You are going to fight Dafydd,” she stated. She knew even before he answered.
He sighed. “Aye, Gwen.”
“When?”
He tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I must leave on the morrow.”
She forced a smile, but her heart fell in her breast. “It should not take long for you to beat him then. He cannot have half the men they say he does.”
“Gwen…” He drew in a deep breath. “Ah Christ, I wish I didn’t have to tell you this, but I would rather you hear it from me.”
“What?”
He raked a hand through his tousled hair. “Your father is a vassal of the king of England. When he swore his oath of fealty, he agreed to uphold the king’s writ, the king’s law, and to come to the field in defense of the king if necessary.”
“Yes, I know that, but—”
“Dafydd does indeed have a large army, Gwen. I know not how, but he has the support of several of your father’s chieftains. Edward has demanded your father obey his oath and come to the field for England—”
“Nay! ’Twill be Welsh against Welsh! He will not do it!”
“Yes, well, he is trying to remain neutral, but he cannot for much longer. Everywhere, the Welsh rise in sympathy. They’ve torched the king’s castles, stormed towns and killed English citizens. ’Tis war, Gwen. ’Tis not merely a rebellion, ’tis war.”
Gwen pressed her palms to her eyes, willing herself not to cry.
War.
Goddamn Dafydd to hell! She knew her father, knew his pride. He would not fight for England. He would hold out if he could, but if forced he would come to war on the side of Wales. That was the one thing the bloody English never could understand. Welshmen were fiercely loyal and fiercely patriotic. And so were Welshwomen.
“And if he does not obey?”
“Then ’tis war against him as well.”
She dropped her hands to her lap. “You would fight my father?”
“Yes, cariad, I would fight your father,” he said softly. “’Tis my duty.”
He didn’t stop her when she left the bed and shrugged into her robe. She settled into the windowseat and stared at the green valley dotted with sheep.
Richard and her father. They would meet on the field of battle. She knew it with a certainty.
She heard Richard get out of bed and walk to the table to pour wine. She glanced at him, and found she couldn’t look away. He stood in a beam of sunshine, fully naked, his bronze form so hard and magnificent that her breath caught. He was a beautiful, beautiful man.
She pictured him in a cave of glittering lights with the sweet perfume of roses all around. And then a man with golden hair said, “Choose.”
“Gwen?”
She jerked. “Aye?” she said, her heart thudding.
He came to her and sank on one knee. “I know ’tis hard for you. I would spare you if I could, but you have a right to know,” he said, stroking her cheek.
“Yes, thank you for telling me, Richard.”
“We only have tonight. I do not wish it spoiled by any more talk of war.”
She threaded her fingers through his and kissed his palm. “Nay, no more talk of war.”
They didn’t emerge from their chamber at all that night. Alys brought the evening meal up, and they fed each other bits of meat and fruit, then made love by moonlight in the windowseat.
When it was over, Richard carried her to bed and she fell asleep in his arms, not even caring that the only light was provided by the moon. As long as Richard held her close, she was safe from the darkness.
She was awakened by the sounds of chinking metal when the sky was just beginning to pinken. She sat up and saw Richard slipping into his hauberk.
“You were not going to leave without saying goodbye, were you?”
Richard spun around. Jesú, he’d hoped to spare her the pain of departure. He’d intended to be long gone before she awakened. “We said goodbye last night, cariad. Or have you forgotten?” he teased, suddenly wishing he could love her one more time.
On her knees, she came to the end of the bed, clutching the coverlet in front of her. “Nay, ’twas not enough. Kiss me again, Richard. Make it last.”
Richard gave in to the temptation, though he told himself he should not. He pulled her soft body against him. She moaned when his tongue met hers. He kissed her, and kissed her, and kissed her, until she was breathless and clinging to him.
Then he stepped back enough to let the coverlet fall and reveal her naked body.
He kissed the valley between her breasts, then the soft swell of their child. Her fingers threaded in his hair.
“I know not how long I will be gone, Gwen.” He captured her lips once again. “But I promise you I will return when ’tis time for the babe.”
“I love you, Richard. God keep you safe,” she whispered.
He tore himself away. Before he lost his will to leave, he forced his feet to keep moving until he was out of the room and down the stairs.
Owain stopped him as he was crossing the hall. “Be careful, boy.”
Richard clasped the older man’s shoulder. “Take care of her for me.”
“I will indeed, milord.”
Fifty knights and men-at-arms waited in the bailey. Destriers pawed the ground, eager to be off. Richard swung onto Sirocco and surveyed the castle. A garrison stay
ed behind to defend it if the Welsh attacked. Though Claiborne was designed to be impregnable, he prayed they would not have to find out.
He turned to find Andrew staring at him. “What?” he grumbled, though he had a good idea.
Andrew smiled. “Why I was just thinking how pretty ye smell, milord. Certes, the enemy will appreciate how clean ye are.”
“Perhaps I should leave you behind, Sir Andrew.”
Andrew laughed. “And disappoint my new squire?”
Richard sighed. Tristan of Ashford looked every bit of his nine years as he eagerly awaited the advent of the journey. “Mayhap that is all the more reason.”
“The boy will be fine, milord. You were riding the patrols at his age.”
Richard nodded in resignation. Yes, he’d ridden the patrols at the age of seven. Seen his first battle when he was eight. Killed a man when he was ten.
He’d been killing ever since.
As they started forward, Richard turned around in the saddle. He couldn’t shake a sense of loss, and he knew it must be because he’d only just returned and had to leave her again so soon.
He sought the master chamber. She stood there, watching. Their eyes met across the distance and she blew him a kiss. He touched his hand to his lips before turning and riding out the gates of Claiborne.
Her scent would haunt him all the way to Rhuddlan and beyond.
36
Gwen meandered through the castle gardens. Roses and violets perfumed the air while bees and butterflies flitted between them.
She stroked her middle lovingly. The action made Richard seem not so far away. Part of him was here, inside her, and she cherished it.
Though he’d been gone over a fortnight, the memory of their last evening together was as real as if it had happened only yesterday. She caught a rose in her hand and bent to bury her nose in its scent. Her cheeks heated. Lord, she would never look at a rose the same again!
“Milady!”
“Over here, Owain,” she called. Her heart skipped a beat at the look on his face. She straightened and took a halting step forward. “What is it? ’Tis not Richard? He is not—?”
“Nay!” Owain hurried to her side and wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders. “Nay, milady! Jesú, I am sorry for frightening you.”
She clutched his arm, weak with relief. “’Tis all right, Owain. Mayhap I worry too much.”
He led her to a bench and helped her sit. “Richard would have my hide for scaring you.”
“Nay, I am well.” She flashed him a bright smile to prove it. She truly was well as long as Richard was alive somewhere. “What is it you wanted of me?”
His face hardened. He spat at his feet. “That whore, Anne Ashford, begs admittance. Says she fears for her household’s safety with the Welsh ravaging the countryside. She desires our protection.”
Gwen laughed. “Oh Owain, you are a treasure! Let the woman in. She is one of Richard’s tenants, after all. Probably ’tis safer inside Claiborne.”
Owain gaped. “But-but, she is a-a…”
“You may say it, Owain. She was Richard’s mistress.” Gwen shrugged. “It no longer matters to me.”
He swallowed, his eyes wide. “As you say, milady. I will tell the guards to let them in.”
Gwen watched him go. It truly didn’t matter that Anne was once Richard’s lover. Anne may have known the pleasure of his body, for which Gwen seriously disliked her, but she could have never known the depth of feeling Gwen experienced with him.
As much as Gwen would have liked to have been his first and only lover, she would settle for being his first and only love.
It didn’t take Anne long to seek her out, as Gwen knew it would not. She waited patiently on the bench, arranging the folds of her gown. She was still small enough that she could hide her pregnancy when seated.
“Lady de Claiborne, how lovely to see you again,” Anne said, sashaying toward her. “’Tis most kind of you to allow my household refuge.”
“’Tis the duty of the Countess of Dunsmore to see to her husband’s tenants’ welfare in his absence. You are well come to Claiborne castle, Lady Ashford.”
Anne smiled lamely, her gaze flickering over Gwen’s body. “Oh ’tis such a pity! I would have surely thought you would be pregnant by now. But perhaps you are your father’s daughter in more ways than one. Mayhap Richard will not mind too much. He can always get a bastard on one of his mistresses, I suppose. You will learn to live with it.”
Gwen rose slowly. “I do not think that will be necessary, Lady Ashford.”
Anne’s eyes widened briefly as the fabric settled over Gwen’s belly, then hardened to icy blue specks. “I see I was mistaken. You must be delighted,” she said smoothly.
Gwen smiled. “Aye, we both are.”
She brushed past Anne and headed for the castle. She waited until she was almost to the door before her laughter rang through the garden.
* * *
The days of spring were quickly turning to summer. Gwen tried to keep busy so she wouldn’t worry about Richard too much. She was in the hall, overseeing the task of replacing the rushes, when Sir Edgar approached. A man dressed in peasant’s rags trailed behind him, stooping, his limp so pronounced it was almost too painful to watch.
“Milady, this man begs an audience. I would have turned him away, but he claims he has news of Lord de Claiborne and will give it to no one but you.” The knight shot the man a scathing glance, his look clearly begging Gwen to allow him to toss the peasant out.
Gwen stared at the stranger, her heart quickening. “You have news of my husband?”
The man raised his head and winked.
She stifled a gasp. “Thank you, Sir Edgar, I will hear what this man has to say. You have done well in bringing him to me.”
Edgar bowed. “Aye, milady,” he mumbled, his gaze raking over the peasant doubtfully.
The man limped into the solar behind her and shut the door. He straightened and threw back his hood. “Hello, Lady de Claiborne,” he said, grinning.
“Rhys ap Gawain, are you mad?”
Rhys’s eyes traveled the length of her body, pausing over her middle, before returning to her face. “Jesú, Gwen, you look lovely.”
“What are you doing here? You do not really have news of Richard, do you?”
His expression fell a little. “Nay, I do not. Are you truly so eager to hear of him?”
“What do you want, Rhys?” Gwen asked, her hand settling over her stomach protectively.
Rhys sighed. “You are mad at me and I do not blame you. I am sorry for the things I said before. It was not your fault you had to marry him.”
Gwen shook her head. “But, Rhys, I still lo—”
“Nay,” he said, coming to her and putting his fingers over her lips. “Do not say it. I cannot bear to hear it.”
Gwen dropped her eyes to his chest. He pulled her against him suddenly and rested his cheek on top of her head.
She stiffened and started to push away. But his embrace was nothing more than friendly, nothing more than the simple affection that still existed between childhood companions. She relaxed and let him hold her, slipping her arms loosely around his waist.
“I have come to tell you your father is going to war.”
She didn’t have to ask which side of the war. “I dreamed it,” she whispered. “Last night, I dreamed it.”
“What did you see?”
“I saw…” She swallowed. “I saw his face. His eyes were closed and he wore a crown of ivy. But then I realized it was only his head—on a pike, Rhys!—and it was displayed over the Tower of London’s walls. People came to stare and to laugh. They pointed and said, there is Llywelyn, ruler of all of Britain.”
“St. Dafydd’s bones,” he breathed.
“Don’t you see, Rhys? He must not fight! You must tell him not to fight!”
Rhys let her go and sank heavily into a chair. “’Tis too late. The chieftains gather at Dolwyddelan. I just returned from the n
orth, where Dafydd is fighting. Soon, we will strike in the south. ’Tis too late to turn back.”
“Nay!” Gwen cried. “I am going with you! I will tell him. He will listen to me!”
Rhys shot to his feet. “You are pregnant!”
“I must warn him, Rhys. You cannot deny me that,” Gwen said, glaring at him. If she didn’t try her best to dissuade her father, then she truly was a traitor. Deep down, she did not expect he would really listen. But there were things as yet unsaid between them, truths she needed to know. If he went to war and something happened to him, she might never know.
Richard would understand. She would return soon and when he came home for the babe, she would tell him what she had done. He would understand it was something she’d had to do.
Rhys scowled.
“Please, Rhys,” she said. “’Tis important to me.”
He heaved a sigh. “Very well, I will take you with me, though I do not like it a bit.”
* * *
It wasn’t hard getting out of the castle, though it should have been. Despite Richard’s orders to the contrary, Gwen still ventured from the protective walls on occasion.
This day, she left Alys behind and took her escort for a ride in the open. She wandered aimlessly through the meadows until the knights relaxed their guard.
“Sir Edgar?”
“Aye, milady?”
“I find I must relieve myself,” she said, blushing enough to make it believable. “Would you and the men wait here while I slip into the woods for a moment?”
His eyes darted over the valley. “Mayhap we should return to the castle, milady.”
“Oh nay, I cannot wait that long! ’Twill only take a moment.” She flashed him a smile.
He cleared his throat. “As you wish, milady.”
Once beneath the protective cover of the forest, she urged Saffron into a trot. A pang of guilt stabbed through her, but she ignored it. She’d left a note where Alys could find it.
When she reached Rhys and his men, they were mounted and waiting. Twenty men garbed in traditional Welsh scarlet-wool, with bare legs and leather jerkins, carrying spears and longbows. It was a vastly different picture than chainmail and shields and steam-blowing chargers.
