by Shayla Black
Her breathless query and hopeful eyes tugged at something in his chest.
He shrugged in answer. “She does not…intrigue me. She is without passion. I never had to guess what Rowena would do next.”
“Even when she married your father?”
“Especially then. When she moved out of my chamber, I knew it would not be long before she moved into his. She knew I regretted asking her to wife.”
Gwenyth frowned. “Then why did you ask her?”
His laugh was without mirth. “For much the same reason my father did. The great hall at one time could easily have passed for our pigs’ pen. A houseful of warring men can hardly be bothered with cleanliness. At the time, Stephen was merely ten and six.” Aric laughed again at the irony of his thoughts. “I thought he needed something of a mother.”
Grimacing, Gwenyth stepped away. “So why is she your chatelaine now?’
Aric crossed his arms over his chest, barely conscious of the cool air on his naked skin. Gwenyth’s tears had been real, and his belief she had manipulated him with her body had kept him from treating her with the honor due any wife. Regret hammered him.
“Because I was a fool, Gwenyth. In the morning, I will see you receive the keys and instruct the servants that they will take direction from you.”
Elation brightened Gwenyth’s eyes. “Truly?”
The unease once knotted in his stomach unraveled when he saw the pure joy on Gwenyth’s face. Aric took her hand in his and brought it to his mouth for a kiss.
Gwenyth smiled at him through her tears. “For eight years, I have waited to be a lady again.” She sniffled, then continued, “Uncle Bardrick and Aunt Welsa treated me like a servant, though I had been born a baron’s daughter. And they always said they treated me as well as I deserved. I began to fear they were right.”
Her tears fell in earnest. Their power, coupled with that of her words, hit Aric in the chest with the force of a battering ram. She would believe such drivel? Why had he failed to understand her needs sooner?
“Nay. Never—”
“If you hear a thing often enough, ’tis all too easy to believe,” she explained with a grimace. “But then we wed. Aye, I was angry, at first. But soon I did not feel such deep loss for my family anymore. And now you have accepted me as your wife and chatelaine.” She drew in a shaky breath. “I am truly, truly happy! ’Twas nothing but foolishness to doubt that marrying you was best for me.”
And he had doubted her motives, all but accused her of greed. Fighting off an urge to chasten himself, Aric wiped the tears from her heated cheeks. He felt a warmth within that had little to do with the temperature, a sentiment he could not explain. Fondness, affection even. Desire, certainly. He drew her into his embrace.
“So you like me better than Sir Penley?”
Gwenyth laughed, a trickle of a sound like a shallow brook on soft earth. “He is comely enough, but if he does not know how to use his sword as you do, what good is he?”
At her sly grin, he laughed. Then she stepped fully against his naked length, still damp from his aborted bath. Smiling, she looped her arms around his neck and drew his mouth down to hers.
Aric accepted her kiss with greed, possessing her mouth completely in one sweep. He had never wanted a woman this way, with more than his body. Something tender within urged him to be near her—always. Since he rarely ignored instinct, Aric pulled her even closer.
“I could demonstrate again my prowess with a sword,” he offered between heavy breaths.
Her own breathing was no less labored. “Aye. I may have forgotten.”
“Never do that,” he growled, then captured her mouth again, sinking into the flavor of her, the feel of her, so more vibrant than any woman in his memory.
In response, she moaned, her lips pliant against his, her tongue driving him quickly insane with a sensuous slide. That chemise had to come off. Now.
With a yank, Aric tried to pull the garment down her body. It resisted, hanging on one milky slope of her shoulder. With a good jerk and a tear, her arm was free, and the silk slid quickly down her body to the wooden floor. Against him, she shivered and kissed him with greater urgency.
Needing to touch her, Aric slid his fingers down her spine, grazed the curve of her buttocks, then drew her against him with force. She wrapped her legs around him in response.
“Touch me,” she demanded against his damp mouth.
Aric never thought of refusing. He peeked across the room.
The bed was too far away.
Beside the trestle table, he remembered a chair. That would do—for now.
Inching back until he felt the seat against his knees, he eased into the chair. Gwenyth gasped as his staff made intimate contact with her.
She sent him an uncertain glance. “I know not—”
“Shhh.” He brushed a dark lock of hair from her ivory cheek “I know. Your body knows. ’Twill be good.”
Gwenyth nodded, her eyes expectant. Aric vowed not to disappoint her.
Supporting the small of her back with his hands, he urged her to arch. She did, beautifully. He eyed the pale curve of her throat, her delicate shoulders—and her breasts, so tempting beneath his mouth. Had this been any wench, he would have used the moment to suckle her breasts while ignoring the rest. But for some reason he could not place, Aric wanted more. He wanted all.
He kissed her neck, his teeth grazing her sensitive earlobe. She moaned an encouragement and gripped his arms with tense fingers. As he breathed his way down her shoulders, placing tiny kisses on her arms, he thumbed her nipples, so pink and taut. But when she edged closer, seeming to place her breast within a breath of his lips, he succumbed.
She tasted light and sweet and of woman. She tasted as he remembered, yet something was different. That he could not deny. It made her all the sweeter as he swirled his tongue around her stiff bud, feeling it taut between his lips. She wriggled on his lap in invitation.
The feel of her against him, slick and open, nearly undid him. Not wanting to waste another second, he lifted her hips until he felt himself poised at her entrance. He captured her lips with his own at the moment he surged inside her. She sighed into his mouth.
With a steady, sure pace, Aric filled her again and again. Sweat dampened his forehead, and he closed his eyes in bliss at this blessed union.
By the saints, how he had missed her. She felt like a hearth to him, warm, snug, familiar, welcome. Aric wanted nothing more than to burn within her, then rise from the ashes into the comfort of her warmth.
Then she gasped and clung to his neck. Gwenyth cried out, her body throbbing around him. Aric drowned in her honeyed satisfaction, then quickly found his own in a bright burst of light and hope and wonder.
Minutes passed before either moved more than the bit required to breathe. Gwenyth’s soft length curled around him, her cheek resting on the top of his head. Aric nestled her closer, spreading absent kisses on her velvet shoulders.
Suddenly, he felt her shoulders shake and heard a stifled sob. Alarm drilled through him.
“What ails you, wife?”
No answer.
He set her back until he could see into her flushed, damp face. “Gwenyth, did I hurt you?”
She shook her head and drew in a deep breath. “You have made me happy, more than I would have believed. In every way. Not even Nellwyn could be happier.”
She sank her fingers into his hair, brushing it away from his face. And she stared into his eyes, truly looked at him in a way he doubted any woman ever had.
“I am glad.” His voice broke as he tried to decipher that look in her eyes.
“I love you,” she whispered.
Aric stopped breathing.
Three words. Gwenyth needed no more than three words to stagger him completely.
In that moment, joy soared in his gut. His hands tightened on her waist, as if ensuring she would stay every day and prove those three words.
But what did she expect in return?
<
br /> Worse, what if she learned what had driven him to the forest where they had met?
His joy became fear. How could he make her happy in the days to come?
“Gwenyth—”
“Say nothing now,” she broke in, her face clouded with something he disliked. Regret? Uncertainty? “What I feel for you can be nothing else, and I merely wanted…you to know.”
She tried to leave his lap. He held her tightly against him, keeping himself intimately entwined.
“You are like no other,” he said, staring up into those hopeful blue eyes. Something tightened in his belly. “I am glad to have you as my wife. But…” He shook his head, looking for the words he needed. “Love comes when you know each other completely.”
“I know your heart!”
Aric wished it were that simple, wished he had not spent most of his life warring and killing. Wished there were not a dead ten-year-old prince whom he’d helped to see slaughtered.
“Nay.”
She had not seen the greed and ambition that had beat in his chest for nearly fourteen years since his uncle Warwick’s death and the crown’s seizure of Warwick Castle, a Neville holding for generations. She knew not how badly he wanted the family honor restored, that for a time he would have done—and had done—anything to have it all back.
“You are a good, kind man,” she protested.
He tried not to laugh at the bitter irony. “If I told you of my past, you would shrink from me in horror, Gwenyth.”
“Aric, all men make war on the battlefield—”
“The battle cannot be helped. ’Tis a matter of survival. The rest…I have no excuse.”
“I am certain you speak false. Tell me what happened.”
Shaking his head, Aric refused. Aye, he wanted to unburden his soul. But at what cost? The information he held could be twisted into treason in the blink of an eye if the wrong ears heard it fall from Gwenyth’s mouth. He must protect her from the knowledge, from himself.
“I can tell no one. Not Drake or Kieran. Not the Earl of Rothgate. Not my brother. Not you.”
He lifted her from his lap and set her aside. After rising to his feet, he dressed quickly in a simple gray tunic and black hose. He tried not to notice Gwenyth’s stunned, hurt face.
“We will never speak of this again,” he vowed.
And before Gwenyth could lure him into breaking his word, he left the room.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Aric endured a frosty confrontation with Rowena the next morning. The woman bristled, pleaded, cajoled, and screamed, the likes of which he had never heard from his once-betrothed. But it was done; Gwenyth would now be chatelaine. Aric did not relish the fury Rowena had unleashed upon him, but ’twas worth the tongue-lashing, for he had done well by his wife.
He had entered the great hall to break his fast and imbibe a large cup of ale when a pair of guests arrived. One was a page of Margaret Beaufort’s, bearing a letter from his mistress which more than likely contained cryptic plans regarding Henry Tudor’s invasion.
The other was Henry Percy, the Earl of Northumberland—one of King Richard’s staunchest supporters.
Anxiety prickled along his skin. Aye, he’d known it would not be long before he would have to choose sides in this upcoming war. He had not known that moment would be now.
With a whispered word, he instructed a servant to keep Lady Beaufort’s page waiting in the barbican and usher Northumberland to the great hall.
Scarce minutes passed before the duke sauntered into the huge room and greeted Aric with caution.
“Belford. How does this summer see you?”
Aric choose his words with care. “Well enough. And you?”
“I cannot complain. King Richard keeps me busy, but he keeps me wealthy as well.”
With a forced smile, Aric bade the man to sit and called for ale. Northumberland said nothing until ale and bread had been put before him.
“His majesty has tried most frequently to reach you, Belford,” the man said between bites.
“I journeyed to Bedfordshire and stayed for some months.”
“You have holdings there?” Northumberland looked alarmed by that prospect, as if he feared the king had given Aric some concession he had not received himself.
“Nay.” How could he explain that he’d given up on ambition and politics—and most notably on King Richard? “I—”
To his left, Aric saw Gwenyth enter the great hall, looking more beautiful than ever in soft yellow silk. Her nearly black hair hung down her back in a truss of glossy curls.
She paused when she saw Northumberland. “My apologies, Aric. I can eat later.”
“Nonsense,” said the other man with an amiable smile. He turned back to Aric. “Who is this lovely lady?”
He hesitated. King Richard would view his marriage to Gwenyth as politically unfavorable. Hell, he had no notion if Lord Capshaw’s sympathies lay with the Yorks or if they had converted to the Lancaster cause.
Seeing no choice but the truth, Aric said, “This is my wife, Lady Gwenyth, late Penhurst Castle.”
Shock flared across Northumberland’s smooth features before he schooled it. “Was she, by chance, the reason for your journey to the southern country?”
Aric sent a quick glance to Gwenyth and prayed she would not dispute him. “Aye.”
Northumberland’s dark gaze raked Gwenyth with a familiarity that sent Aric chafing. “I see why. Does His Majesty know of your union?”
“Nay. I had planned to advise him this week,” Aric lied.
Northumberland patted him on the back as if he were a friend. Aric had never liked the man. “She is a beauty. But such a hasty union will make your loyalty to King Richard seem…questionable.”
Gritting his teeth, Aric said nothing. He also ignored Gwenyth’s gasp from the edge of the room.
Henry Percy could make trouble for Northwell and its inhabitants. Aric knew well that ambition could be a powerful motivator for greed. His neighbor possessed enough ambition for an army. And King Richard, feeling insecure upon his throne, would listen to the hearsay of one of his closest supporters.
“Of course,” Northumberland went on, “having ignored all four of his summons has cast a certain amount of suspicion upon you as well. The king is most displeased.”
“I have nothing to hide,” Aric said, knowing it would not save him from doubt. But he had nothing else to offer except a pledge of support…one he did not want to give.
“Not even Margaret Beaufort’s page?” Northumberland asked shrewdly.
Aric forced himself not to flinch. Northumberland was baiting him, wanting to unnerve him into confessing treasonous activities. If Northumberland could brand him a traitor, Richard would most likely give his sly neighbor control of Northwell for his devotion, making him the most powerful lord in the north.
“I know what the woman wants, but I have not encouraged her,” Aric answered finally.
Nodding his dark head, Northumberland appeared to consider Aric’s words. “Perhaps, but King Richard may not see it that way. You must admit, it all looks suspicious. No reply to his most urgent summons for help. A sudden bride with uncertain loyalties to the crown. And now a rival’s personal page beneath your very roof…”
“Lady Beaufort’s page is not here at my invitation, and my wife has naught to do with my loyalties.”
“Are you certain? Your uncle Warwick likely started his treason in just such a manner.”
Pushed beyond bearing by Northumberland’s intimations, Aric stood suddenly.
“Have a care. You imply something where naught exists.”
With a nod, Northumberland said, “I’m merely making certain. So I can tell King Richard he has Northwell’s support?”
Aric wanted to throw the odious Northumberland out of his home. But if he did not do so carefully, he would ensure a traitor’s death not only for himself but perhaps Stephen, as well.
“My men have grown soft in my absence and look not to b
e fit enough to battle one another, much less Henry Tudor’s army.”
Aric had little hope that would deter Northumberland, but he had to try. Lives other than his own depended upon this. Aye, he felt aversion for King Richard’s tactics in obtaining the throne, but Stephen knew nothing of such ugliness and should not be punished for Aric’s beliefs. His brother did not deserve to be half hanged, to have his entrails cut out before his eyes, be torn into pieces by horses, and to have his head hung on a pike for all of London to see. Stephen’s only crime was in possessing a lamentable lack of foresight and responsibility.
“Soft men are better than no men,” Northumberland returned, his voice soft, deadly. “You have no hesitation in supporting your king, I hope?”
Damn! He had much hesitation but could do little to prevent lending aid. Besides Stephen, Northwell’s people would suffer if Aric were branded a traitor. Richard would seize the demesne and give it to Northumberland—or someone equally loathsome—who had naught on his mind but making more money and obtaining more power. The villagers, the hard-working men and their families, the widows and children—all would suffer if he allowed Northwell to be branded a traitor’s haven.
And then there was Gwenyth, who could easily suffer, too. At the least, Richard could annul their marriage. Or he might wait until Aric’s execution to force Gwenyth to take another husband, one who would covet Northwell for its wealth and not its people. One who might mistreat Gwenyth. One who would expect her sweet presence in his bed each night.
The possibilities were limitless and unthinkable.
Aric drew in a deep, resigned breath. “I will write to King Richard today. What does he expect?”
Northumberland smiled, as if he knew exactly how reluctantly Aric’s answer had been given. “His majesty expects you and Northwell’s army to support him. Henry Tudor has finally left France and landed in Wales, in a place called Milford Haven. But I’m sure Margaret Beaufort’s page would have been pleased to tell you such—if he has not already.”
Aric clenched his teeth at the man’s repeated inferences to treason. He could prove nothing, yet better men had been executed with less evidence. If any should wonder, they had only to ask the widow of Lord Hastings, whom King Richard had cut down as a traitor to the crown without a jury of his peers and without benefit of a last meal.
