by Natasha Wild
It was an odd thing for him to do, but he knew if he had to look at her, he’d never be able to go through with it. All he wanted was to forget about Gwen.
He joined Anne on the bed, pulling her against him, his mouth finding her parted lips. She whimpered as his hands trailed down her body, his fingers slipping between her folds to caress the sensitive bud within.
“Now… take me now,” she panted.
He rolled onto her, pressing her deep into the mattress, his fingers tangling in her soft hair. In his mind, it wasn’t pale, but the color of desert fire.
Anne soon cried out, shuddering beneath him, and he followed her over the brink.
She tried to hold him, but he rolled away and sat up. She sat up behind him, caressing his back, kissing his shoulder.
“Mmm, that was wonderful,” she said, tracing his ear with her finger.
Richard jerked away. For reasons he didn’t understand, he had to get out. He picked a rush off the floor, walked to the hearth and thrust the tip into the glowing embers to light it, then fumbled about for the candles.
Anne watched him curiously. The tangled strands of her hair fell over her naked breasts as she lay back on the pillows.
Richard began to dress.
Anne bolted upright. “Where are you going?”
“Go to sleep, Anne. I’m not coming back tonight.”
He finished dressing and belted his sword into place, then left without another word.
Anne picked up his pillow and threw it. Womanizing bastard! She’d wanted to strangle him when she found him seducing that Welsh bitch, but there was nothing she could do about it.
If she wanted to be the next Countess of Dunsmore, she had to keep quiet and turn a blind eye while he dallied with other women.
She’d been trying to make Richard take her to wife for a year now, since her husband died, but he wasn’t as easily convinced as most men.
She was going to be a countess if it killed her! Her looks opened many a door that would have otherwise been closed to the daughter of a burgher.
She had all the things men desired: blonde hair, blue eyes, slender figure, skin the color of new snow. She’d managed to marry a knight in Richard’s service, one with a manor of his own. It mattered not at all that he had been several years older than she.
Being known as Lady Ashford was plenty of compensation for bedding an old man and bearing him an heir.
Since Thomas’s death, Anne had set her sights even higher. She wanted to be a countess.
And she wanted to be the Countess of Dunsmore because Richard de Claiborne was not only handsome and skillful in bed, but he was also rich and powerful.
Anne yawned. Her body still tingled from the violence of his lovemaking. He was a devastating man.
Mayhap she was just a tiny bit in love with him. But he was too dark, too moody. He needed no one. To love him, truly love him, was to end up with a shattered heart.
Fortunately, Anne loved the money more than the man.
* * *
King Edward watched the happenings in the hall with great interest. Why had he not noticed how beautiful Llywelyn’s daughter was before now?
He kissed his wife’s hand, then patted it absently.
Yes, Gwenllian was lovely, and it seemed as if she had the attention of half the noblemen of England turned on her tonight.
Edward shifted his gaze to the Welsh prince and his new wife. God, how happy they looked. Mayhap Llywelyn would be so besotted with her that he wouldn’t plague the English for a while.
Edward chuckled. Wishful thinking, that. The Welsh were contrary to a man and Llywelyn was one of the contrariest. Nay, he still needed a check on the prince. Something to ensure his loyalty.
Edward turned his gaze back to Gwenllian. How old was she now? Sixteen, mayhap? Old enough to be married.
Edward straightened. Married. Jesú, that was it! Marry the Welsh princess to an Englishman and tie Llywelyn up even further.
Smiling, Edward drained his goblet and stood. The entire gathering quieted, waiting for their king to speak. He bade them continue without him for a while, kissed his wife on the forehead, and motioned for a page.
* * *
“My Lord de Claiborne?”
“Aye?” Richard stopped as the page hurried toward him. Despite the autumn chill, trickles of sweat ran down the boy’s skin, staining the neck of his tunic.
“My lord, the king requires you to attend him in his solar.”
Richard nodded, following the youth silently. There was to be no hope of avoiding a confrontation with Ned this night.
“Where have you been?” Edward demanded as soon as the page left them. “I’ve had him searching for you half the night it seems!”
Richard shrugged, taking the seat the king waved at distractedly. He smoothed the crimson fabric of his surcoat before meeting Edward’s gaze.
“I was not in my chambers, my liege.”
Edward grunted. “In the arms of that wanton, Lady Anne Ashford, no doubt.”
“Ah, you know me too well, Ned,” Richard said, grinning.
“Well, I cannot blame you. She is a pretty piece and most eager to please too. ’Tis lucky for you that Eleanor is not heavy with child or you would have to share the charms of Lady Ashford with your king.”
Richard bowed his head. “What is mine is yours, my liege.”
Edward began to pace the spacious solar. A servant came in, pouring them each a goblet of fine Gascon wine, before scurrying out the door.
“I did not see you at the wedding, or in the hall,” Edward said, stopping to fix Richard with a penetrating stare.
Richard laughed bitterly. Why did he have to explain to Ned of all people? “I could not be in the same room with that man again for a single moment, much less an entire evening, without crossing swords with him.”
“God’s blood, Richard! I am the King of England, not you. I’ve made peace with Llywelyn and I expect you to do the same. I must turn my attentions elsewhere. England’s laws are in bad need of reform, and I intend to regain my rightful holdings in France. I need you to help me.”
Richard gripped the arms of the chair, the carved wood biting into his flesh. “I will do anything for you, Ned, but I will not pretend Llywelyn is not my enemy.”
Edward tossed his crown on the table. It hit with a resounding metallic thud. “Then you leave me no choice. His daughter is of an age to marry. You will take her to wife.”
“No!” Richard jumped to his feet, his steely eyes meeting Edward’s hard blue ones. The two men glared at each other for a long moment.
“’Tis high time you took another wife anyway,” Edward said.
“I do not want another wife, Ned, especially a Welsh one.”
“Jesú, I am giving you a princess! Your wife has been dead for two years. You have to think about getting an heir.”
Richard closed his eyes as a wave of guilt swept over him. He would not think of Elizabeth and the child that died with her.
He had only wanted to bed Gwen, not marry her. She was Llywelyn’s daughter for God’s sake!
“Llywelyn is responsible for my father’s death. I cannot forget that. Ever.”
Edward sighed and rubbed a hand across his brow, sweeping at the dark blond hair that fell in his face. One eye drooped lazily. He had inherited that from his father, but none were stupid enough to believe it signaled weakness in this king.
“The matter of Wales is final. The people will learn to obey English laws and we will move on. I want Llywelyn yoked strongly to my side once and for all.”
Richard fingered his sword. “Why me, Ned? There are at least a half a dozen others you could choose from.”
Edward waved a beringed hand. “You make the most sense. Llywelyn fears you more than anyone. I don’t want any trouble out of him the minute my back is turned, and he will remain biddable if you control his daughter and more of his lands. Besides, she is his only child. If my fair cousin fails to bear him any childre
n, then Gwenllian’s sons will inherit his throne. She is still a princess, despite her bastard birth, and I want her sons to be half English.”
Richard stiffened. “This is not a good idea, Ned. I’ll remarry if you wish it, but give me an Englishwoman for God’s sake! What makes you think I will even be able to touch the girl?”
Edward laughed. “God’s bones, Richard! You forget how well I know you. Once you see her, you’ll not fear that ever again. She is most pleasing to look upon.”
Richard raked a hand through his hair. He would be able to touch her all right, but he’d rather do it without marrying her.
“Think of the beauty of it. Llywelyn is not known for his ability to sire children. What better way to chafe our Welsh prince than to marry his only daughter and put Black Hawk de Claiborne’s sons in line for his throne? I should think that would make you happy, knowing how distressed he will be.”
“Aye, but he will not agree to it, Ned.”
“’Tis my divine right as his sovereign overlord. He has no choice in the matter.” Edward smiled, and Richard heard the implied and neither do you as if it had been spoken aloud. “I am the king and he will learn that my edict applies not only in England, but in Wales as well.”
Richard expelled a frustrated breath. A king could not force a vassal to marry, but Richard did not need to be forced. Even were it against all he wanted, he would do as he had always done, as he had sworn beside a deathbed in the Holy Land to always do. “As you command me, Majesty.”
Edward nodded. “I can always count on you, can’t I, Richard?”
“Aye, Ned, you can always count on me,” Richard echoed flatly.
“Good. Tomorrow, we will break the news to Llywelyn.” Edward lifted his goblet. “Together,” he added, ignoring Richard’s scowl as he tilted the cup back.
5
“You want to do what?” Llywelyn roared.
Edward swept him with a cool stare. “Not want, Llywelyn. I am doing this.”
Richard lounged in a chair at one end of the heavy oak table. His eyes followed Llywelyn as he treaded a path back and forth in front of the hearth.
Beneath the solid expanse of the table, Richard cracked one fist inside the other, his gut churning like the sea at full boil.
The worst was yet to come. Edward was forcing him to sign a treaty of friendship with Llywelyn as part of the marriage agreement.
They hadn’t gotten that far though. Right now, the Prince was still trying to get over the shock of having his daughter wedded to Black Hawk de Claiborne.
Llywelyn pointed a battle-hardened finger at Richard. His tones were clipped as he spoke to the king. “You intend to marry my daughter to that blood-thirsty barbarian?”
Richard stood slowly and walked around the table. Llywelyn braced his feet apart and waited. Lesser men tucked their tails between their legs and ran when Black Hawk de Claiborne stalked them. If Richard hadn’t been so blinded by rage, he’d have admitted a begrudging admiration for Llywelyn’s steadfastness.
Edward gripped the table and shot Richard a warning look.
The prince was trying to object to the marriage on the grounds of his daughter’s safety, but they all knew what was really at stake. Llywelyn didn’t want to give up any portion of his greatly diminished princedom as dowry.
Richard fingered his sword, his voice deceptively mild. “You had no such qualms when you gave her over as a hostage. Why the sudden attack of conscience, old man?”
Llywelyn’s eyes flashed. “You’re a disrespectful bastard, Black Hawk. But then again I would expect no less from the son of William de Claiborne.”
No one heard the singing of steel until the blade was already out of the scabbard. Edward leapt to his feet, his fist crashing onto the table. “Richard! Goddammit, put it away!”
Llywelyn stood rigid with the point of the gleaming sword resting at the base of his throat. Eyes met across a chasm of mistrust; Llywelyn’s fearful yet defiant, Richard’s malicious and cold.
Richard smiled lazily, but it was forced. “As you command, my liege,” he ground out between clenched teeth.
He stepped back and resheathed the sword in one smooth stroke, then gave Edward a curt bow before returning to his seat.
Edward glared at him for a long moment, then sank down into his own chair, smoothing the folds of his blood-red surcoat with great deliberation.
Llywelyn took a deep breath and rubbed his throat. His face was scarlet with fury. “That is precisely what I’m talking about, Majesty. How can you give my daughter to the likes of him? The first time the lass opens her mouth to disagree, he’ll skewer her on the point of his sword!”
Richard crossed his hands behind his head and leaned back in the chair. “I’ll use my sword on her all right.” He smiled. “I daresay she’ll enjoy it much more than you just did.”
Llywelyn’s jaw worked, but he turned to the king and ignored the taunt.
“I am sorry, Llywelyn, my mind is made up,” Edward said.
Llywelyn whirled around and began to pace back and forth. “What about Arwystli? What are you going to do about that?”
Edward shrugged. “My commission is busy working on it. We’ll hear their findings soon enough.”
“Give me Arwystli, and you can have her.”
“’Tis not that easy, my friend. I am your king and I am commanding you to betrothe your daughter to my baron. Arwystli has nothing to do with this.”
Richard sat back while Llywelyn continued to protest and Edward countered. He thought he might choke on Llywelyn’s self-righteousness. First, the man said he feared for his daughter, then he was willing to trade her for disputed land. Richard wanted to kill him even more.
Finally, the raw terms were hammered out: a parcel of land that bordered Richard’s, a treaty of friendship, money and sheep, and the succession to the Welsh throne if Llywelyn failed to get any heirs of his own.
Edward leaned back in his chair while Llywelyn crossed to stand by the window. The King winked at Richard and took a swallow of wine.
“Well, shall we send for the lass and introduce her to her husband-to-be?”
* * *
Gwen curled in a chair and rested her chin on her fist. She’d not left her room since retreating to it last night. It was small and cozy and far removed from the dark dangers of broad shoulders and silver eyes.
Her heart quickened against her will, her cheeks heating. Richard had been so dangerously handsome in the wavering torchlight. She’d been drawn to him, ready to surrender before he even struck. His smell—spicy, powerful—lingered in her memory, taunting her.
She closed her eyes, leaned her head against the chair. She could feel his lips on her skin, his hands like sweet torture on her innocent flesh.
Gwen had relived the scene a thousand times since last night. It felt so real, even now. She had a sudden thought that if she turned around, he would be standing there, watching her. She pictured him, one corner of his sensual mouth curved in a mocking smile, a smile that told her he knew all of her darkest dreams.
Oh God, would that he had kissed her before that woman came along!
Gwen pressed a trembling hand to her forehead. Why did she think such things about that vile man? He was handsome, yes, but he was English and he was horrible and he was—
“Gwen?”
“Come in, Elinor,” she said, more than happy to be interrupted.
The older woman hurried into the room. “Gwen, you must change. That simply will not do.”
Gwen looked down at the plain surcoat belted over a white undergown. “Are we not leaving? I have ridden like this before.”
“Nay, you are being summoned to an audience with the king. You must change,” Elinor repeated.
Gwen clutched her throat. “The king?”
“Do not worry,” Elinor soothed. “Your father is with him. ’Twill be all right. Now, let me help you.”
She busied herself in one of Gwen’s trunks, pulling out a gown of sea-green si
lk and an ivory surcoat embroidered with silver birds.
“This will do,” Elinor said, laying the clothes across a chair before turning back to Gwen.
“Do you know why, Elinor?” Icy fear washed over Gwen’s body, rendering her immobile.
“Nay.” Elinor grasped her shoulders. “But I do not think he wants to keep you hostage. He gave his word.”
Gwen stared into the other woman’s hazel eyes for some moments before nodding mutely. She shrugged out of the garments she was wearing and tossed them onto the bed, then donned the others as Elinor handed them to her.
Gwen thought of the leman Anne and the way her tightly laced gown had shown her figure. She glanced at Elinor. The other woman’s back was turned, so Gwen tugged the laces tighter, satisfied with the way the gown cinched in her waist and molded her breasts and hips.
If she chanced to run into Richard again, he’d not see a girl, but a woman.
She chided herself for caring what he thought of her, but that didn’t stop her from unplaiting her hair and shaking it into a torrent of flame. Elinor knotted a girdle of silk and silver around Gwen’s waist, frowning only slightly at the way the gown hugged her curves.
“Mayhap, you should wear a wimple,” Elinor said, touching the cloth that covered her own tightly braided hair.
“Nay. ’Tis not the Welsh way.”
Elinor shrugged. “As you wish.” Squeezing Gwen’s hand, she said, “All will be well.”
* * *
The light that flooded from the chamber’s interior seemed unbearably bright when coupled with the murky darkness of the passage Gwen had just come through. She squinted, holding her hand up to shield her eyes.
Unmistakable currents of tension emanated from the three men present. The air crackled with the sparks of their anger, curbed, but not forgotten, at her entrance.
Her father stood at one end of the room. King Edward lounged easily at a table. Her heart started to flutter as her eyes met the third man’s.