by Natasha Wild
How, and better yet why, was he here?
“Your Majesty,” she said, sinking into a curtsy.
“Come, Gwenllian, sit beside me,” Edward beckoned, all smiles as he patted the chair next to him. “May I present Richard de Claiborne, Earl of Dunsmore?” he said sweetly.
Gwen gasped. Oh God—Gwalchddu! Only moments before, her fickle heart had been pounding so loud she thought all three men could hear it. Now, it struggled with the effort to beat.
King Edward and Richard de Claiborne.
The Lion with the leash in its mouth. The fierce Hawk he controlled.
The dark knight of her dreams was Black Hawk de Claiborne. But Black Hawk was supposed to be cruel and evil and ugly, not handsome and seductive! He was a brutal guardian of the March. Stories were told of him, bards’ tales of unspeakable horror chanted in the great stronghold of the Prince of Wales.
Gwen had heard them all. Black Hawk tortured his captives most gruesomely. He drank the blood of newborn babes and devoured children for dinner. He’d sold his soul to the devil and sacrificed virgins regularly on the altar of his masculinity.
Gwen wasn’t quite sure what that last part meant, although she had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with the strange sensations she’d experienced when he’d touched her.
A shiver washed down her spine and she crumpled in the chair Edward offered.
“Are you all right, my dear?” Edward asked, leaning forward to touch her cheek.
“Aye, thank you, Majesty,” she replied quickly. “Lord de Claiborne,” she murmured, lowering her lashes. She thought of all the Welshmen who had died at his hands, all the women who mourned their husbands and brothers and sons because of him.
Bitter disappointment ate at her. He was horrible. She raised her gaze to him, tempered it with defiance and hatred.
The look he returned to her was raw and sensual, and full of contempt. Gwen broke the contact first, stared at her hands clenched in her lap.
“Princess Gwenllian,” he replied. His voice was cool and detached. Strangely, it hurt. She dared to look at him once more.
One corner of his mouth crooked in a mocking smile. A dark eyebrow arched upward. Gwen felt her cheeks heating. She lifted her chin and turned to the King as he began to speak.
“Since you are of an age to marry, Gwenllian, it is my duty as your king to find a husband for you. I have chosen Lord De Claiborne.”
“No!” she cried, leaping to her feet.
“I am afraid you have no choice, my dear,” Edward said, leaning his chair back on two legs.
Gwen took a deep breath. She balled her gown in her fists and told herself there was nothing to fear. “Welsh women cannot be forced to take a husband against their will. I do not wish it.”
“You are not a typical Welshwoman, Gwenllian. You’re a princess first and as such you are my ward. ’Tis my divine right as your king to arrange your marriage. You will obey me.”
Gwen fled to her father’s side and grabbed his hand. “Father, you cannot allow this! I’ll marry anyone you wish, do anything you ask of me, but do not make me marry Black Hawk de Claiborne,” she pleaded in Welsh, her eyes searching his.
He extracted his hand and turned his back to her. He stared out the window, and when he spoke, his voice was cool, devoid of emotion. “I’m sorry, lass, but I cannot do anything about it.”
It was happening again. He would not save her. She was being trotted out as a sacrificial lamb, only this time the man who took her was quite capable of slaughter.
Gwen mentally shook herself. She was Llywelyn ap Gruffydd’s daughter for God’s sake! She was supposed to be a brave Welsh princess, not a coward who would beg for rescue from her duty.
She touched his arm. “I will not fail you like my mother did,” she said quietly. He stiffened and she spun around and walked over to the king. Since she had no choice anyway, she would enter into it with dignity, with bravery worthy of her great father. “Very well, Your Majesty. I will marry Lord de Claiborne.”
Edward took her hand in his, rubbed little circles in her palm with his thumb. “I’m glad you see it my way, sweet. The wedding will not be for some months yet. Whilst we finalize the terms of your dowry, you may return to Wales.”
“Thank you, Majesty,” Gwen said. Tears hovered beneath the surface but she swore she would not cry in front of these English bastards.
“Well, Llywelyn, I think we should allow these two a few minutes alone to get better acquainted,” Edward said.
Gwen panicked. “Nay, Majesty, please. ’Tis not necessary.”
Edward stood and smiled down at her. He was tall, though not quite as tall as Richard, and lean. His face was almost boyish in its handsomeness.
“Ah, are you afraid of my fierce-looking friend, my dear?” He raised her hand to his lips. “Never fear, Richard is tame enough with the lasses. He’ll not harm you.”
The room seemed deathly quiet when her father and King Edward were gone. The fire crackled and the wind whispered against the stone outside.
She knew when Richard rose from his chair. He had the quiet grace of a cat, but the chair creaked beneath his weight as he stood.
He stopped beside her and she slanted her eyes toward him without turning to face him. He shifted his weight and she let her gaze trail down the long leg that was thrust to one side.
“Why were you afraid to be alone with me, Princess?”
She didn’t answer and he leaned toward her until his face was scant inches from hers.
“Afraid you couldn’t control yourself, sweet?”
Gwen whirled on him. “If not for the wine, as you pointed out, I would have never allowed you to touch me!”
He grabbed her hand and pressed it to his chest. Gwen gasped and tried to jerk away, but he held her fast. Even through the layers of his clothing, his skin seared her palm.
“Yes, but what made you touch me, sweet? Do you blame that on the wine too?”
Gwen succeeded in wresting her hand free of his grip. She wiped it very deliberately on her dress.
His jaw hardened and he swept her from head to toe with an infuriating glare. “Let me make something perfectly clear to you, Princess. I don’t really care how many men you’ve had before now, but there had better be no more. If you come to me pregnant, I’ll pack you off to a convent. I’ll not accept another man’s brat as my heir.”
Gwen’s mouth dropped open. “You think I—you mean that—”
He arched an arrogant eyebrow. “I’ve bedded enough women to recognize desire when I see it, sweet. ’Tis not the sort of thing one sees in an innocent young virgin, at least not so quickly.”
Gwen felt a rush of anger so strong it almost blinded her. She didn’t even think before reacting. All she heard was the crack of her open palm against his cheek.
And then she was jerked against his body, hard. She looked up at him, unable to tear her gaze away. God, he was so intimidating!
The hard planes of his face seemed chiseled from stone. Black brows drew together over eyes that reminded her of a frozen mountain lake, eyes that bored into hers relentlessly.
Good Lord, this man was Black Hawk. What had she done?
Gwen bit her lower lip to cease its trembling.
“I hope you enjoyed that, because you will never do it again, I assure you,” he said, his voice washing over her like cool silk. His gaze settled on her mouth and Gwen felt a strange shiver ripple down her spine.
“Did you think of me often this past year?” he asked softly.
“Never!” She tried to jerk away, but it was as if she’d never moved.
“Liar,” he whispered.
“Let me go!”
“Not yet, sweet. We have unfinished business, you and I.”
Gwen’s breath caught as his arm encircled her waist and he pulled her tighter against him. The fury that clouded his features was melting, changing into something even more frightening.
She felt light-headed, dizzy with the
speed of her reckless heart, and when his head descended to crush her mouth beneath his, her eyes closed in anticipation.
At the last minute, she clamped her mouth tight against his probing tongue. He let go of her wrists and cupped her head in one large hand.
Gwen’s heart hammered in her breast, filling her ears with the sound of her own blood rushing through her veins. The smell of leather and steel, of sweat and horses, of raw power held tightly in check came strongly to her nostrils.
This was nothing like the time when Rhys had kissed her. That had seemed so harmless, so friendly, compared to this.
Suddenly, Gwen wanted to taste the man kissing her, to experience what he was doing. It couldn’t hurt, could it?
She softened, melting against him, and his response was immediate. The kiss changed, became less demanding, more seductive. Running his tongue along her lower lip, he nibbled, then sucked it like a sweet. With each soft tug, there was an answering surge of fire in her veins.
When he stopped, Gwen opened her eyes to find him staring down at her.
His eyes were incredible! Moments before, they’d been the color of slate, but now they were almost black.
“Kiss me, Princess,” he murmured. Slowly, he lowered his head and slanted his mouth across hers. She opened. The tip of his tongue slipped between her lips, searching, stroking.
Gwen’s tongue touched his cautiously. He delved deeper and she mimicked his practised movements, stroking, teasing, tantalizing.
A fire born of his touch kindled in her belly, pulsating, spreading outward and racing along her limbs in a torrent of shivers. She sucked his tongue deeper, tasting him, wanting—what?
Her hands entwined in his dark hair, reveling in the velvety crispness of it. She pressed against him, shock coursing through her at the much harder part of him that pressed into her abdomen.
He groaned, his breathing quickening. Strong hands traced a path of fire down her back, grasping her buttocks and pulling her against the marble hardness of his erection.
She stiffened. Dear God, what was she doing? Another minute and she would prove herself no better than the whore he’d marked her for.
A cry rose low in her throat and she gripped the solid expanse of his upper arms, trying to push away.
Richard lifted his head. “Don’t worry, no one will come in here. We’re quite safe for about an hour. I would certainly like more time, but that will do for now…”
He buried his lips against the slender column of her throat. He’d never expected her response to send him into such a frenzy of need. But she tasted so sweet, like clover and wild honey, and he wanted her beneath him so he could taste the rest of her.
And he intended to do just that.
“No!” she cried, twisting in his grasp, pushing against him. “Let me go! Please!”
Richard marshaled every drop of willpower he possessed to release her. What kind of game was the little wench playing?
She moved to put the table between them. He stared at her, torn between desire and anger. God’s bones, she was beautiful! Her face was flushed, her lips swollen from his kisses, her hair in glorious disarray.
Richard ignored the insistent throbbing of his manhood. He let anger take over. “What’s the matter, Princess? Afraid you might enjoy it?”
“May you rot in hell, Black Hawk de Claiborne! I will never enjoy anything with you! Being your wife will be like never waking from my worst nightmares!”
Richard leaned against the table. “And what makes you think being your husband will be any more of a treat for me? Marrying a Welsh whore is not my idea of a dream come true.”
Gwen turned purple. “You—you—vile, disgusting, murdering—”
Before she could discern his intent, he reached across the table and grabbed the front of her gown. He dragged her toward him until she found herself on her back with him leaning over her.
“So full of fire. Did I fail to tell you that I will enjoy you very much when we are in bed together?” His gaze traveled over her breasts and down her belly. “And I can promise that you will enjoy it too.”
“Never!”
He brushed his lips across hers. Gwen trembled, despite herself. He did it again, soft, gentle. She watched his eyes darken, felt his hand slide up to mold her breast.
Again, he bent to her, his lips firmer this time. The protest she intended came out as a whimper. Her hands slipped up his arms.
And then he let her go. “Your body disagrees with you, my dear.”
Gwen felt her cheeks flame. She hopped from the table and smoothed her gown, refusing to look at him, to meet his mocking stare.
She barely had time to compose herself before he grabbed her hand and led her to the adjoining solar.
Her father and King Edward looked up. Gwen stared at her feet. She’d never been so humiliated in her life. She glanced at the arrogant man next to her. At least she would have a lifetime to pay him back.
6
Wales, 1281
Prince Llywelyn was in a rage. He sat in the Great Hall of his stronghold on Snowdon and listened as his subjects presented grievance after grievance against the English crown.
Welshmen were being forced to answer to laws and customs that were totally foreign to them. Men were fined heavily for crimes they did not commit. Their woods were cut and timber taken without recompense. Their lands were confiscated and given to English lords.
Merchants were made to sell their goods at the prices the English wanted to pay. If they refused, their goods were seized and the men thrown in jail.
English forest laws were so strict that families could lose everything they had by hunting game in the King’s woods. But if they didn’t hunt, they would starve.
Llywelyn got to his feet and stalked to his solar. Einion limped behind him. Llywelyn poured a large draught of mead and tossed it back in one swift gulp.
“What are you going to do?” Einion asked.
Llywelyn poured another mead and flopped in a chair. Even though he was more than fifty years old, he hung one leg over the arm and leaned back. “What can I do? Edward has me right where he wants me. ’Tis been over three years and he still stalls on my case against Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn.”
“I hate to say this, Llywelyn, but witholding Gwenllian hasn’t helped. God knows I love that lass as if she were my own, but keeping her from marrying that damned De Claiborne is only hurting you.”
Llywelyn laughed mirthlessly. “Aye. When I applied to the Pope for intervention, I’d thought it would be so easy. At the very least, I thought witholding Gwen would make Edward rule on Arwystli! And I had hoped that hothead de Claiborne would’ve talked Edward into striking by now. Then the Pope would have had no choice but to rule in my favor. Christ Almighty! Since Pope Martin died I’ve not looked forward to starting over with his successor.”
“Black Hawk de Claiborne struck all right. His grip on the border is tighter than ever.”
“You know I do not approve of raiding the English. ’Tis pointless. A thousand small struggles will not do what one large effort possibly could. If the clans choose to confront Black Hawk on his territory, then they are fools!”
“But what about the territory he’s seized from you lately? Even now, he sits within spitting distance of Snowdon.”
Llywelyn ground his teeth together. “I’ll get my lands back from the bastard even if I have to face him myself!”
Einion frowned. “I think that’s what he wants. And you’re not as young as you once were, Llywelyn.”
Llywelyn grumbled. Einion was right. He was too old. Black Hawk de Claiborne would hack him to bits on the battlefield.
He stroked the arm of the chair. “I’ve complained to Edward, but he turns a blind eye. Says he’s unaware of any wrongdoing by his Marcher lords.”
Einion snorted. “Did you expect him to say any different? De Claiborne is his favorite by all accounts. Edward would let him get away with nearly anything.” Einion came to stand in front of him, his
old face screwed into a grimace. “You must do something, Llywelyn. ’Tis more than just Black Hawk that’s causing trouble. Edward’s bailiffs are harassing our people. And Rhuddlan is the worst insult yet!”
Llywelyn’s temples hammered. “I know.”
“An English town on Welsh soil! And no Welsh even allowed to settle in it! ’Tis gone too far.”
“One day, we’ll have justice, I promise you. But, for now, I will write to Edward and give him Gwenllian before it gets worse.”
“I will send for a scribe.”
Llywelyn lay his head back and stared at the ceiling. God’s bones, he’d wanted an alliance with Scotland! Well, it was not to be and he would have to find another way to keep Edward at bay.
He swore softly. The Earl of Dunsmore had plagued him for years, first the father, now the son.
With the son, it was almost an obsession.
* * *
“A messenger from the King, milord.”
Richard looked up from the map he’d been studying. “Bring him.”
The knight nodded. Richard stood and walked to the edge of the open pavillion. The canopy swayed in the soft summer breeze, and the haunting scent of roses drifted to his nostrils.
He gazed out across the green meadow. Dandelions and buttercups dotted the grass, vibrant life blazing against a shimmering emerald sea.
And, at the foot of the hill he was encamped upon, roses. Everywhere, roses. They ambled in a thick tangle of prickly vines, choking the hedges, snaking up trees, twisting, grasping, scenting the air with their sweet perfume.
Unforgettable. Just like her. Three goddamn years and he still couldn’t get her out of his mind! Why in the hell had he chosen this site for his camp anyway?
The messenger hurried toward the tent on the heels of the knight. He dropped to one knee. “My Lord de Claiborne,” he said. “His Majesty sends his greetings.”
The man was garbed in chainmail, three golden lions emblazoned on his blood-red surcoat. His face was streaked with grime, and mud dirtied the edges of his mantle. He stood and pulled a sealed parchment from inside his tunic. “The king commanded that I give this into no hands but yours.”