by Natasha Wild
Gwen slanted a look at her husband from beneath her lowered lashes. His face seemed carved from a block of stone, the short beard doing little to soften the chiseled angles. She caught herself thinking she was glad it didn’t cover half his face. Instead, it hugged his jawline, emphasizing the rough masculinity that was his alone.
His midnight hair shone blue-black in the candlelight. Gwen remembered the feel of it between her fingers. Soft. Crisp. Velvet. It was shorter than most men’s, not even reaching his shoulders, but she found she liked that too.
It occured to her that his profile did indeed resemble the hawk he was called after. Fierce, proud, and noble.
Her stomach fluttered. For a moment, she felt like the young girl who had been smitten with the handsome knight. And, if she dared admit it, this was exactly what she had wanted back then.
But that was so long ago, and he was not who she’d thought he was. She felt a little pang of remorse for her lost dreams.
Her gaze trailed down his body to his hand. It hung at his side, motionless. Gwen shivered. It was powerful, containing the strength to choke the breath from her if he so wished it.
And yet it was beautiful. Well-shaped from large palm to tapered fingers, sinews capable of great strength now lay still in silent supplication to God.
Gwen knew the feel of his hands already. Knew the palms, calloused from battle and strenuous training. Knew the smooth fingertips, capable of eliciting pleasure where she had never experienced it before. She blushed and glanced at his face.
He was watching her. One corner of his mouth quirked in a mocking grin. She jerked her gaze away, staring at the floor and cursing herself for getting caught.
When at last the mass was over, Richard stood and then bent to help her up. His hand clamped over her elbow and when he raised her, he pulled her to him.
“Was that desire I saw on your face, my sweet?” he whispered.
“Definitely not!” Gwen prayed he couldn’t hear the thundering of her heart.
“I’m going to enjoy proving you wrong.”
The husky tone of his voice sent her stomach fluttering again. She turned and started down the aisle ahead of him. She stumbled, but his strong hands closed over her arms.
“Is something wrong?”
“Nay, my lord. My legs ache, but I will be fine. You may let me go.”
“As you wish,” he said.
Gwen’s legs buckled again. This time, Richard swept her into his arms. There was a collective gasp from the crowd. Gwen buried her face in his shoulder.
Cradled against his chest, she felt the steady beat of his heart, felt taut muscle flexing beneath her as he carried her down the aisle.
She expected him to put her down when they got outside, but he did not. “I can walk, my lord.”
“Nay, I think not.”
“My lord, you must not carry me all the way to the castle.”
“The peasantry does not seem to mind.”
Indeed, they did not. People cheered, patting each other on the back and pointing as the Earl of Dunsmore stood on the steps with his bride in his arms. Many of them had jostled for a position all morning, hoping to catch a glimpse of the bridal couple as they left the cathedral. They’d been too far back to witness the ceremony, surging forward as the lords and ladies entered the church for the nuptial mass.
“What is the matter, Richard?” the King asked as he came up behind them. He was resplendent in royal purple. A jeweled crown sat upon his head, tilting jauntily to one side.
“That bishop is an interminable bag of wind. The mass was too long. Even my legs ache.”
“Poor child,” Queen Eleanor said, laying her hand on Gwen’s arm. “Why don’t you ride in the litter with me? ’Twill be more comfortable.”
Gwen opened her mouth to answer, but Richard cut her off. “Nay, I will carry her, Majesty. The crowds have waited all day to see the bride and groom together. We must not disappoint them.”
Eleanor smoothed a hand over her protruding belly. “Aye, you are right, Richard. Please help me to the litter, Edward.”
“I shall do better than that, my love,” he said, reaching for her. “I shall carry you, too.”
A great murmur arose as the king lifted his wife in his arms. “You are so romantic, Edward,” the queen said softly.
Gwen recognized the glow that lit the queen’s face. She’d seen it often enough between her father and Elinor. What surprised her was that Edward had the same look.
Why had he kissed her when he was in love with his wife? She thought of Rhys and his admission he had bedded other women while he was in love with her. Good Lord, men were horrible.
“Jealous?” Richard growled, his eyes darkening. “Just because Ned isn’t immune to your charms does not mean he doesn’t love his wife. But you’ll not have another chance to seduce him, that I can assure you,” he whispered fiercely.
Gwen’s eyes widened. “You bastard,” she hissed. “Put me down!”
His grip was like iron and once again she was reminded of the raw power lying just beneath the surface. “Such crude language for a princess, my dear. If you do not stop struggling, I shall drop you on your lovely behind in front of all these people.”
Gwen stilled. She had no doubt he would delight in humiliating her. She would not give him the pleasure.
“Shall we, Richard?” Edward asked when he had finished whispering in his wife’s ear. Eleanor’s pale face glowed pink. Her gaze did not stray from her husband’s face.
“Aye, Ned,” Richard replied.
The two men began the descent to the street. Guards formed around them and the crowd parted easily as they made their way toward the castle.
Word spread before them, rippling through the gathered masses like a banner in the wind. By the time they reached Shrewsbury castle, men and women thronged the bailey, cheering wildly.
The minstels’ gallery struck up a tune when they entered the Great Hall. Richard carried Gwen to the dais, setting her on her feet beside the table.
She refused to look at him. Instead, she allowed her gaze to wander over the elegant hall.
Fine white linen was draped over the trestle tables, and the smell of a delicious feast hung thick in the air. Servants bustled through the room, laying out trenchers for the guests filing in.
The walls and ceiling were freshly whitewashed, and the King’s banner hung behind the dais. Scented rushes were scattered on the wooden floor and roaring fires blazed in the center and surrounding hearths.
Richard took her hand and led her to their place at the high table. His thigh brushed hers as he joined her on the bench. She tried to slide away but he grabbed her wrist.
“You will act the happy bride today, Princess.”
Gwen glared at him. “If ’twere any but you—”
“Aye, but I am not Rhys ap Gawain.”
“Pity,” she said flippantly.
His hand tightened on her wrist. “You are my wife now. You will do as I tell you from now on. One of the very first things you must learn is that you do not use that insolent tone with me.”
Gwen flashed him a pretty smile, tilting her head to one side. “It must be an incredible bore, what with people always bowing and scraping in your presence.”
The pressure of his hand changed. He stroked the inside of her wrist and palm. She’d expected anger, but his mouth curved in a smile. “I don’t expect you to bow, sweet. All I need from you is for you to keep your mouth shut and spread your pretty legs—though not at the same time. I certainly don’t mind if you wish to scream in bed.”
Gwen snatched her hand away. Fortunately, she was saved from a reply when trumpets heralded the beginning of the feast.
Edward and Eleanor took their places at the center of the table, and the servants began their steady stream from the kitchens.
A girl poured wine into a single goblet. Gwen was dismayed to realize she and Richard would share it, as well as the plate of silver before them. A bowl of warm rosew
ater was placed between them and a servant stood ready, holding a fresh linen towel.
The king and queen were served first, then the newlyweds and important guests, and finally the rest of the hall.
Richard took a silver-handled eating knife from his belt and carved into the roast venison. The smell was heavenly.
He made quick work of the meat, tearing it into small pieces. He chose one of the juiciest morsels and held it out. Surprised, Gwen took it from the tip of the knife.
When he held out the next piece, it was in his fingers.
“Open for me,” he said. His fingers lingered over her lower lip, and she found it strangely exciting.
Gwen swallowed quickly. “Will you not eat, my lord?”
“Only when you have finished.”
She reached for the goblet, but he got to it first. She hesitated when he held it to her lips, then sipped. The sweet wine warmed her insides. Or was it the look in his eyes as their gazes locked over the top of the cup that caused it?
The afternoon wore on, the courses becoming grander with its passing. There were endless dishes of meat and game, birds delicately roasted and then made to seem lifelike when their feathers were painstakingly put back into place, stuffed fish, lamprey eels, dishes of stewed vegetables, and baked pears sweetened with honey.
Musicians walked through the hall, playing their instruments gaily, clad in brightly colored cloaks. There were lutes and timbrels, a harp and bladder-pipes. A minstrel regaled the high table with a tale of warriors and dragons.
“Do you not like the story?” Richard asked.
Gwen started. She’d not realized she was frowning. “I was just thinking a Welsh bard would be better.”
Richard smiled. “A poor English minstrel can’t compare, eh?”
Gwen fixed him with a haughty stare. “Nothing English can compare, my lord.”
If anything, his smile widened. “Oh, we shall see about that… eventually.”
Damn the bastard, he was making her blush again! Gwen reached for the goblet, but he was there first. She kept her eyes downcast as she drank.
“What are you doing?” she asked when his other hand threaded through her hair.
“They expect a happy bridal couple,” he said, jerking his head toward the hall. He set the goblet down and leaned forward to kiss her.
Gwen parted her lips out of sheer instinct. Yes, that had to be the reason. She certainly hadn’t done it because she wanted to kiss him.
She vaguely heard the cheers of the crowd through the pounding in her ears. When his tongue stroked across hers, she answered, meeting him with a hunger she hadn’t known she possessed.
He pulled away and she gazed up at him. He was much too handsome for comfort. She could drown in those eyes of liquid silver.
“How does that compare?”
“Huh?” she said. He smiled and she jerked away, her cheeks flaming. “It will do, I suppose.”
She hoped it sounded the same as if he’d asked her something trivial, like how the wine was, or how she thought the venison tasted.
Richard only laughed.
As dusk approached, the torches were lit and a portion of the floor cleared for dancing.
“We must lead the first dance,” Richard said in her ear, his hot breath sending a tingle down her neck.
Other couples joined them as the musicians began to play. They moved down the line, changing partners, until the pattern came full circle again.
The music stopped and the dancers clapped. Richard pulled her against him.
“Not yet, my boy!” someone said. “You’ve a long way to go until the bedding!”
People laughed. Hands were suddenly on their shoulders, tearing the newlyweds apart. William de Valence, Earl of Pembroke and the King’s uncle, clapped Richard on the back and steered him off the floor.
Gwen turned as male voices clamored behind her for the next dance. And found herself face to face with Dafydd ap Gruffydd.
“Niece,” he said, holding out his hand.
She regarded him icily, intending to sweep him aside. He grabbed her hand before she could act. “Let me go!”
“Not until you dance with me.” Although much younger, he resembled his brother. His hair was darker, with not a strand of gray, and his eyes were a mossy green.
But the shape of his face, the handsome lift of his mouth, the arch of his brows—those were the same as Llywelyn’s.
Gwen stood stiffly, refusing to move. The other dancers were waiting, and rather than make a scene, she acquiesced.
“You are as lovely as your mother was, Gwenllian.”
“Thank you.”
They moved through the steps in silence. She could feel Dafydd watching her. Unable to stand any more, she snapped, “What do you want from me?”
“To warn you.”
Only the pressure of his hand kept her moving. “About what?”
“Your husband. Watch him, Gwenllian. Be cautious. He’s a dangerous man.”
“Gwalchddu you mean. I’m well aware of it. But why do you care?”
“Because of Eurwen. She would never have approved of Llywelyn doing this to you.”
He was hitting too close to the mark. Gwen stared straight ahead. “’Tis none of your business! He does what he must to preserve Wales.”
Dafydd’s bark of laughter startled her. “Aye, ’tis what he says all right. Mayhap he thought the same thing when he sent Eurwen away, too.”
Gwen halted. The dance was over, but she hadn’t noticed. She clutched his hand. “What do you mean, Dafydd? What are you talking about?”
He bowed and kissed her hand. “Thank you for dancing with me, Gwenllian.”
And then he was gone. Gwen started after him, but she was stopped by a wall of people. She’d always been told that her mother had abandoned her and her father, chosen to return from whence she came.
Faceless men stepped up to her, asking for a dance. Gwen accepted, one by one. Her mind whirled. Dafydd ap Gruffydd was a liar and a traitor. But what if he wasn’t lying this time?
* * *
“Where are you going, Richard?”
Richard turned back to the knot of men. “I think you have managed to keep me from my bride long enough, don’t you?”
William de Valence chuckled. Red Gilbert’s face twisted in a knowing smirk. “I am sure you will make up for it once the door to the nuptial chamber closes.”
“Aye, likely to keep us all awake with the lass’s screams of pleasure ringing through the castle till the dawn,” said Henry de Lacy, Earl of Lincoln and Salisbury.
Edward’s brother, Edmund of Lancaster, Derby, and Leicester, affectionately called Crouchback, glanced furtively at Eleanor seated out of earshot, but lowered his voice anyway. “The way I hear it, Richard and Ned fucked their way through every whorehouse between here and the Holy Land. He’ll wear her out long before dawn, then he’ll start on the serving wenches!”
The men guffawed. Gilbert slapped Edmund on the back, forcing him to spit out the wine he’d just drunk. Edmund coughed, wiping his mouth on his velvet sleeve. Edward sauntered over.
“What’s so funny, brother?”
Edmund looked up, tried to speak, then broke off in a fit of giggles. The other men laughed. Edmund sank to the bench and found himself on the floor. He looked around for a moment, startled, then started laughing again.
“Christ almighty, Edmund, ’tis by the divine grace of God that you were not born first,” Edward said, rolling his eyes in mock disdain.
Edmund blinked, giggling. “Amen, brother. I’d not want your crown for anything.”
Edward turned to Richard. “What’s got him so tickled?”
Richard lowered his voice. “He was chronicling our exploits in the finest pleasure houses of Christendom.”
“Ah, it seems it must be nearing time for the bedding then, eh? Talk always seems to turn to sex when people are anxious to proceed with the ceremonies.” His brows drew together. “Who is that young Welshman y
our wife is talking to, Richard?”
Richard turned to follow Edward’s gaze. They were the only men in the room who could see over the crowd. “Rhys ap Gawain,” he said, moving before Edward could reply.
* * *
“The Earl of Dunsmore has many enemies, does he not?”
Anne jumped. She turned to glare at the newcomer. She did not like being startled, and she did not like sharing her plans.
The man let his gaze wander down her body, then back up again. Anne tingled. He was handsome, with his dark auburn hair and beard, and his green eyes. He wasn’t tall, not like Richard or the king, but he was lean and hard. “What makes you think I am his enemy?”
“’Tis written on your face, my dear. You hate him.” He walked behind her. Anne stood still, waiting. Her heart quickened. Then she felt the press of his hard body against her back and his hot breath in her ear. “Jilted you, did he?”
Anne stiffened, furious. She spun around to face him. “Who are you?”
“Your color only confirms it,” the stranger said, laughing. He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “Dafydd ap Gruffydd, at your service.”
Anne felt a rush of desire at his touch, saw the answering look in Dafydd’s eyes. “Well, well, a Welsh prince,” she said.
“Mayhap you will go for a walk with me. I hear the gardens are lovely at night.”
Anne extracted her hand. “There are no gardens, Highness.”
Dafydd smiled. He was really only a lord here in England, since Edward recognized Llywelyn as the Prince of Wales, but he was still a prince by birth. “You’ve not told me your name,” he said as she started to walk away.
“Lady Anne Ashford.”
“Ashford. I am familiar with Ashford Hall. Mayhap I will drop in one day.”
Anne lowered her lashes and shot him a coy glance, then turned and walked away. Dafydd ap Gruffydd. As much as she wanted to stay and flirt with him, she already had other plans for the evening.
* * *
“You are supposed to help me, Rhys!” Gwen cried.
Rhys’s eyes flashed. “I’ll not help you find Dafydd. He’s a traitor to our people!”