by Natasha Wild
He pressed against her entrance. She was impossibly tight and he shuddered. He checked himself. His need was great and he was dangerously close to thrusting to the hilt. She quivered beneath him and he felt a surge of triumph. His Welsh bride was as affected as he by the joining of their bodies, whether she admitted it or not.
He pressed his lips to her ear, murmured encouragement to her in Welsh, swallowing heavily as he slipped into her folds. So tight.
“Open for me, Gwen,” he said in a husky whisper. She was so small he feared he might hurt her.
“I know not what you mean,” she replied.
“Sweet Christ, do not tease me now, woman!” He pushed deeper still, then froze. “Oh my God,” he groaned. It couldn’t be—it just couldn’t be!
Richard rolled off her, his mind trying to adjust to this startling revelation. There was no mistaking the barrier he had encountered. His wife was no whore.
“I told you so you great black brute!” She scrambled onto him, clawing, slapping. With a quick movement, he pinned her arms to her sides and pressed her onto her back.
The sheet had tangled, coiling around her body and separating them by a thin sheaf of linen. Her breath broke on a sob. She wasn’t quivering with desire. She was shaking with fear! Jesú, he was no better than men like Gloucester!
He wanted to hold her, comfort her, make everything right again. “I did not know. I thought…”
“I know what you thought, you vile English bastard! I hate you!” she said tearfully.
Richard flinched. He deserved her hatred and more for the insults he’d dealt her. He had refused to see her as anything but a whore from the moment he learned she was Llywelyn’s daughter. Nay, that was not true either. He’d considered her for a leman the very instant he slipped off her hood in the stables of Rhuddlan castle.
Her underlip quivered and he couldn’t stop himself from kissing her once more. He coaxed her to part her lips, sliding his tongue over them lightly. He wanted to reassure her, prove he could be gentle.
But kissing her, even so tenderly, was enough to start his shaft pulsing again. When she felt it, she jerked away like a rabbit trying to escape a fox.
“Please, my lord, please don’t hurt me,” she said in a rush.
Richard lifted his head. Her eyes were wide, their depths a mixture of fear and loathing. With a sigh, he buried his face against her neck, breathing deeply of her sweet scent. “I won’t hurt you,” he said thickly. And then he let her go.
Slipping into his clothes, he was siezed by a primal joy that she had known no other man. And he, like some kind of crazed animal, had almost raped her. That left a sour taste in his mouth. He’d never forced his attentions on a woman before, had never needed to.
Returning to the bed, Richard pushed the sheet back and pulled his dagger. He ran the finely-honed blade across the underside of his forearm.
Gwen gasped. “What are you doing?”
“There must be blood on the sheets tomorrow.”
“But…” She looked up with wondering eyes.
“I’ve treated you badly this night. I’ll not touch you again until you wish it.” Clenching his fist, he held his arm over the linen until a few drops had fallen, then wiped the wound on his tunic. “Sleep well, Princess.”
He unbarred the door and called for Alys. “Lock it behind you.”
He waited until he heard the bolt slide into place before he moved.
12
Alys came rushing into the chamber. “What on earth happened? You’ve not been in here long enough for—” She stopped when she took one look at Gwen.
“I don’t want to talk about it, Alys,” Gwen said quietly.
“Did he hurt you, child?”
“Nay. Leave me. Please.”
Alys sighed and gathered her blankets, then retreated to her pallet in the antechamber.
Gwen stared at the ruby red drops staining the sheet. It should have been her blood, but it was his. She straightened the coverlets and sank back onto the pillows. She felt strangely empty inside. Sleep would be a long time coming.
* * *
Richard didn’t know where he was going until he came to the door leading to the battlements. A walk in the cold air would do him good. He found himself alone on the castle walls, the guards having presumably retired to some corner to dice and drink.
Richard leaned against a merlon, propping his foot in an open crenel. Lights blazed in the town. Revelers’ voices stole to him on the night air. The celebration, his celebration, was in full swing in the Great Hall far below.
How in the hell could he have been so wrong about her? His hand strayed to his sword hilt and he caressed it out of habit. The weapon was as much a part of him as his own soul, the need to carry it deeply ingrained from years spent in the unforgiving borderlands.
He swore softly. Instinct had told him she was untouched when he went to her room two nights ago, but he had pushed it away. She was Llywelyn’s daughter for God’s sake! She was supposed to be immoral!
She could have been currying favor with Ned, though he doubted it. The King could not resist a beautiful woman. Richard should have known who was seducing whom, but he’d been too blinded by rage, too willing to believe the worst about his Welsh bride.
He slumped against the wall, sickened by his own misconceptions. She hated him and he deserved it.
The night grew still, the laughter and music gradually fading. He heard the clattering of horses’ hooves in the bailey as some of the guests departed for their lodgings in town. Many would be bedded in the hall below. Others, the important ones, would have their own chambers.
The castle lay in absolute silence when Richard finally decided to rouse himself. He had no idea how long he’d been there, but he threw back his head and laughed, the sound all the louder because it was the only one on the chill air.
What the hell was the matter with him? His wife was a virgin! He was going to be first and last. He should be celebrating his good fortune, not sulking in the shadows like a cat.
But first he must make this night up to her. She desired him. That much was plain in the way she’d responded to him in the past. His groin tightened. He would seduce her slowly, deliciously, until she could no longer resist.
He laughed. It shouldn’t take all that long. He was very skilled in the art of seduction.
She didn’t stand a chance.
He wound his way through the castle, heading for their chamber. Someone moved in the passage ahead. He stopped, drawing his dagger. The blade gleamed in the torchlight. He shrank into a shadow and waited.
Soon, a blonde head came into view. He sighed and sheathed the knife, stepping into the light once more.
“Jesú, Richard! What the devil are you doing here?”
“I might ask the same of you, Ned.”
Edward glanced at the door next to them. “Tired of your new wife already? Find a serving wench.”
Edward tapped on the door. A woman with pale hair answered. “Majesty,” she breathed, opening the door to admit him.
When Edward was well inside the room, she swept Richard with a knowing look. “So the little witch wasn’t worth the wait after all? ’Tis a pity . . .”
“Anne!” came Edward’s impatient voice from behind her. She smiled and closed the door.
* * *
Gwen slept badly, as she had known she would. She awoke several times after what seemed only to be minutes. Richard had not returned. Finally, she got up and wrapped her bedrobe around her.
The fire had burned down until only a soft glow remained. Alys snored on her pallet in the antechamber. Gwen crossed to one of the chairs and sat down.
She knew where Richard was. He had found another bed, one with a welcoming woman. She twisted a lock of hair.
Well, it was not as if she cared. The bastard had damn near raped her. She was glad he was gone.
But she couldn’t stop thinking about him. His raw male beauty nearly stole her breath away. She almost wi
shed she had glimpsed the mysterious male organ, but she had been too frightened to look at it when he removed his braies. She tingled with the remembrance of where he had put that male weapon.
It was irritating actually. Why had it not felt as good then as the thought of it did now?
She had not expected him to stop when he did. Black Hawk de Claiborne was a cruel man. He should not have stopped. Jesú, it would be easier to hate him if he had not!
A soft tap came on the door. Gwen crossed to the entryway. Alys would never hear his knock.
She slid the bar from its cradle, then opened the door slowly. Richard slipped in and closed it behind him. She could barely see him in the murky antechamber. His dark form seemed but a shadow in the night, shapeless, a demon come to haunt her. Her worst nightmare.
Alys snorted.
Gwen jumped, nearly screaming.
The old woman coughed, then turned on her pallet, oblivious to all but her dreams. Gwen pressed her hand to her chest.
“You should have asked who it was,” he growled.
Gwen bristled. “Who else would be sneaking into this chamber in the wee hours of the morn?”
He went and sat in a chair, then poured wine from the flagon on the table. Gwen stopped just outside the antechamber, unsure of what to do next.
He watched her for some moments. “What are you doing out of bed?”
“I could not sleep.”
“Come here.”
Gwen hesitated.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said softly.
Rushes crackled under her feet, the faint scent of marjoram rising from them. She stopped in front of him. He pulled her onto his lap, tucking her into the bend of his arm before settling his mantle around her.
“’Tis too cold for you to be out of bed.”
“I am not cold, my lord.”
“Richard.”
“Richard,” she repeated. In truth, the heat he gave her was welcome. Discreetly, she snuggled closer.
“Drink some wine. ’Twill warm you,” he said, raising the goblet to her lips. She sipped, gazing at him over the rim.
She saw the passion flare in his eyes, felt it stir in his loins. Gwen pushed the wine away and tried to slide from his lap. He wrapped his arm around her, holding her tight.
“I cannot help how my body responds to you any more than the sun can help rising and setting. I gave you my word I would not touch you. Just sit awhile and it’ll stop, I promise.”
Gwen stilled. In a way, it thrilled her to know she caused such a reaction in him. “Where were you all night, my lord?”
He searched her face. “Where do you think I was?”
Gwen chewed her lip. She shouldn’t have asked. Now he would think she cared what he did. “I think you were probably with your leman,” she said imperiously.
He laughed softly. “Jealous?” His silver eyes seemed like smoke in the dim light of the chamber.
“Nay, of course not!”
“I do not believe you, Gwen.”
Gwen turned her head to escape his scrutiny. He was so infuriating! He put a finger under her chin and pulled her back.
“I am not jealous,” she repeated firmly.
“You would not have asked otherwise. Women always want to know just where it is a man has been when they care very much where he has been.”
“I do not know what you are talking about. I am not—”
“I want to kiss you,” he interrupted, setting the wine on the table. “Will you let me?”
Gwen lowered her lashes. She should tell him no. “Aye,” she said softly, raising her eyes to his once more. Her heart started to thunder. Yes, God help her, she did want him to kiss her.
His expression was unreadable. Slowly, his head descended. Gwen closed her eyes. Excruciating seconds passed.
His lips grazed hers.
She waited, expecting more, wanting more.
He did not return.
She opened her eyes reluctantly. “Why did you stop?” she asked, a touch breathless.
“You did not tell me I could keep going.”
“Oh.”
“Would you like me to kiss you again?”
“Yes.”
He kissed her harder, longer. Her heart pounded. He stopped, kissed her chin. “Again?” he whispered.
“Yes.” This game was sending coils of heat spiraling through her. The logical part of her brain was trying to tell the rest of her that this was madness, that she was playing with a fire that threatened to rage out of control and consume her.
His mouth became more demanding. His tongue caressed her lower lip. He stopped. “Again?”
“Yes,” she moaned, unable to stand the torture any longer, ignoring the warning signals in her mind.
His mouth descended. She parted her lips and his tongue slipped inside. He shuddered. His manhood came to life, bucking insistently against her. Gwen shifted, part nervous fear, part curiosity.
He groaned, kissing her harder, deeper.
She wound her arms around his neck. Their tongues met, stroked, melded. Just when she thought the fire would consume her, he stopped. He kissed the hammering pulse in her throat.
“I cannot keep kissing you,” he said thickly.
Gwen bit the inside of her cheek. She wasn’t sure she wanted this to end just yet. “Why not?”
His shaft leapt beneath her. “That is why. I am in danger of breaking my promise.”
Sweet Mary, she almost wanted him to. But she’d not give in so easily because it was exactly what he expected. What was the tale? Sacrificing virgins on the altar of his masculinity. Gwen took a deep breath. She was never going to do the things he expected. “Mayhap you are right then.”
His eyes narrowed for a second, then he sighed. “’Tis almost dawn, Gwen. We must get in bed before the women come to inspect the sheets.”
“We?”
“Yes, we, sweet. Do not worry, the only thing I will do is sleep.”
Aye, he needed sleep because he had been out bedding some other woman all night. Not that she cared, of course.
He stood with her still in his arms and carried her to the bed. She waited until she was under the coverlets before she shed the robe and tucked it under her pillow.
Richard’s eyes twinkled with amusement as he began to strip. Gwen watched him, breathless, then turned away at the last second, flushing at his low chuckle.
The mattress shifted as his weight sank onto it. Gwen had to hold on to keep from rolling into him. Her skin tingled with his nearness. She could actually feel him breathing!
And then she felt him behind her. His body didn’t touch hers, but he was close enough that his heat scorched her anyway. She stifled a gasp when his lips touched her shoulder. His fingers traced a searing path down her side—shoulder to curve of waist to flare of hip to thigh. Gwen felt a tremor of excitement wash over her.
“Good night, Princess,” he murmured in her ear. Then he turned on his side, and promptly fell asleep.
For a while, Gwen did not think she would be able to do the same. Her body was on fire. Her breasts tingled, and the damp heat between her thighs pulsed. It was a very long time before the rhythmic sound of his breathing lulled her into a sleep that was troubled by dreams of him touching her in those places that burned for him.
* * *
Gwen awoke, still enclosed in the cocooned semi-darkness of the bedcurtains. A sliver of light cut through a narrow opening, caressing Richard’s body from the waist down. She waited, but he did not move.
It was odd, waking up beside a man. He lay on his back, one knee bent to the side, his head turned away from her. She could feel the heat coming from his body and she longed to curl up beside him. She wanted to see what he looked like and what he felt like.
Curiosity began to get the best of her the longer she lay there. What did he look like down there anyway? She wormed her way toward him, easing across him to look at his face. His eyes were closed.
She lay back, exhaling slow
ly. Now, all she had to do was lift the covers and the mysterious male sex would be revealed. She took a deep breath. Slowly, she lifted.
The black hair that had tapered down to the waist of his braies branched out again, hiding what she sought. She frowned. Maybe if she sat up a little. Her face flamed at her brazenness.
Gwen clenched her stomach muscles, raising herself.
“Can I help you find something, sweet?” His voice was drowsy, but amused.
She dropped the coverlet and fell back. “I was just going to get out of bed.”
“Then why did you not get out on your side?”
Gwen could think of nothing to say.
Before she realized what he was doing, he rolled her beneath him, making sure the sheet separated their bodies. Gwen gasped. It wasn’t enough. She felt every excruciating inch of his skin as it burned into hers.
“I want to kiss you,” he whispered.
“No.” She couldn’t allow him to steal her senses as he had last night. Whenever he kissed her, she was in danger of losing herself, of drowning in him. She had the upper hand now. His guilt would not allow him to touch her without permission. She was going to make sure he paid for all the horrible things he’d done to her.
“You don’t mean that,” he murmured, nibbling her ear.
Gwen closed her eyes. Sweet Mary! If this was how life with him was going to be, she would never endure it. Her body betrayed her without a trace of remorse, awakening to the hot ripple of his breath in her ear.
“Let me kiss you,” he whispered again, fiercely, urgently. She turned toward him, seeking him.
Her answer was lost as his mouth descended, claiming hers. In a rhythm she now knew well, she parted her lips, moaning as their tongues met.
Even as she felt his manhood growing and stretching, her body responded. The sweet ache tortured her, begged her to join her body with his.
As if he knew what she was thinking, he ground his iron maleness against her, rubbing slowly. She sucked in her breath as sensation bolted through her, then raised her hips to meet him.