The Dark Knight's Captive Bride

by Natasha Wild

  “Nay, Princess, I cannot kill him yet. But one day, he’ll do something to break that treaty and then—”

  “You are wrong! He did not do it! Where is this man, this survivor? How did he know it was my father?”

  “He knew,” Richard growled.

  Gwen felt like a kitten that had gotten a tiger by the tail, but she wasn’t about to let go. “I want to speak to him! I’ll prove he’s wrong!”

  “You cannot.” His teeth flashed white as he bared them in a cruel smile. “He’s dead.”

  Gwen fisted his surcoat tighter. “I do not believe you.”

  “I am sorry, sweet, but ’tis true. He died before I got back from Crusade.”

  Gwen let him go. She sank back on her heels, staring at the floor. The man was dead. Richard would never believe her.

  Black Hawk de Claiborne was going to kill her father. She felt the hot trickle of tears as they washed over her cheeks. When she raised her head, Richard was watching her, his expression unreadable.

  “Gwen…” He lifted his hand, then dropped it again when it was halfway to her face. Shoving himself to his feet, he muttered a curse, and stalked into the night.

  15

  Gwen smacked at Alys’s hand, mumbling, then finally opened her eyes. The pain that rocked through her head almost made her collapse back on the blankets.

  She swallowed, the ache in her throat but another agonizing reminder of the night she had passed. God how she wished she had some willow bark.

  “Water, Alys. Please,” Gwen said, tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear as she climbed to her feet.

  When Alys returned, Richard was with her. He frowned. “You are unwell?”

  Gwen gripped the cup, her knuckles turning white. She wanted to scream. She’d cried herself to sleep after he’d gone. This was his fault and he stood there like some kind of a god, demanding to know if she felt well. “Whatever made you think that, my lord? I am quite well, thank you.”

  He glanced at Alys, then put a finger under Gwen’s chin. She jerked away, stung by his touch. He dropped his hand to his side, his brow furrowing.

  Alys mumbled an excuse and disappeared.

  He clasped his hands behind his back and planted his feet apart. “I am sorry if I upset you. I said things I should not have. ’Tis not your fault for the things your father has done. I do not blame you.”

  “How noble of you,” Gwen said dryly. “And I can assure you I do not need your insincere concern over my well being, my lord. Please do not strain your tongue by uttering things you don’t mean.”

  He spoke as if he’d never wronged the Welsh in his life, as if all the blame could be laid at her father’s feet. A distant part of her realized he was apologizing and that it was probably a thing he was unaccustomed to doing, but she didn’t care.

  He straightened to his full height, his eyes glittering like mountain ice. “You really push the limits of my patience, wife. I’ll not have you behaving like the barbarian you were brought up to be. In England, a wife knows her place. I expect you to learn yours.”

  Gwen spat a Welsh curse at him. On impulse, she tossed the contents of the cup in his face. Her blood pounded in her temples as his features hardened. He was on her in a split second, pinning her between the cave wall and his chest.

  Water trickled down his surcoat and flowed between them, seeping into her gown. Gwen pressed her cheek against the cool rock, squeezed her eyes shut, and braced herself for the blow he would surely give her this time.

  Breathless seconds passed. She felt him brushing her hair back over her shoulder and she opened an eye warily. His warm breath tickled her ear as his lips pressed into the soft flesh below it. A tingle rippled down her spine.

  He seized her earlobe between his teeth, nipping it gently while she bit her lip to keep from moaning. His mouth made a mockery of her resistance when he swept hot kisses across her throat. Her fingers dug into the rock to keep from clasping his head.

  His voice was soft and velvety when he spoke. “Know that I can take what is rightfully mine whenever I wish. I could have done so many times over by now, but I have not. Would you like it right here against this wall with my men listening to your cries? They’ll not help you. If I choose to beat you afterward, none will come to your aid.”

  One hand snaked beneath her loosened neckline. Gwen gasped as his thumb brushed her nipple, ashamed she couldn’t control her reactions when it beaded beneath his touch.

  “You like this,” he murmured.

  “Nay!”

  “Aye,” he said, pushing her gown aside and lowering his mouth to her breast. Gwen moaned. His tongue made delicate forays around the sensitive tip until she knew she would go mad. The trickle of cool water over her heated skin did not dampen the desire. In fact, it made the sensation more erotic.

  She couldn’t stop herself from saying it. Nay, moaning it. “Richard…”

  The insistent pressure of his body, the hot feel of his mouth, the cool water dripping off him, and the scent of his maleness were all gone. Gwen opened her eyes to find him watching her, his face hard and distant. She yanked her gown closed.

  He’d just made a fool of her. He’d provoked her desire until she responded, then backed away and left her reeling with a flame in her gut. Clutching the gown, her face flaming with indignance and shame, she lifted her chin and looked him square in the eye.

  “I hate you.” She’d meant it to come out forcefully, but it sounded more wounded than anything.

  “So you’ve said before.” He wiped his face on the edge of his mantle. “But it matters not. I do not need your love, only the sons you will give me. And I think I’ve proven you will be more than eager to give them to me. Now get ready, we leave shortly. I will come for you when ’tis time to go.”

  He walked out and Gwen flung the cup at his broad back. It missed, glancing off the hangings instead. The arrogant, no good, vile, insufferable English swine! She spun around and kicked the cave wall, then sank to the floor and clutched her foot in both hands.

  Alys returned, frowning as she bent to retrieve the cup. “Men can be beasts sometimes.” She began to fold the blankets and stow them for travel.

  Gwen looked up in surprise. “Aye.”

  Pushing at the curtain of hair that fell across her face, she picked up a brush and started to work out the snarls. When she had straightened her clothes and put on her shoes, she stepped into the open cave.

  The knights and their squires hustled around, breaking camp with the efficiency of men long used to hard lives in the wild.

  Gwen walked to the entrance. Richard stood beside his stallion, his back to her, tightening the fastenings of the saddle.

  The ground was icy where the rain had frozen in the night, spangled like stars sprinkled across the earth. Gwen’s breath curled in the frigid air. She thought of Snowdon and the early snows that would have claimed the slopes by now. She hoped Elinor and her father were well. She would have to write to them when she got to Claiborne.

  Would Richard allow her to write her father? Even if he did not, she would find a way.

  She wandered into the clearing, breathing deep the forest smells of evergreen and autumn. The sky was heavy with fleecy clouds. The first snows would come soon here too. Gwen reached for her hood, shaking off a sudden feeling of uneasiness.

  Within the space of a heartbeat, she heard a high-pitched whistling sound, then a sickening thunk and a man screaming. She dropped the hood, instinctively searching for Richard.

  He was not in the same place he’d been only moments before. Men and horses scrambled everywhere. Voices shouted in alarm. She thought she heard someone calling her name but she did not turn around.

  She caught sight of Richard as he swung into the saddle, his dark head towering above the rest. Relief flooded her. He unsheathed his sword with a quick movement and settled the large shield with the hawk device in front of him. Sirocco’s ears pinned to his head, his nostrils flaring with the scent of battle.
<
br />   All the knights who had managed to mount galloped toward the woods, charging the brigands’ position in an attempt to drive them back. Arrows whistled through the air, the sound eerie and inhuman. Gwen turned to run. Her gaze lighted on the man who had screamed. She stopped, pressing a shaking hand to her mouth.

  The arrow was embedded in the knight’s chest, the shaft sticking out of the steel as if it were Excalibur buried in the stone. His life’s blood seeped from his body, a crimson stain spreading across the frozen ground.

  Only an arrow fired from a Welsh longbow could pierce a knight’s armor as if it were an egg. She shuddered, scanning the treeline. The archer would have needed to be fairly close to fire such a deadly shot. The impact of the longbow was much greater at close range. At hand-to-hand range, it was deadly.

  Oh God, Richard! She took a faltering step forward, searching for him again.

  An arrow slammed into his shield, burying itself. Gwen sank to her knees, unaware she had screamed. Richard shouted at her, but she couldn’t move. He spurred Sirocco toward her, placing himself and the huge stallion between her and the onslaught of arrows.

  Breathless minutes passed before the arrow fire ceased as abruptly as it had begun. Next would come the charge with spears and swords and war cries. Gwen waited, but nothing happened. Mayhap the Welshmen realized they were out-numbered among so many armored knights.

  Richard yelled a command. Within seconds, several knights galloped off in pursuit.

  He dropped his shield and jumped from Sirocco’s back, falling to his knees beside her. “Are you hurt?” He ran his hands over her, his gaze following quickly.

  “Nay,” she whispered, staring at the clearing. Arrows scattered the ground. Some were buried in the earth until only the feathered tips protruded. There were no other bodies and for that she was thankful.

  He flung himself to his feet, then jerked her up by the arm. His grip was not gentle as he propelled her into the cave.

  Alys huddled with Anne and her maids. Tears streamed down her face as she ran to Gwen.

  “Why did you not come when I called?” Her hand shook as she smoothed it over Gwen’s arm. Gwen opened her mouth. Something told her she should apologize, but no words would come out. Richard spoke first.

  “’Tis over now, Alys. Your lady is fine. Sit with Anne and her maids a while longer and dry your tears.”

  Alys bit her lip and nodded, then returned to the group of women.

  Richard hauled Gwen deeper into the cave until they rounded a corner and were out of sight of the others. He whirled her to face him.

  “You stupid little witch! What the hell were you thinking?”

  Gwen blinked, barely conscious of him. “They were Welsh,” she said woodenly.

  “Of course they were Welsh!” His eyes narrowed. “How did you know?”

  “The knight… the longbow… the arrow—” Tears trickled down her cheeks.

  “Christ,” he whispered, pulling her against him. She clung to him, the tears spilling soundlessly. He stroked her hair, her back. “You should not have seen that.”

  He smelled of sweat and steel and rust. Gwen gripped his surcoat, pressing her nose against it, inhaling him. The sound of his breathing was reassuring, and for a while she could pretend he was still her knight from Rhuddlan castle.

  He held her for a long time and Gwen realized he would not break the contact first. She stayed in his arms longer than necessary, enjoying it even though she should not. For a time, it did not matter who and what he was. She had feared for him and he was safe and he was holding her and it felt good.

  But it could not last forever. She dried her eyes on her sleeve and tried to move away. He tightened his arms around her. “You could have been killed. Never leave safety so foolishly again.”

  Gwen traced the outline of the hawk over his breast. His concern did seem genuine, whether it was or not. She decided to pretend it was. It felt nice. “Yes, Richard,” she said softly.

  He tilted her face up and kissed her. She melted against him, clung to him like he was an anchor in a fierce storm. He pulled away first.

  Pressing his forehead to hers, he said, “We cannot leave until Andrew returns. I have much to do until then.”

  He took her hand, gently this time, and led her back to the others. When she sat next to Alys, he went to join his men.

  Anne shot her a smug look. “Not doing so well, are you dear?”

  Gwen was not in the mood for Anne Ashford. She ignored her, hoping the woman would take the hint. She did not.

  “Richard is not difficult to please. Demanding, certainly, but not difficult. Of course, if you had managed to satisfy him, he would not be so hard on you now.”

  Gwen raised her head slowly. Anne smiled. Gwen’s voice was low when she spoke. “You should be careful, Lady Ashford. You know what is said of the Welsh. We are savages, barbarians. There is no telling what we might do.”

  Anne’s smile faded. The two maids’ eyes widened. Alys glared at them, punctuating Gwen’s meaning.

  “Come, Alys.” Gwen stood, brushed the folds of her gown, and walked away with her chin in the air. Alys trailed behind her. Gwen could hear the woman chuckling under her breath.

  “That was telling her, my lady,” Alys said when they sank down closer to the entrance.

  Gwen smiled. “Sometimes, ’tis an advantage to have the English think us barbarians.”

  Richard reentered the cave, and her eyes were drawn to him. He was every inch a commander. His men listened to him with admiration and respect, then hurried to carry out his orders without question. And yet he also seemed to be listening to them, accepting their advice, and acting accordingly.

  Gwen clasped her hands together to keep from fidgeting with her cloak. When the Welsh had attacked, she’d had no thoughts for her countrymen. She’d only been afraid Richard would die.

  But wasn’t that what she really wanted? If he were dead, she could go home. She would not be forced to be his wife, to bear his touch. Her heart cried out at the thought of him dead, the same as she had cried out earlier.

  No, she did not wish him dead, especially after what she had seen today. She would wish that on no man.

  * * *

  Almost an hour passed before the knights returned. Andrew rushed in, his panting breath frosting quickly in the frigid air, his words coming out in half-gasps.

  “Got away, milord. No sign of others.”

  Richard smacked a mail-clad fist inside his hand. “God’s bones! We can’t stay to track them. I’ve got to get the women out of here.”

  “Me an’ Matthew can do it. Leave half the garrison an’ we’ll catch ‘em, milord.”

  Richard rubbed his face absently. It was a good idea under normal circumstances. He glanced at Gwen, then shook his head. “Nay. I need every man to guard the ladies and the baggage. We’ll make Claiborne by the end of the day, then we will return on the morrow.”

  “Aye, milord,” Andrew said, dipping his chin to his chest in salute.

  Richard’s gaze strayed to his new wife. Jesú, he did not want to leave her so soon, but he had no choice. Duty called.

  He went to her and held out his hand. “We are leaving now, sweet.”

  He wasn’t angry with her anymore although he should be. When he’d seen her standing in the clearing amid all that arrow fire, his heart had dropped to his feet. And when he’d pulled her inside and confronted her, he’d had to fight himself not to shake her until her teeth rattled.

  But then she’d turned to him for comfort and like some poor besotted fool, all his anger fled. In that moment, all he’d wanted was to hold her close and protect her.

  She slipped her hand in his and he helped her to her feet. Her hand was so small, so soft and delicate; so out of place in his large, battle-hardened one.

  Her sweet scent wrapped around his senses, tormented him with remembered dreams. God how he wanted her! He barely stopped himself from crushing her to him and burying his face in her silky
hair.

  Outside, Sirocco stamped his feet, snorting and twitching. The battle had excited the stallion and he was eager to gallop. As before, he quieted instantly when Richard spoke.

  He turned to lift Gwen onto the horse. She was watching him, but her gaze darted away, her cheeks flushing light pink. With the instinct of a man who knows the strength of his attraction to the opposite sex, Richard knew she had watched his hands skim Sirocco’s neck, had remembered them skimming her body.

  The knowledge sent a surge of triumph through him—and a desire so strong it nearly took his breath away.

  His hands spanned her waist and he found himself thinking how slight she was. For an instant, he wondered if she could withstand his passion. Surely he would break her in two if he weren’t careful.

  He pulled her to him, held her against him longer than necessary. Their gazes locked, and she suddenly turned her head away.

  “Look at me,” he commanded softly.

  She did and he touched his lips to hers. Unable to stop at such a brief taste, he deepened the kiss. Her response was both innocent and passionate, and his loins ached from want of her.

  “Jesú,” he swore.

  “My lord?”

  He traced a finger from her forehead to her jaw. “I was just wondering if the rest of you will taste as sweet.”

  Her color deepened. He lifted her onto Sirocco’s back, then donned his helm and buckled the straps securing it to his hauberk. When he’d pulled on his mail gauntlets, he climbed behind her.

  “Where is he?” she asked as they began to move.

  “Who?”

  “The dead knight.”

  “His body is tied to his horse. We must take him home and give him a proper burial. I shall have to tell his wife.” He cleared his throat. “Hugh had two children.”

  Gwen swallowed past the raw ache in her throat. She wanted to cry for Hugh, for his wife, for his children, but she had no tears left. She didn’t know him, but the senselessness of it all appalled her.

  Would this bloodshed between Wales and England never end?