The Dark Knight's Captive Bride

by Natasha Wild

  Gwen looked away, crossing her arms over her breasts as he stood and stepped from the tub.

  When she finally stole a glance at him, he was nearly dressed. His face was hard, savage. The muscle in his jaw twitched.

  Gwen knew despair in that moment. He would spend the night in some other woman’s bed, touching her, kissing her with all the passion that should be Gwen’s.

  “Ask Owain for anything you might need while I’m gone. I will instruct him to teach you how to administer a castle in your lord’s absence. I doubt you had much training for that in your father’s household.”

  Gwen gripped the padded edge of the tub. “When will you return?”

  “Do you care?” he asked harshly. He rubbed a hand over his brow, his voice softening. “I don’t know. It could be days, maybe weeks.”

  Gwen’s heart sank. She almost changed her mind, almost asked him to make love to her, but the words were too foreign.

  He scooped up the armor. “’Tis best if I sleep elsewhere this night. I will send Alys to attend you.”

  Gwen’s blood roared in her temples. “You mean you will spend the night in another woman’s bed.”

  His face darkened. “You’ll not question me, wife,” he growled. “I’m a man. I have needs. If you cannot meet them, ’tis your own fault if I spend myself on another.”

  He left and Gwen smacked her hand against the water. Fat droplets splashed her face, trickling down her neck to wash away the lingering sensation of his kisses.

  * * *

  Richard strode into the Great Hall. A pretty wench eyed him and licked her lips. He watched her, undecided. His body throbbed. This girl was new. He’d not taken her before.

  She swung her head toward the pantry. Richard nodded. He followed, closing the door behind him. The pantry was deserted, as she must have known it would be. Loaves of bread, and the remains of prepared dishes from the kitchen, were laid out on the shelves and tables.

  The girl lifted her skirts, smiling. Richard swallowed. Goddamn his flame-haired bitch of a wife to hell! He would not wait for her to give him the release he sought. It was her fault she drove him to this.

  A niggling voice told him he’d gone too fast with her. He’d let his need spiral out of control and he’d frightened her. If he went back and started over, plied her with sweet talk and gentle caresses, she would surrender to him, he was sure of it.

  But going back would mean humbling himself. Richard clenched his jaw. He would not beg a woman for her favors, especially when there were others willing to appease him.

  He’d wanted to deny her accusations of infidelity, but anger and pride prevented him. She would learn her place and she would learn not to question or accuse him.

  Richard eyed the wench doubtfully. If he did this, it would put Gwen in a bad position. He shook his head. He was the lord of this castle. The servants would obey Gwen because she was his wife, whether he tumbled serving wenches or not. The lord always kept lemans.

  Despite the display of legs and female attributes, his shaft was flaccid. Richard closed his eyes and thought of Gwen. He pictured her in his tub, her creamy skin glistening with moisture, her green eyes wide, her lips parted in discovery.

  His manhood cooperated. He was going to do this. He was going to prove, to himself and to her, that he would not be ruled by any woman.

  He released the drawstring of his chausses and braies. The girl smiled and licked her lips.

  Richard swallowed again. “Like this,” he said, turning her so she was bent face first over a table. Her round bottom wiggled, inviting him to sheathe himself within the glistening pink folds of her womanhood.

  He shoved all thoughts of Gwen from his mind and stepped closer, gripping the girl’s hips.

  “Aye, milord, aye,” she panted.

  The sound of her voice, high-pitched, not throaty and musical like Gwen’s, shattered his single-minded concentration.

  Richard backed away, his stomach twisting. “Not tonight.”

  Bloody hell if he wasn’t losing his mind. His hands were actually shaking as he fastened his clothes!

  He turned away when the girl faced him. Her skirts dropped into place with a swish. She waited, as if he might change his mind.

  “Get back to the hall,” he snapped.

  “Aye, milord.” The door closed behind her and Richard leaned against a table, bracing himself with his hands.

  God help him, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t leave Gwen to face a servant he’d recently bedded. They might obey her, but they’d laugh behind her back.

  He should have taken the time to introduce her in the hall tonight. Now she would have to forge her own way with the staff. Owain would help her, he would see to it.

  He almost succeeded in convincing himself that was the only reason he’d stopped.

  17

  As dawn sent its first pink shards skyward, Richard rode through the gates of Claiborne and into the valley below. Ten knights accompanied him, breaking into a gallop at his signal.

  Frost covered the rippling hillocks. The morning air stung his throat and lungs. Mist hung over the Dee, cloaking it in ghostly raiment.

  Sirocco, sensing his master’s grim mood, cocked an ear backwards. Richard patted the stallion’s shoulder. Horses were a damn sight easier to understand than women.

  Richard had spent the night on a bench in the hall. He’d not had the energy to find another chamber. He’d had to listen to the grunts and moans of satisfied lovers mating beneath blankets on the floor. It had not helped his temper in the least.

  He could have sent Gwen to the women’s quarters, but somehow the thought of sleeping in his bed without her was too much to bear after the brief taste he’d had of her.

  God, the night they could have had if she’d only let it happen! His body hardened as he remembered the silken feel of her skin beneath his fingers, her startled gasps as she’d discovered her sensuality, the way her wet hair had clung to her neck when he’d brushed it aside to kiss her throat.

  It would be a long ride if he kept thinking of his wife.

  The morning sun quickly disappeared behind a blanket of thick clouds, yet it was still early when they reached Lydford manor. The villagers stared as they rode through. ’Twas not often Richard rode out to his manors. Patrolling the border took up all of his time, so he left the management of his fiefs entirely to his estates steward.

  Richard noted with satisfaction that the houses were well thatched and the walls stout. No holes in the wattle and daub. Pigs and chickens ran freely. Dogs barked. Some loped along beside the destriers, wagging their tails. Others stood and watched them pass, too busy or too lazy to join in the chase.

  The villagers raised hands in greeting, calling out to Lord Black Hawk. These people knew the value of their overlord and they told him so with their grins and waves. Not only did he provide them the means to fill their bellies and those of their families, he also kept the borderland safe so they could prosper in peace.

  Laughing children with dirty faces ran behind the knights, gaping at the giant warhorses and the armored men who sat atop the beasts. Black Hawk de Claiborne was a legend come to life and they followed him all the way to the gates of Lydford manor.

  The men rode into the courtyard. The laundress looked up from her trough of linens. She wiped her wrist across her face, her solution of wood ash and caustic soda forgotten for the moment.

  Isabelle de Lydford rushed from the keep. She wore a plain brown surcoat and chemise and her hair was hidden beneath a woolen wimple. A smile lit her plump face as her gaze searched eagerly over the men. The smile died slowly as Richard dismounted.

  “W-where is Hugh?”

  Richard clenched his fists, the mail biting into his skin. God, how he hated this! He’d told wives before that their husbands were dead, but each time was like the first. The pain was always the same. “Lady de Lydford, I wish to speak privately with you.”

  Isabelle’s face paled. Her back stiffened and her chin l
ifted bravely. “I would hear what you have to say now, my lord.”

  “’Twould be better if--”

  “Nay! I cannot bear to wait. Tell me now, my lord, please.”

  Richard took a deep breath and stepped closer. “Hugh served me well, lady. ’Tis no greater honour than to die in the service of your lord, and of your king.”

  Isabelle’s eyes filled with tears. She began to shake and she pressed her hands to her face. “I thought I could bear it, but I cannot,” she whispered.

  A scream rent the air as she fell to her knees. She beat her fists into the dirt, wailing. Richard bent to lift her up but she jerked away from him. He stooped beside her, the edge of his scarlet surcoat pooling like blood at his feet.

  “Lady de Lydford, please, for your children’s sake.” He never knew what to say or how to comfort the women.

  Always, he thought of his father. Had William de Claiborne felt like this when his wife died? Richard swallowed. Jesú, to love someone so much that the loss was like having an arm or a leg ripped off. It was frightening.

  Isabelle’s body shook beneath the weight of her sobs. She looked up at him finally, her eyes red-rimmed, tears streaming down her face. “What…will…become of me…and—and my children?”

  “Your son is heir to the fief Hugh held for me. You are under my protection until he comes of age.”

  She turned away, nodding, her body still shaking with sobs. Richard stood. His men were looking the other way. Some of them fidgeted with their reins, others sat stiffly. Each man knew that it could have been him, or that he could be next.

  The village priest hurried forward. Richard remounted. “Take care of her, Father,” he said, gathering his reins and signaling his men forward.

  The men rode in silence to the crossroads where Andrew awaited them. Richard thought of Isabelle de Lydford long after they’d left the village and manor behind.

  Loving too much was dangerous. His mother had been the lucky one. She’d gone to her grave loved and loving. It was his father who remained to bear all the pain. And him.

  That was why he swore he would never love anyone again, especially a wife. Women died in childbirth all the time. Elizabeth had, and the babe with her. What was to stop his newest wife from doing the same?

  * * *

  Gwen awoke all alone in the strange bed. She damned herself for even thinking Richard might have come back in the night. His bed was not unpleasant, but it had certainly evoked provocative dreams of him.

  Easing from the big bed, she slipped on her robe. Alys bustled into the room, her face a very indignant red.

  “You would not believe, my lady!” Her hands gestured wildly in time with her mood. “These English heathens have no fresh bread or pastries. The cook says ’tis mutton and cheese and stale bread, or nothing! And that I only gathered by his pointing and shouting. He speaks not a word of Welsh or French! Just that vile, guttural, grating-on-my-ears English!”

  Gwen groaned inwardly. English. It had never occurred to her that these people wouldn’t speak French. In all her time in the king’s household, she’d never had a problem because all the servants spoke court French.

  Even in Shrewsbury she’d never encountered a servant she could not converse with. But this was the March, a border castle at the edge of the Welsh wildlands. There would be scant need for Richard’s servants to speak French.

  How could she have overlooked something so vital? Even Elinor had never thought of the possibility. She had been raised in exile in France, and was unaccustomed to English households.

  Damn Richard for leaving her to this!

  “’Tis all right, Alys. Help me dress and I will straighten these barbarians out. First, I will find that Owain. Mayhap he speaks this crude English.” She would not let her husband beat her down!

  Alys brightened at the suggestion. “Aye, he can give that cook the tongue-lashing he deserves!”

  “Now for my dress. Nothing too grand, and nothing too plain. I must look noble, but not too far above them. Wool, I think. ’Tis too cold for silk, and velvet will be too pretentious.”

  “Aye, my lady,” Alys replied, heading for the antechamber. She heard Alys flipping through her trunks and she retrieved her brush.

  When Alys returned, she had a black chemise and a red surcoat. Gwen grimaced. “Crimson and black, Alys?”

  The woman nodded. “Think about it. ’Tis the perfect reminder that you are the Countess of Dunsmore. If I’d thought of it before, I’d have embroidered hawks on some of your gowns.”

  Gwen took the garments. “Nay, Alys, no hawks. I’ve enough reminders without wearing them myself.”

  Alys shrugged. “As you wish, but ’tis a good idea.”

  Gwen dressed and went looking for Owain. Alys followed, grumbling about English heathens the whole way. Gwen stopped a girl and asked in French if she knew where Owain was. The girl blinked. Gwen moved on. She asked two more women who looked at her like she had ten heads. Gwen’s patience snapped on the fourth.

  “Owain!” she shouted. “Take me to Owain! I don’t care whether you understand another word, you understand Owain.” She motioned for the woman to start and incredibly she obeyed, taking Gwen and Alys right to the old Welshman.

  “Milady,” he said, rising from his seat and bowing. “What may I do for you?”

  Gwen walked into the room, her jaw dropping. It appeared to be the family solar. It was quite large and well furnished, though the furniture looked as if it hadn’t been polished in years. A fire burned in the hearth and smoke stained the rocks of the fireplace black. Dusty tapestries hung from the walls, which were wainscoted and painted, though dull from lack of cleaning.

  The cushions on the chairs were worn, the velvet cracked and faded. Gwen shook her head. Richard de Claiborne was wealthy. This was ridiculous. An earl of his standing should have a well-kept castle, not one that oozed neglect from the very foundations.

  She whirled on Owain. “What is the meaning of all this?” she asked, sweeping her arms wide.

  Owain’s fuzzy white eyebrows drew together. “I do not understand, milady. The meaning of what?”

  Gwen sighed. He was a man. This whole castle was full of men. The only women were the serving women and they wouldn’t be interested in keeping the castle clean if no one made them do it. Richard had said he doubted she had much training for administering a castle. Well, she was about to show him.

  Dear Lord, if this mess was what the English thought keeping a household was all about, it was a wonder they’d ever managed to find their way out of the rubble to defeat the Welsh.

  “First, I want you to gather all the chambermaids. I will give the orders and you will translate. Then we will see to the rest of the staff.”

  Gwen sank into a chair while Owain did as she bid. When he had gathered the women, Gwen proceeded to outline their duties as she’d heard Elinor do. Owain listened, his eyes widening at first. After he got over the initial shock, a grin spread across his features and he translated with what Gwen would have said was glee.

  The women glared at her, no doubt not relishing the tasks of waxing furniture, beating rugs, sweeping out the rushes, scrubbing the flagstones, setting out fresh rushes and scenting them with herbs, and scrubbing the walls until they were no longer dingy. Their faces brightened when she promised an extra day’s wages for a job well done.

  Owain frowned at that, but said nothing.

  The women hurried off, chattering amongst themselves, but not before dipping into a deep curtsy for their new mistress.

  Next, Gwen told the serving wenches in no uncertain terms that they were to dress more modestly and conduct themselves with better behavior while they served in the hall.

  She gave sweeping orders for the hounds to be removed to the stables immediately and for the knights and men-at-arms to not lounge unnecessarily.

  A search of the storerooms revealed yards and yards of velvet and trimmings for reupholstering the chairs and making new bed hangings. Alys got
to work immediately.

  “Take me to the kitchens, Owain,” Gwen said.

  “As you wish, my lady,” he replied, grinning from ear to ear.

  The kitchens were at the rear of the castle. The wooden building was large, housing two hearths and several workers. Heat radiated through the structure as cauldrons of soup and meat bubbled over the fires.

  Gwen spotted the master cook before Owain pointed him out. He stood next to a spit, deep in conversation with the girl who turned the meat. Every now and again, he would wave a hand or issue a command that sent men and women scurrying.

  The furtive glances of his staff alerted him something was amiss. He turned quickly, his eyes widening. His wrinkled face glowed red from the heat, as did his bald head.

  He directed a stream of grating English at Owain, gesturing at Gwen the whole time. Gwen drew herself up in her best princess manner. This man was going to be a handful.

  “What did he say, Owain?”

  Owain cleared his throat. “Uh, he doesn’t like you in his kitchen, milady. Says he’s not about to take orders from a slip of a girl.”

  “Tell him he is dismissed.”

  “Milady, Oliver has been at Claiborne for thirty years. You cannot dismiss him just like that.”

  “Yes, I can. Tell him he is dismissed. And this is my kitchen. Tell him that also.”

  Oliver turned even redder as Owain spoke. He shook a fist at Gwen, spouting in English.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he will only obey Lord de Claiborne. If Lord de Claiborne dismisses him he will go, and not until.”

  Gwen chewed the inside of her lip. She decided to be bold. She’d seen her father bluff his way through meetings with his chieftains. She would use the only weapon at her disposal. “Tell him he does not share Lord de Claiborne’s bed, I do. And what does he suppose Richard will do when he learns his cook has been rude to his new bride? I can’t imagine Richard will take kindly to such an insult.”