The Dark Knight's Captive Bride

by Natasha Wild

  Her golden-green eyes were wide as her gaze flickered over him. Richard swallowed. Jesú, she was radiant. Her pale skin was like flawless cream against the blue velvet of her gown.

  He wanted to gather her into his arms and feather kisses across her face. Impatiently, he pushed off his chain-mail coif. His hair was matted with sweat, and he raked a hand through it. The crimson surcoat with the hawk device was torn and dirty. The great sword hung limp at his side, no longer shining and fierce.

  “’Tis good to see you, my lord,” she said.

  “Is it?”

  Gwen blinked. “Aye,” she said, lowering her gaze. It really was good to see him. She hated to admit she’d missed him. Even tired and dirty, he was handsome. She was drawn to him as only a woman could be to a man.

  He stripped off his gauntlets and tossed them aside, then came to stand before her. He picked up a lock of hair.

  “You have not been wearing a wimple, have you?”

  “I said I would not.”

  He dropped the flaming tendril and entwined his fingers in the hair at her temple, running them through to the ends.

  “We will compromise then,” he said softly. “You do not have to wear one except when we go to court. Agreed?”

  Gwen looked up in surprise. He watched her expectantly. “Aye, my lord,” she said, gifting him with a smile.

  He sighed. “Will you never call me by my name without my reminding you?”

  Gwen stared at his chest. She loved his name, loved to say it over and over. How many times had she lain in bed and said it to herself just for the pleasure of hearing it on her lips?

  She raised her eyes to his. He’d just given her something she wanted, so she would give him something in return. “I will not forget again, Richard.”

  The smile he gave her was heartstopping. He ran his fingers lightly over her cheek. “’Tis like sweet music when you say it.”

  “Shall I help you out of your armor?”

  His eyes glittered. Gwen swallowed. She saw herself in the depths of his silver gaze, saw what he was thinking at that moment. It was something she’d thought about for the past fortnight.

  She didn’t know why she’d gone to the armorer and insisted he teach her how to armor a knight. It had seemed like a good thing to know at the time. Now she was glad she’d done it.

  “Aye, show me what you have learned.”

  She stood on tiptoe to reach the laces of his coif. She managed to unbuckle it from the hauberk and he bent over so she could pull it off. Flakes of rust drifted to the floor.

  She frowned. “Is it ruined?” The headcovering was heavy and she carried it over to a trunk and laid it on top.

  “Nay,” he said. “Bruno will make it shiny as new.”

  Gwen returned to his side. “How?” She lifted the bottom edge of the mail shirt to get at the buckles beneath. He watched her, his brows drawing together as she found the buckles and laces with sure fingers.

  “He will roll it.”

  Gwen stopped. “Roll it?”

  “Aye, he puts it in a barrel with sand and vinegar and rolls it around. The vinegar eats the rust and the sand washes it off.”

  “Oh. Bruno didn’t tell me about that.”

  “You’ve been talking with Bruno, sweet?”

  “Aye, ’twas he who explained how to remove the armor. It wasn’t easy to get him to talk, but once I did, he was most thorough.”

  Richard laughed. “Aye, ’tis Bruno all right.”

  Gwen finished unlacing the mail stockings. She pushed them down his hips and he stepped out of them. She bent to pick them up, dropping them when they were only halfway off the floor.

  “Mayhap you can help with the clothes underneath,” he said. He started to unbuckle his sword, but Gwen was there first. She laid it aside, then removed his surcoat. She thought he winced as he shrugged out of the heavy hauberk, but she wasn’t sure.

  He picked up the leather and metal in his right arm and carried it to the trunk where she’d laid the coif.

  She helped him out of the gambeson and tunic, gasping at the ugly black bruise snaking across his left shoulder. Her fingers skimmed over it. “My God, what happened to you?”

  “Axe,” he said. “ ‘Tis much better than it was. Christ, I thought he’d severed my arm when it happened.”

  Gwen felt the color draining from her face.

  Richard cupped her chin. “I am fine, Gwen, truly. I forget how delicate women are sometimes. Forgive me.”

  She batted his hand away. “I am not a mewling Englishwoman!”

  He grinned. “Nay, more like a Welsh spitfire.” She turned away and he grabbed her arm. “You’re not finished yet.”

  His undergarments! How could she have forgotten those? She took a deep breath. Her hand strayed to the drawstring waist. His shaft strained against the cloth and she hesitated.

  “I told you before, ’tis you who causes it. You do not have to worry, Gwen. As much as I wish it were otherwise, I am far too tired to try to make love to you.”

  She worked at the string, her heart fluttering. She had lain awake nights, remembering how he had touched her, knowing that if he did so again she would be powerless to resist. She almost wished he would touch her.

  She slid the garments from his body, sucking in her breath when his manhood stood up proudly. What did that male weapon feel like? She wanted to trace her finger along the ridge and find out. Heat unfurled in her belly. She closed her eyes and turned away, her ears suddenly hot.

  “Jesú, ’tis not as bad as that, is it?”

  “Get in the tub, my lord—Richard,” she said faintly. How was he ever going to fit that inside of her?

  The water splashed. He sighed. Gwen pushed up her sleeves before gathering the soap and a washing cloth.

  His eyes widened. “You are going to attend me?”

  She busied herself so he wouldn’t see the color staining her cheeks. She reasoned that it was because he’d ridden so far and so hard, and because he looked so tired, that she complied.

  “Isn’t that what I am supposed to do?” she asked lightly, careful not to look into the tub as she dipped the cloth in the water.

  “Only if you want, Gwen. I’m not so spent I can’t do it myself.”

  Gwen didn’t answer as she stroked the cloth over the refined angles of his face.

  “It feels so good.” He closed his eyes and settled back, trusting her as a child might. Dirt and rust washed away easily. The dark circles beneath his eyes did not.

  She frowned, moving down his neck. She washed his shoulder gently, then held up the cloth and squeezed it. Hot water trickled over the bruise, and he groaned.

  “Does it hurt much?” she asked softly.

  “Like hell.”

  “You are sure nothing is broken?”

  He opened his eyes. She caught his briefly questioning look, the hint of vulnerability that was quickly veiled. “Aye, I am sure. ’Tis stiff and somewhat sore, but will heal. I’ve had worse.”

  Gwen bit the inside of her cheek. “You caught those men?”

  “Aye.”

  “What did you do with them?” she asked, focusing on the bubbles on her hand.

  “What do you think I did?”

  Gwen raised her gaze to his. She sensed that what she did or didn’t say was very important somehow, but still she could not answer.

  “You think I spitted them and left them to rot. Or that I hung them or mutilated them, don’t you?”

  “Nay,” Gwen whispered. The bubbles popped, tickling her flesh.

  He let his breath out slowly. “I took them to the king’s justiciars in Shrewsbury.”

  “They will hang,” Gwen said dully. How many Welshmen would die before King Edward was satisfied?

  “Aye, but they weren’t Welsh, Gwen.”

  Her head snapped up. “But, the longbow—”

  “English outlaws. The king has been training English archers to use it.”

  Gwen frowned. “Aye, Rhys told
me so.”

  Richard’s eyes hardened. Gwen cursed silently. Suddenly desiring to escape his cold glare, she stood.

  His body relaxed as she ran her fingers through his crisp black hair. She massaged his head, delighting in his little groans of pleasure. Lather dripped down her arms when she finally bid him to lean forward and rinse.

  She came to his side again and dipped her hand in the water. She rubbed the cloth across his chest, lingering on the hard muscles. The darkness of his skin made her hand seem like purest ivory in contrast. The tips of her fingers grazed his breast and heat curled within her. She glanced at him. His eyes were the color of smoke.

  “There is more to me than that,” he said in a husky voice.

  Gwen swallowed and moved downward, over his ribs, his abdomen. Something touched her and she jerked away. Slowly, she returned.

  This time when that part of him touched her, she did not move. Her heart beat wildly. Their eyes met as she closed her hand over solid male flesh.

  Richard groaned. “God above, Gwen, I do not have the strength to do it the way you deserve.”

  Gwen let him go, ashamed for acting so boldly. “I-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

  Her protest was cut off as he grabbed her arm and pulled her down until their mouths touched. She kissed him back, her lips parting, her tongue seeking his. Fire leapt in her breast and flowed to the apex of her thighs.

  She whimpered when he pulled away. His eyes searched hers. “I want you so much I can taste it, but trust me when I say the pleasure would be all mine. I promise you once I’ve rested, I’ll devote myself to your pleasure as well as my own.”

  Gwen nodded, unable to believe what she was agreeing to.

  He smiled. “Now get away from me before I lose control of my lustful desires.”

  Gwen stood and went to the window. The snow was falling heavier now. Cattle shuffled through the fields, nosing for shoots of grass buried beneath winter’s first offering.

  Her cheeks burned and she pressed her face against the cool glass. He was barely returned and her body throbbed for him. And she had just agreed to let him make love to her.

  Gwen shivered. It was going to be an earth-shattering experience, she was certain.

  She heard Richard climb from the tub. She waited until she was sure it was safe before she turned around.

  He had slipped on a black tunic and was seated at the table, whipping the covers off the dishes. Gwen’s eyes widened as she watched him. He wolfed down the roast pheasant and peas with saffron, two meat pies with onion and garlic, half a loaf of bread, cheese, and a flagon of wine.

  When he was finished, he took a deep breath, then stood, stretched, and walked to the bed.

  “Wake me in time for supper,” he said, falling onto the mattress.

  Gwen’s jaw dropped. Surely he was joking.

  19

  When Richard awoke, the sky beyond the windows was dark. He pulled himself up and looked around. The soft orange light of the fire bathed the room in a warm glow, and a delicious smell assailed his nostrils.

  Curiosity got the best of him. He stretched, shrugged his stiff shoulder, and climbed from the bed. Gwen was curled in a chair by the table. Her head lolled to one side, the fiery curtain of her hair spilling over her arm to trail to the floor.

  Something very like tenderness spread through him as he went to her. He ignored the smell coming from the table and knelt beside her. A fierce, primal hunger surged in his veins. He was going to make her his.

  Now.

  Tonight.

  She’d not see another dawn without knowing him as a man in the most intimate sense of the word.

  It surprised him he was in no hurry. After burning for her for so long, he was content to watch her for a little while. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear carefully. How had Llywelyn ever managed to sire such a beautiful creature?

  She was so innocent, so angelic in sleep. Richard felt a pang for the lost innocence of his own youth. When had he ever not known the depths of despair the soul was capable of sinking to?

  Richard pressed his lips softly to hers. She stirred, but did not wake. He did it again. She mumbled something and swatted at him. Richard smiled.

  This time he kissed the exposed skin of her neck. She sighed. He nibbled her ear and she jumped.

  “Richard!” she cried, leaping to her feet. He sat back on his heels, chuckling.

  Gwen rubbed her ear. His soft breath had sent a chill all the way to her toes. “I did not mean to doze off. I’m sorry.”

  “’Twas my pleasure to wake you.” His gaze traveled down her body. “There are even more interesting ways to awaken. I shall delight in showing them all to you in our life together.”

  Still smiling, he stood and removed the covers from the dishes.

  Gwen heard the intake of his breath. “How in the hell did you get old Oliver to make blankmanger?”

  “I told him, of course,” she replied.

  “Jesú, he complained so bad whenever I told him to do it, I ceased telling him. Says it’s too damn time-consuming.” He stared at her for a minute. “’Tis not just Owain and Bruno then, you’ve enchanted Oliver too.” He shook his head. “Go away for a fortnight and a Welshwoman conquers my castle without even one siege-engine. Have you eaten yet?”

  “Nay.”

  He sat down and beckoned her over. When she went to sit beside him, he pulled her into his lap. Gwen’s heart fluttered. His eyes were breathtaking. They drifted slowly from her face to her breasts and back again, as though he was undecided whether to taste the food or taste her. He made her so very aware of herself—of her desires and her inexperience.

  He dipped a spoon into the blankmanger and held it to her lips.

  “’Tis good?” he asked.

  Gwen nodded. The dish was rich and almondy and she tasted the slight flavor of anise.

  He fed her another spoonful before trying it himself. “Mmm, you’re going to have to tell Oliver to make this more often.”

  “If you wish it.”

  His eyes narrowed playfully. “I have to wonder just what you did to the poor old man.”

  Gwen looked away, trying to hide her blush.

  Richard laughed and held a goblet to her lips. “’Tis lucky for you that he is an old man, or I might just wonder about the state of your purity.”

  Gwen sucked in her breath. It was too much like the old accusations to ignore the memories it brought. “You—”

  His arm tightened around her, his expression sobering. “I am teasing, Gwen. ’Twas a poor choice of words. Do not doubt that I fully appreciate the gift you’re giving me.” He held the goblet up again. “Drink.”

  Gwen relaxed against him, the warm glow of the wine spreading through her limbs. He drank after her, then teased her with a light kiss.

  When they had finished off the dish and shared more wine, Gwen waited for him to try something else.

  He pressed his mouth to hers with barely restrained hunger.

  “What of the rest of the meal?” she asked breathlessly.

  “I’m not hungry for food, Gwen.”

  His voice rippled smooth as velvet over her spine. A thrill of anticipation shot through her and she shivered. It was finally happening. His hand closed over her breast. Even through the layers of her gown, his touch branded her like a hot iron.

  He bent to kiss her again and she wound her arms around his neck, careful not to touch his left shoulder. Eventually, he moved down her throat, licking and kissing until she thought the ache between her legs would consume her.

  His shaft bucked beneath her, pressing into her bottom. He pulled her gown up and caressed her knee. Stroking his fingers along the inside of her thigh, he moved slowly upward. When he was almost to the apex, Gwen clamped her legs tightly together.

  He leaned back. His eyes probed hers with such force she felt as though he had looked into her soul. “You want it as much as I do, Gwen. Just let it happen.”


  She turned away, feeling the loss of his mouth and hands acutely. She burned so hot for him it hurt. “I’m frightened,” she whispered.

  He kissed her cheeks, her forehead, her eyelids, the tip of her nose, then pressed his brow to hers. “I won’t lie to you. ’Twill hurt at first but I promise it gets better very quickly.”

  Their eyes locked, and she ran the back of her hand down his cheek. “Show me how to please you, Richard.”

  “I will,” he promised, lowering his mouth to hers. He kissed her for a long time, making no move to touch her anywhere else. He took her from soft, feather-light kisses to intense, soul-searching ones, and back again. When his hand slid up her thigh a second time, she didn’t protest.

  She gave a little gasp when his fingers stroked her curls. He parted her folds and found the tiny bud within, his thumb circling slowly. She whimpered and he slipped a finger inside her.

  Gwen jumped. His mouth slid to her ear and he began to suck on her earlobe. Her insides melted.

  “Richard… you must… stop.”

  “Why, love?”

  “’Tis sinful,” she said, gasping as a tremor shook her.

  “Nothing I will ever do to you is sinful, Gwen.” He slipped another finger inside her, stretching her. She threw her head back and he tongued her throat.

  Gwen cried out when he removed his hand. What he did to her was wicked, but God how she loved it! He unknotted her girdle and let it fall to the floor. Next, he undid the laces of her surcoat and raised her up to slip it over her head. Soon the rest of her clothes lay in a heap on the floor.

  Richard took a deep breath to steady himself. The glow of the fire licked over her body, bathing it in sensual light. He ran his fingertips down the silken skin of her belly. She shivered.

  “God, you are more beautiful than I could have ever dreamed,” he said. Her skin gleamed like fine pearls, her nipples puckered, and the flaming curls between her legs beckoned him to lose himself in the delights of her body.

  He wanted to carry her to the bed and ravish her, but he knew he must go slowly. In this moment she trusted him and he would not break it.

  He slid his tongue around a firm nipple. She gasped and he sucked it into his mouth. He caressed the silk of her mons, and she arched into his hand, urging him.