The Dark Knight's Captive Bride

by Natasha Wild

  She lay partially across him, her head nuzzled against his shoulder, an arm thrown over his chest, a leg nudging his groin. In short, she clung to him as if her life depended on it. Richard smiled.

  He’d awakened with a woman at his side so many times in his life that it should not seem a novelty. But somehow this was different. Was it because she was Llywelyn’s daughter? Did he feel a certain amount of triumph that he’d spent the night filling her with his seed, the innocent daughter of his enemy?

  Even as he asked himself, Richard knew it was none of these things.

  He brushed his lips across her forehead. She sighed and shifted, her leg causing him an exquisite amount of torture before it stilled. Carefully, he extracted himself from her arms. He had to leave before he rolled her on her back and indulged in his lust.

  Once he was fully clothed, he returned to the bed to stare down at her, though he told himself he should not. He tucked the fur coverlet around her, his heart beating faster than usual as he relived in finite detail every glorious minute of their lovemaking. Her every curve, her every quiver, sigh, and moan was imprinted on his brain forever.

  Richard ran his hand through her russet curls, then straightened and pulled the hangings shut before he was tempted any further.

  Alys was in the small solar that adjoined his chamber. The old woman dipped in a curtsy. “Good morning, my lord.”

  “Aye, ’tis good indeed.” He took a deep breath. Why did the morning air seem so alive, so fresh and new?

  “Can I do something for you, my lord?”

  The old woman was looking at him, waiting for him to speak. Richard realized he’d been standing there for some moments. “Umm, yes, Alys. I don’t want Gwen awakened. Let her sleep as long as she wants. You can bring a tray up for her later.”

  Alys smiled. “Aye, my lord.”

  Richard had the distinct impression he’d not fooled the woman for a minute.

  * * *

  Light pierced the depths of the curtained bed. Gwen rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes and propped herself on an elbow. She turned to the man at her side, but he was gone.

  It was disappointing to wake up without him. She frowned. Disappointing? Irritated, she reached for the hangings and threw them open.

  The table had been cleared of the previous night’s half-eaten meal. Likewise, the pile of discarded clothes was also gone. Gwen blushed clear to her toes. What on earth must Alys think?

  The tender ache between Gwen’s legs reminded her of the things that had happened last night. She couldn’t stop herself from smiling. She and Richard had finally made love—and it had been glorious! She couldn’t imagine why she’d waited so long.

  Now she understood the secretive look in Elinor’s eyes. It was a look born of the pure joy of joining with a man in an act as beautiful as it was mysterious.

  Guilt followed quickly on the heels of Gwen’s happiness.

  Richard was her father’s enemy, her enemy. He was Black Hawk de Claiborne, despite his melting caresses and heart-stopping kisses. And he’d told her he intended to kill her father one day.

  Gwen furiously twisted a lock of hair. Why should she feel guilty? She couldn’t have kept Richard from claiming his privileges forever. He was too much man, and far too dangerous, to prevent him from taking what he wanted.

  And it was not as if she could ever love Black Hawk de Claiborne. Her father would always come first, there was no fear of that.

  Gwen flipped the coverlets back and shrugged into her robe. She would never allow Richard to kill her father. Somehow, she would stop him.

  Alys came in, carrying a basin of water for Gwen to wash with. She set it on a stand beside the bed. “Good morning, my lady,” she trilled. “I thought I heard you call for me last night, but then I didn’t think it was my name you said after all. Was everything all right? Did you sleep well?”

  Gwen’s face was ablaze. She remembered what name she said, and the circumstances under which she had said it. She lifted her chin and looked Alys in the eye. “Aye, thank you, Alys. I must have been dreaming.”

  Alys smiled broadly. “Aye, no doubt you were.” She cleared her throat. “Lord de Claiborne seems in good spirits this morning, I must say.”

  “He does?” Gwen cursed herself for sounding too eager. Shrugging, she said, “’Tis nice, I suppose.”

  She waited, but Alys did not speak. Gwen sighed. Alys would offer no more information than Gwen asked for.

  “Where is he, Alys?”

  “I last saw him in the hall.” Alys’s eyes strayed to the bed. She sucked in her breath, her brow furrowing.

  Gwen followed her gaze. The sheet was crisp and white, like newfallen snow, marred only by the few drops of blood strewn across it like precious rubies. She met Alys’s questioning look.

  “’Tis not time for your flux. I’ve been counting.”

  Gwen crossed her arms. “Nay, I… we—that is, he…”

  She let the sentence trail off. She couldn’t finish because one thought kept winging through her brain—the amount of blood was almost exactly the same as Richard had put on the sheets at Shrewsbury. It was a painful reminder that what he had done with her last night was nothing new to him.

  The things she had thought so special—the way he touched her, the way he kissed her, the way her name sounded on his lips while he was shuddering his release—were things he had done with countless women. She was just another of his conquests.

  At least he’d gotten her name right.

  Alys straightened the covers. “’Tis extraordinary. He waited until you were ready. Do you have any idea how lucky you are, child? Most men would not wait.”

  Gwen turned away, tears pricking her eyelids. Aye, she was lucky all right. He’d almost raped her that first night, then stopped when his own guilt prevented him, not because of any concern over her feelings.

  And now Alys was more firmly on his side than ever before, believing him to be some kind of sainted man among ordinary mortals.

  Gwen hugged herself tight. Just as he’d done in the cave, Richard had once again proven she was unable to resist his smooth seduction. She’d given in gladly, willingly, wanting him with a fierceness she’d not known was possible.

  ’Twas no wonder he was gone when she awakened. It hadn’t meant the same thing to him as it had to her.

  How could she face him again when he would turn his cold silver eyes on her and laugh because he had won?

  She ate very little of the food Alys brought. She took care with her appearance, her stomach knotting as she ran a brush through her hair, shaping the red-gold curls.

  She wanted to see him, and yet she did not. She rejected the first three gowns Alys chose, finally settling on gold samite. Gwen knew the color suited her hair perfectly. She chose a simple girdle of gold and silk to complement the dress, then pinched her cheeks until they glowed soft pink.

  She descended to the hall, telling herself it mattered not at all if Richard looked at her indifferently.

  She hesitated when she saw him. Richard stood at the other end of the hall, deep in conversation with Owain. She started to flee back up the stairs, but he looked up and saw her before she could go. Their eyes locked and he moved toward her.

  Gwen could only stare, her heart doing flips in her chest. She remembered him as he had been last night—all virile, hungry male. He had joined his magnificent body with hers and shown her what it meant to be a woman.

  A small shiver washed over her and she knew all her careful composure was for nothing. If he looked at her with contempt or indifference, she would die.

  “Did you sleep well?” he asked, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips.

  “Aye,” Gwen said, unable to meet his eyes. Why did he have to be so handsome? Her heart accelerated as she waited for the setdown that was sure to come.

  She started when his lips brushed her palm, and then she was imagining them elsewhere on her body, kissing, sucking, arousing. The sweet ache between
her legs tortured her with memories of his possession.

  Hot. Complete. Breath-stopping.

  Gwen closed her eyes.

  “’Tis the same for me,” he said in a thick voice. “I cannot stop thinking of you, or of last night.”

  Gwen met his heated stare. How did he know?

  He drew her close and lowered his mouth to hers. Gwen responded, dimly hearing the cheer in the background. Before she could drown in him, he lifted his head. His eyes were smoky as his hand stroked her cheek. “Jesú, I could take you back to bed and make love to you for the rest of the day.”

  “Yes,” Gwen whispered, mesmerized by the stark need in his eyes.

  “My sweet wife, you tempt me beyond reason,” he said, twisting a stray curl around his finger. “Unfortunately, I’ve far too many things to do today.”

  Gwen stared at the floor, momentarily embarrassed by her own boldness. Richard still wanted her! The knowledge sent a wave of relief washing over her.

  “Are you certain I did not hurt you?”

  He sounded so concerned, and she couldn’t stop herself from touching him, from running her hand down his perfect jaw. His eyes grew intense. “’Tis a mild pain, nothing I cannot handle. I suspect it hurts far less than your shoulder.”

  He laughed. “Aye, I suspect you are correct.”

  “I am disappointed, though.”

  His brows shot up. “Disappointed?” He looked so disconcerted she wanted to laugh.

  “Yes.” She slid him a sideways look. “You promised to wake me.”

  Richard grinned. “I was right about you, wasn’t I? You are a tease, and a wicked one too.”

  He tucked her arm in his and led her from the hall and out into the wooden forebuilding. Cold air blew up the stairwell from the bailey below. He turned to her, drawing her against him once more.

  “Un cusan,” he said, lowering his head.

  One kiss. Gwen slipped her arms around him, running her hands up his back. If he meant the kiss to be brief, it was not. His mouth was like velvet, his tongue silken torture. Gwen moaned, meeting him, urging him.

  The need to taste him, to feel him, was all consuming.

  Desire unfurled in the pit of her stomach. It raged through her like wildfire and she pressed herself tighter to him, thrilling at the answering hardness of his loins.

  His right hand splayed across her back, his left brushed her neck, her collarbone, the soft swell of a breast. He cupped the firm mound, squeezing softly.

  Gwen ran her hands over him, imprinting the feel of him on her fevered brain, giving in to the urge to touch the proof of his desire for her.

  He shuddered and pulled her tighter. Footsteps echoed on the stairs below, and they broke away reluctantly.

  Andrew’s head appeared in the stairwell. “There ye are, milord. Bruno’s waitin’ for ye in the armory like ye said.” He looked at Gwen. “Good mornin’, milady.” His gaze darted between her and Richard, taking in the ruffled hair, rumpled clothes, eyes that kept seeking each other rather than him. “Excuse me, milord, milady,” he mumbled, retreating the way he’d come.

  Richard backed toward the stairs. “Tonight,” he said, his hand stretched behind him, feeling for the rail. When he came in contact with it, he stopped, his eyes never leaving hers. Gwen waited for him to say something else, but he whirled around and disappeared down the stairs without another word.

  She leaned against the wall and touched her lips. Richard still wanted her, and it was a relief.

  * * *

  Gwen joined Owain in the family solar for her English lesson. She sat in a window seat and peered out into the bailey. Thinking she spied Richard’s dark head in the lists, she pressed her hands to the glass and squinted.

  Surely he wouldn’t engage in sword practice or jousting with his injured shoulder. Sighing, she turned to Owain. From this distance, she couldn’t tell who it was.

  “You’re looking well today, milady,” Owain said, raising his head from his account books. His mouth curved in a smile. “Could it have anything to do with the return of our beloved lord?”

  Gwen turned back to the window, blushing. She couldn’t exactly deny that Richard was her beloved after all the things Owain had heard her say to the staff. She cleared her throat and fixed him with her best princess stare.

  Owain chuckled. “Very well, I won’t say another word.”

  Gwen pulled at a loose thread on one of the pillows. Finally, she thrust the pillow away and said what was foremost on her mind. “Please tell me about Elizabeth.”

  Owain leaned back in his chair, his face creasing in a frown. “I think you should ask Richard, not me.”

  “Please, Owain. I-I cannot ask him.” She grabbed the pillow and twisted the thread around her finger, staring at the purple blotches that arose when she pulled too tight.

  Owain sighed heavily. “He should tell you about her, but he probably will not see the need. He has always been stubborn like that.” He paused, staring out the window. “Lady Elizabeth was a kind woman. She was quite young and very shy when she first came here. She had not your beauty or your boldness, but she learned to get along. She loved Richard, but then most women do.”

  Gwen looked at the old man sharply, but he seemed lost in his own thoughts. She knew he had not said it to hurt her. He was merely speaking the truth as he saw it. How many hearts had Richard broken? “Did he love her?”

  Owain continued to stare out the window, speaking in that dream-like state of one who is lost in thought. “I think he was fond of her.”

  Gwen felt the hair on the back of her neck prickle. It was unreasonable to be jealous of a dead woman. “How did she die?”

  “Birthing his son. The babe was stillborn and she died soon after.”

  “Oh,” Gwen said quietly. A wife and a son. Did you love them, Richard? “He must have been devastated.”

  “Aye, I think so, though he wasn’t here when it happened. He was with the king at Kenilworth, planning the war against your father. When he returned, he spent a long time in the crypt. He never spoke to me about it.” Owain sighed. “I was beginning to worry if he would ever remarry. He needs an heir, a son to leave Dunsmore’s holdings to.”

  Gwen smoothed her hand over her belly. Could she give Richard the son he needed? Did she even want to?

  When she looked up, Owain was watching her, a smile softening his face. Embarrassed, she clasped her hands in her lap.

  “Of course,” Owain said, “’tis possible your son will have so much more than just Dunsmore to rule. I was rather surprised your father agreed to let Richard’s sons in line for the throne. But then again, if your stepmother gives birth to a boy, it will no longer matter.”

  Gwen’s heart dropped. “What?”

  “Jesú, you did not know,” Owain said, his voice filled with dread.

  “Nay,” Gwen whispered.

  He let out a long breath. “Richard will kill me for this.”

  Gwen took hold of her seething emotions. “There is no need to tell him, Owain. For all he knows, my father told me.”

  Owain nodded. “Aye, if you wish it then.”

  “I do.” Why had her father not told her? Sweet Mary, Black Hawk’s son on the throne of Wales!

  Her son.

  ’Twas no wonder Richard made love to her with such enthusiasm! He wanted to put his babe in her so he could claim the throne one day.

  God, how stupid she’d been not to realize why he seemed to desire her so much!

  A flash of comprehension sent icy horror washing down her spine. Black Hawk de Claiborne would not wait past the day she delivered a healthy boy. Once it was done, he would take an army to Gwynedd to kill her father.

  Then he would claim Wales for their son.

  21

  The shadows of late day stretched dark fingers across the solar. Gwen fancied that the dark fingers also closed over her heart, gripping her in an unshakable melancholy. The dinner bell rang, and she rose from the windowseat.

  Sh
e would not succumb to Richard’s smooth charm ever again. She had been a fool to believe the things he said. They were lies, all lies.

  He was nothing but a cold English barbarian who thirsted for revenge and wouldn’t balk at using her to achieve it. He would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. There was nothing he would not say, nothing he would not do.

  She wasn’t about to help him in his quest. He would get a surprise tonight when he tried to bed her. She would not give in so willingly ever again.

  Gwen shoved aside thoughts of the previous night, the way she’d felt lying in his arms, beneath him, taking him inside her and—

  She would not give in. But why did it have to hurt so much, knowing that Richard was using her for his revenge? Had she expected any less from a man as evil as him?

  Gwen dashed away a tear as she entered the hall. Servants and knights smiled and nodded as she passed. Gwen acknowledged them all, but she had eyes only for Richard. He stood on the dais, his impressive height emphasized by the raised platform.

  She wondered if he knew the effect he had. Anyone walking toward him would have the feeling they were puny and weak while he appeared powerful and larger than life.

  Einion had once told her that kings and queens did this sort of thing on purpose. They sat on huge thrones at the end of long, vast halls so that all who approached felt humbled in the presence of greatness.

  Was Richard proclaiming his mastery over her?

  He truly was magnificent and she almost hated him for it. One look from his predatory eyes made her want to forget all she had resolved.

  He was dressed entirely in black for a change, and she thought wildly that the devil himself would look no different if he were to appear before her at this very moment.

  Behind him, the crimson and black coat of arms screamed the brutal legacy of the lord who ruled here.

  When she reached the dais, he took her hand and drew her close. Gwen flinched as a coil of heat uncurled within her. She fixed her gaze on his chest, certain if she looked in his eyes she would be lost.