The Dark Knight's Captive Bride

by Natasha Wild

  When the tub was filled, Alys started to help Gwen undress, but Richard stopped her. “I’ll take care of her,” he said.

  Alys’s eyes widened briefly, and then she curtsied. “Is there anything else you will require, milord?”

  “Aye, I don’t think we’ll be dining in the hall tonight. Please send something up.”

  Alys curtsied again, then retreated from the room.

  “Will you come to me, wife? Or must I drag you from your perch?” he teased.

  When she stood before him, he began to untie the knots of her girdle. Her hand, small and white and still cold, settled on his.

  “’Tis not necessary for you to attend me. I can do it,” she said softly.

  “I want to,” he answered, equally as soft.

  Silence suspended between them like the soft beat of butterfly wings. He took his time, removing each garment with care. When she was naked, Richard knew a moment of pure physical lust when he thought he might spread her beneath him on the carpet and drive endlessly into her.

  He sensed she needed more from him right now and he took a deep breath, fighting for control. It was hard won, but he seized it and held on firmly.

  She sank into the tub, and Richard thought he was insane. Was he truly jealous of the water caressing her silken skin?

  He picked up the soap and knelt beside her.

  “I can do it,” Gwen said.

  This time he gave in. “’Tis probably a good idea, love,” he said, then wondered if his voice was as unsteady as he felt. He retreated to a chair to watch, his body throbbing as though he’d not made love to her in years rather than hours.

  She lifted a slender arm and slid the washcloth from her fingertips to her shoulder. Candlelight illuminated the trail of liquid that ran down her chest and dripped off her breasts. Her nipples beaded as wet skin met cool air. A single drop of water fell from the tip of one rosy crown.

  Richard closed his eyes. He would have loved to lick away that drop of water, and any others that wanted to cling to her delicious body. “Alys told me you used to go up to the walls of your father’s castle.”

  “Aye.”

  “I might not have found you otherwise. What would you have done then, since you couldn’t come down?”

  She didn’t answer and he opened his eyes to find her head bowed.

  “Gwen?”

  She turned to him, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

  “Why couldn’t you come down, Gwen?” he prodded softly.

  “I had no candles.” Her reply was so soft he had to strain to hear. Did she say candles?

  “Why didn’t you go to one of the towers?”

  She threw the cloth to the end of the tub. It smacked against the water, then sank beneath the surface. “You don’t understand! It was dark and I—” She stopped and pressed her hand to her forehead.

  Richard went to her, knelt beside the wooden tub. He brushed his knuckles down her cheek. “Tell me, Gwen. Tell me why.”

  “I’ve never told anyone,” she whispered. “Never.”

  “Never told them what, cariad?” Richard realized he’d slipped into Welsh, called her love, a term he’d used often when coaxing women, but never in Welsh. It must have been because she was Welsh that he’d done it.

  She fixed him with her golden-green stare. Richard cupped her cheek, swept his thumb across her lower lip. “You can tell me, cariad.”

  She lowered her lashes. “I cannot. You will think—”

  “I will think what?” he asked when she stopped.

  She took a deep breath. “I-I don’t like dark places.”

  He saw the flush creep into her cheeks, the slumping of her shoulders, the quivering of her lip. Jesú, this woman who had stood up to him from the first minute he’d known her, who had dared him to beat her and thrown water in his face, who had faced arrowfire without blinking, was afraid of the night! And afraid what he would think of her for it.

  Richard wanted to hug her to him and laugh at the absurdity. But he didn’t because he knew she would think he was laughing at her. “Is that all?” he asked lightly. “And here I thought it was something serious.”

  Her head snapped up. Her eyes flashed, daring him to pity her. “Didn’t you hear me? I said I was afraid of the dark. I couldn’t walk around the walls because I was too scared to move!”

  Richard shrugged. “We’ll just have to make sure you carry a torch the next time, won’t we?”

  Gwen slumped against the back of the tub and studied the ceiling. “I am not brave like you or my father. ’Tis weak and childish.”

  “I think you are very brave. And I see nothing childish about you.”

  Something in his tone made Gwen look at him. He tried to hide it, but his gaze flickered over her body, lingering on the tips of her breasts peeking out of the water. Heat surged between her legs as surely as if he’d touched her with his hands rather than his eyes.

  “Why didn’t you come see me today?” The words popped out before she could stop them. Gwen fervently wished she could call them back.

  He met her gaze. “I wanted to.”

  On impulse, she closed her hand over his where it gripped the edge of the tub. His fingers laced through hers, then he brought her hand up to his cheek.

  “I thought of nothing but you all day,” he confessed. “Dozens of times I stopped myself from coming to you.”

  “Why?” The word came out as a whisper. She wondered if he’d even heard it.

  He rubbed his jaw against the back of her hand, slowly, deliberately. “Because I have duties, Gwen. Because what I want comes second.”

  A candle sputtered as a glob of tallow fell against the flame. Their eyes met. Something pulsed between them, something so strong and bewildering that Gwen felt as if her heart would burst from her chest at any moment.

  “What do you want right now?” she asked breathlessly.

  He let go of her hand and leaned forward until their lips were almost touching. Gwen closed her eyes in anticipation.

  “You,” was the word he whispered, the word that seemed to tickle her skin with its promise before his mouth claimed hers.

  When Gwen thought his kiss might consume her very soul, a knock sounded on the door and he pulled away to answer it. She sank down in the tub until only her chin was visible while two serving women brought in the dinner Richard had requested.

  “Are you warm enough now?” he asked when they had gone.

  “Aye,” Gwen replied.

  He came to her and held up a towel. Gwen stood. His eyes darkened as rivulets of water trailed down her pinkened skin. Wordlessly he dried her off, then wrapped her in white ermine, despite her protests it was too expensive to use as a blanket.

  She followed him to the table. He pulled his chair close to hers and proceeded to attend her as if they were dining in the hall. He gave her the best portions of meat, feeding her every bite from his fingertips. He held her goblet, only drinking or eating when she insisted.

  Gwen decided she loved the attention. No one had ever done such things for her before. She realized she’d never wanted anyone to do such things. And now she wanted him to do them, only him.

  He was close, so close. His lips frequently brushed her ear. He whispered words to her, beautiful words, and she translated them all into English.

  “Dengar.”

  “Alluring.”

  “Hardd.”

  “Beautiful.”

  “Trysor.”

  “Treasure.”

  “Dymuniad.”

  “Desire.” Gwen shivered. Richard held the goblet and she drank. Silence fell between them and Gwen’s mind wandered.

  It seemed such a private thing they did, but she wanted to ask, did you do this for Elizabeth? Did you share times like these, times when you said not a word but still spoke in ways that made her heart sing?

  Oh God, did you love her, Richard?

  “What is wrong, Gwen?”

  She looked at him then, focused on his s
triking eyes, his midnight hair, his firm jaw, and she smiled to hide her discomfort. In truth, she dreaded the answer to that question. “Nothing at all. I fear I have drunk too much wine though.”

  “Indeed?”

  “’Tis your fault. ’Twas you who held the cup.”

  He laughed. “Mayhap I wanted to get you drunk so I could ravish you.”

  “You need not get me drunk for that,” she replied, her cheeks heating.

  “Wanton wench,” he teased.

  “That, too, is your fault.”

  “Aye, I fully accept the blame.” He rose and pulled her up with him. “And now, if you do not object, I think I might like a demonstration of your wantoness since I have thought of nothing else all evening but your naked body underneath that fur.”

  Gwen spread her hands over his chest. “How can I refuse my savior?”

  His hands tightened over her arms. “Nay, Gwen, not for that. Never for that. Do it because you want me.”

  She said the only thing she could say, the thing she knew instinctively she had to say. “I want you, Richard. ’Tis because I like the things, umm, the things…” She dropped her chin to her chest, her ears growing hot.

  He laughed softly. “Ah, sweet, you are absolutely the most uninhibited recent ex-virgin I’ve ever known, but you can’t say the words, can you? You can’t say that you like it when we make love, that you like the way it feels when I’m deep inside you, or the way I touch you, or the way my tongue feels on your hot flesh.”

  A fire raged in Gwen’s body, but she still couldn’t look at him.

  “It makes a man crazy when a woman tells him the things she likes about his lovemaking.”

  She raised her head. “Truly?”

  He put his hand over his heart. “I swear it.” His brows drew together thoughtfully. “There is perhaps another English word I should teach you. Owain wouldn’t dare, and mayhap I should not either, but I don’t think I can resist the temptation.”

  He smiled mischievously and Gwen’s curiosity was piqued. “What, Richard? Tell me, please? I want to know.”

  “’Tis a vulgar word.”

  “I know how to curse! Rh—my father’s warriors taught me.” She watched him for a sign he’d picked up on her near slip. He didn’t mention it and she was relieved.

  “You cannot repeat it to anyone.”

  “Very well,” she replied impatiently. “Tell me!”

  “Fuck.”

  “Fuck? What does it mean?”

  “To make love.”

  Gwen considered it for a moment. Richard watched her, one eyebrow quirked upwards, a lazy grin tickling the corners of his mouth. She sensed there was more to it than that, but she didn’t know what it could be.

  “’Tis a rather strange word. But then, English is a strange language, I’ve found. So how do you use it? Do you say…?” She went through every combination she could think of, starting with ‘I want’ and ending with ‘will you’.

  Richard led her to the bed while she rolled the foreign words over her tongue. His eyes glittered while she continued to talk.

  Finally, he picked her up and laid her before him, spreading the white ermine to reveal her naked body. “Jesú, you are a delight. You’ve just managed to say things even a London harlot might think twice about.”

  Gwen propped herself on her elbows. “Why you—!”

  Richard pounced on her, pushing her back into the mattress. “Ah, cariad, ’tis incredibly exciting to hear such words cross your sweet lips. Forgive me, but I could not resist.”

  Gwen wanted to be angry, but his smile was so disarming that she started to giggle instead. He laughed too, and Gwen caught herself thinking how much she loved the sound of his voice. “You are truly depraved, my lord,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  “Aye, I am indeed,” he replied, burying his mouth against the hollow of her throat. “And I’m going to make you every bit as depraved as I am. I want you to tell me what you like, and what you want me to do, and where you want me to touch you. I want you to tell me everything.”

  Gwen cupped his face between her hands. “I like it when you laugh,” she said softly.

  He smiled. “That was not the sort of thing I meant, but I’m glad you said it. I will laugh more often if it pleases you.”

  “Aye, it does.”

  “What else pleases you, my lady?”

  “You please me.”

  “Take my hand,” he said, holding it up. “Now, put it where you want it most.”

  Gwen hesitated only a moment before setting his open palm on her breast. Before he could do anything, she slid his hand downwards, over her belly, and settled it between her thighs.

  Her breath caught as his finger slipped into her cleft.

  “Tell me you want me,” he growled.

  “Yes, yes, I want you…”

  His lips touched the skittering pulse in her throat, and Gwen was lost. She chanted his name as he trailed kisses down her body, then back up again, his garments rasping against her flesh, the touch of the cloth both erotic and maddening.

  She tugged at his surcoat, aching, needing to feel his hot skin next to hers. She whimpered when he grabbed her hands.

  He pressed his lips to each palm. “’Tis torture, is it not, cariad? But, is it not also exciting, having a man make love to you with all his clothes on?”

  In truth, it was very arousing to lie naked before him while he remained fully clothed. She was open, vulnerable, and it made her realize she trusted him, at least in this. He wouldn’t harm her, her handsome knight, the man who had saved her.

  Gwen’s hand found his hard length, rubbed it through the layers of cloth. She was rewarded with a low groan. He was less in control than he pretended, and that excited her even further.

  “’Tis maddening, my lord.”

  He closed his eyes. “And your touch is exquisite, my lady.”

  Her nipples thrust against his tongue as he drew each one into his mouth and taught her the raw, hungry depths of desire.

  By the time he knelt between her legs, she was moaning his name, begging him for fulfillment. Holding her breath, she watched as he fumbled beneath his garments to release his chausses. She couldn’t even see his male weapon when he lifted his tunic and fitted himself to her, entering her body in a long, slow glide.

  All she could feel was him—pure, hard, rampant length, filling, filling. And then he was moving and she was riding the sweet waves of intense pleasure, taking him in, differently at this angle, but still wonderful, so wonderful.

  She barely remembered the English words, but she managed to say them, and he groaned, thrusting into her even harder.

  Wild excitement coursed through her at the sight of him, fully clothed, kneeling between her legs and giving her the same pleasure as if he were naked and lying on top of her.

  His hands cupped her bottom, raising her to meet him. Gwen clenched her lower lip between her teeth. She had no idea it was her fingers that toyed with her nipples, or that the sight was driving him mad.

  “My God, you are beautiful,” he said, his gaze locked on hers while she took all he had to give. His eyes finally drifted shut and his head tilted back, his breathing coming faster and heavier.

  Then he leaned forward and braced himself over her, driving into her with hot fury. Gwen went with him, over the edge, tumbling headlong into the sweet, wild place she’d only recently discovered with him.

  It was a long time before they were coherent, and an even longer time after that when Gwen helped him shed his clothes so they could crawl under the coverlets together.

  “We can leave the hangings open a bit, if you like,” he murmured in her ear.

  Gwen snuggled closer and yawned. She couldn’t believe how tired she was. It made her tongue loose, but she didn’t care. “Nay, I am safe as long as I’m with you.”

  “I will protect you, cariad. Always, I promise.”

  24

  “Chess is like battle, Gwen. The obje
ct is to outflank the enemy. You must think carefully on your next move.”

  “I am thinking,” she grumbled. Richard was the enemy. That was the easy part. Beating him was the hard part. She frowned and reached for her bishop. Before her fingers closed over it, she glanced at her husband.

  He watched her intently. She hesitated, then grabbed her queen instead. Too late, she saw the mistake.

  “Checkmate,” he said, blocking her king. “If you’d went with your first instinct, I’d not have won.”

  Gwen leaned back in her chair. “I’m not any good at this.”

  “Yes you are. Your problem is you allow yourself to jump to the wrong conclusion too quickly. If you learn to take your time, you will be much better.”

  Gwen picked up her king and toyed with it. A fortnight had passed since he’d brought her down from the battlements. They spent more time together now, making love, talking, going for long walks. “Who taught you how to play?”

  “My father. He was very good.” His eyes became clouded, distant. Gwen’s heart lurched. She wanted to go to him, soothe him, chase the clouds away.

  “My father never taught me anything,” she said suddenly. Dear God, what had made her admit that? She never spoke of her father to him. She cringed, waiting for his condemnation of the man he hated.

  “’Twas his loss,” Richard said quietly.

  Gwen shrugged it off. Some wounds were still too raw to share with anyone. “’Tis all right. I had Alys and Einion. My father had Wales.” She wisely left Rhys off the list.

  “Who is Einion?” he asked, his eyes flashing.

  “My father’s seneschal.”

  Richard relaxed. “You mean the old man with the white hair?”

  “Yes. Owain reminds me of him sometimes.”

  “Owain is a good man. He’s been with my family for years.”

  “Aye, he told me.”

  “What else did he tell you?”

  Gwen’s eyes widened. She knew him well enough to know this was a demand. “Nothing, my lord. Should he have?”

  Richard rubbed his temples. “Nay, of course not. Forgive me for snapping at you.”