The Dark Knight's Captive Bride

by Natasha Wild

  She strained to hear his movements, but there was only silence.

  “Gwen?”

  “Yes?”

  “What do you want?” he asked softly.

  She turned, searched his face. His eyes were intense, his features so impossibly beautiful he stole her breath away. I want you to love me, to need me the way I’m beginning to need you.

  “I-I am not certain,” she whispered, her vision growing fuzzy around the edges. “’Tis too soon…”

  He raked a hand through his hair. “I have some things to do before dinner.” He retrieved his gauntlets and tucked them in his sword belt. “I will see you in the hall tonight.”

  He was already out the door when Gwen started forward.

  “Richard, wait!” He turned, watched her expectantly. “I…” But she faltered, not knowing what to say.

  He smiled and leaned against the doorframe. The tension still evident in his body was strangely at odds with the casual stance. “Miss me already, wench?”

  Gwen couldn’t help but laugh. It was either that or cry. “You are impossibly conceited, my lord.”

  “Aye.” He straightened and let his gaze sweep her from head to toe. “Now why don’t you take a nap, love? I have a feeling you won’t be getting much sleep tonight,” he drawled.

  And then he was gone. Gwen sank into the chair. Oh God, what was wrong with her? What was this feeling that heightened and swelled in his presence, then refused to give her a moment’s peace even when he was gone?

  * * *

  “Sweet Jesus, milord, ye nearly took my arm off with that one!”

  “Sorry, Andrew,” Richard said.

  Andrew got to his feet and grabbed his sword from the floor. He flexed his arm, arcing his weapon back and forth and grumbling to himself.

  “Shall we go again?”

  Andrew’s head snapped up. “What, are ye crazy?”

  Richard grinned. “I promise to go easy on you this time.”

  “Easy? Ha! Ye fights like a woman! I was only bein’ kind when I let ye win.”

  Richard’s laughter echoed off the walls. “Then you won’t mind fighting me again,” he said, clashing swords with the other man before he could reply.

  Servants hovered in the doorways, watching the contest between warriors. Knights leaned against the walls, shouting encouragement.

  Owain had stared at him like he was a madman when he’d ordered the Lesser Hall stripped of furniture. But the old Welshman had made sure it was done, mumbling something about stubborn fool noblemen Richard only half caught.

  The fires had been banked, but sweat dripped down the inside of Richard’s tunic, plastering the garment to his skin. His hair clung to his head and his muscles screamed their agony with every movement.

  He blocked a thrust from Andrew’s sword, then whirled away before the captain could redirect. Indeed, Richard felt like a madman, but he couldn’t stop. He needed this mind-numbing exercise, needed it to stop thinking about one beautiful Welshwoman.

  But it wasn’t working.

  All he could remember was that one moment of blind desperation when he would have done anything to erase the doubt from her eyes.

  He had fallen on his knees and sworn to her, sworn as though what she thought of him was the most important thing in the world. Christ, it still shook him up!

  But it was important, so important it scared him.

  He sent Andrew backwards with a mighty heave, then rushed in, his battle cry on his lips. He’d never knelt to anyone but Edward, never been willing to swear away his very soul to gain the trust of a woman. Why now? Why her?

  His sword caught the hilt of Andrew’s, stripping it from the captain’s hand.

  Because he wanted her. Because he wanted all of her, her body, her heart, her soul. No one had ever made him feel the way she did.

  No, this could not be love! He refused to let it happen!

  Love was deadly. It weakened warriors, toppled empires, left nothing but the destruction of lives and hearts in its wake. He would not love any woman, ever!

  Gradually, Richard became aware of the men standing around him. They called to him, their eyes wide, their faces pale. He blinked.

  “Richard.”

  He felt Owain’s hand on his arm and he turned.

  “Drop the sword, Richard,” Owain said quietly.

  Richard looked down the length of his blade. Andrew lay on the ground, the tip resting against the base of his throat. Blood and sweat pooled in the hollow above his breastbone.

  Richard flung the sword away and knelt beside his captain. “Jesú, Andrew, are you all right?”

  Andrew gulped in air. He rubbed his neck, smearing the blood. It still welled up from the wound Richard had inflicted, but fortunately it was only a scratch. “That’s the last time I accuse ye of fightin’ like a woman,” he choked out.

  Richard offered his hand and Andrew clasped it. The men loosed a cheer as Richard helped him to his feet.

  The cheers heightened when Richard told Owain to let the ale flow freely. The men hustled from the room, heading for the Great Hall and the entertainment awaiting them.

  Richard scrubbed a hand through his matted hair. Owain retrieved his sword and handed it to him. The steel sang as it slid home in the scabbard.

  “Can’t be easy, keepin’ a mistress and a wife in the same castle,” Owain said, shooting Richard a disapproving look. “Course, ’tis no reason to kill one of your men.”

  Richard glared at the old man. “I told you years ago not to interfere in my life,” he growled.

  Owain snorted. “I promised your mother I’d look after you. And that debt is more important than any you would lay upon me.”

  Richard accepted a mug of ale from a serving wench. She curtsied, eyeing him appreciatively. He winked out of habit.

  “Be about your duties, wench!” Owain barked. “And stop twitching your arse! His lordship cares naught!”

  The girl rushed from the room, red-faced. Richard lowered the ale. “What the hell was that all about?”

  “If you want to scatter your seed to the wind, then do it elsewhere! I’ll not sit by and let you make a fool of your wife! Can’t you see how it would hurt her?”

  Richard let his breath out in a rush. “Jesú, must you always assume the worst of me? But why not, since Black Hawk de Claiborne is a ruthless bastard? He destroys all he touches, isn’t that right? He’s incapable of caring about anyone but himself.”

  Richard drained the mug and flung it in the rushes, then stalked from the room.

  * * *

  The Great Hall was boisterous tonight. The men from Ashford Hall presented new opportunties for dicing and gambling. Richard’s knights ate with relish, anticipating the aftermath of the hearty meal. Many of them were already deep in their cups, as proved by their coarse language and behavior.

  Gwen took a big swallow of wine and set the goblet down before Richard saw her. Her head hummed pleasantly, and her stomach was warm and tingly. She glanced down the table at Anne, her nerves scraping raw when Anne laughed at something someone said.

  Gwen slanted a look at Richard. He was angry with her. ’Twas the only explanation for his moodiness. She touched his sleeve. When he turned to her, she was startled by the sudden racing of her heart. How was it he managed to catch her off guard when she was the one who initiated the contact?

  The lines of tension in his brow worried her. She reached up to stroke his jaw. “You are beautiful,” she said. It wasn’t what she had wanted to say, but it suddenly seemed the only thing she could think of.

  His face softened, then he pressed his lips to her palm. “I have naught but a pretty face. You are the one who is beautiful, both inside and out.”

  “’Tis much more than your face that attracts me to you,” she said, swallowing hard.

  The look he gave her was intense, full of longing. He traced her lower lip with his thumb. Just when she thought he was about to say something, he shuttered his emotions and a teasing
smile spread across his lips.

  “What other parts of me are you attracted to, Gwen?”

  Gwen took a sip of wine to drown her disappointment. “You are trying to make me blush.”

  “Am I succeeding?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well in that case, I cannot wait to get you on your back… or mayhap your hands and knees.”

  Gwen smiled. He was not going to win this one. She pulled his head down and whispered in his ear. “I will fuck you any way you wish, my lord.”

  He shuddered. His voice was a raspy growl when he spoke. “God’s blood, you make me harder than all of the marble in Westminster Abbey.”

  “Really? Let me see.” Gwen slipped her hand beneath the table and slid it up his thigh. His eyes glittered as she found him. “Oh yes, ’tis big and hard,” she said, rubbing her hand along his length.

  “Keep doing that, wench, and there will be no need for lovemaking this night.”

  “Then let us go up now.” Touching him, feeling the proof of his desire, sent liquid heat surging in her veins, pooling where she burned hottest.

  “We have guests. ’Twould be rude to leave before dessert is served.”

  “I have dessert for you, my lord.”

  His gaze lingered on her breasts, then dipped down to the juncture of her thighs. “Aye, that you do. And I’ll wager you taste sweeter than any of Oliver’s confectionary monstrosities. Of course I will need to do extensive tasting to be sure…”

  Gwen sucked in her breath when he touched her earlobe with the tip of his tongue.

  “Did you know ’tis possible to come without even being touched down there? No? Well, ’tis. I’d love to make you so hot for me that you—”

  The outer doors swung open and men rushed into the hall crying, “Milord!”

  Richard shot to his feet.

  A man dressed in a thick wool tunic and cloak ran to the dais and gripped the edge of the table.

  “My lord earl,” he panted. “Signal fires. To the south. Village attacked. Welshmen.”

  “To arms!” Richard cried to the now quiet hall.

  “Nay!” Gwen yelled at the same time, jumping to her feet.

  But Richard did not hear, or if he did, he ignored her. He leaped over the table and ran for the door, not once looking back. The hall emptied behind him as the knights raced for their horses and armor.

  Gwen started after him. Owain grabbed her arm, pulling her up short. “Come, milady. I will take you to your chamber.”

  Gwen turned to him, her heart racing. “Nay! I must see him before he goes!” Richard couldn’t leave without saying goodbye! What if—?

  “He will not have time, milady. ’Tis not unusual for this to happen. He will return in a day or two, never fear.”

  Gwen tore away from Owain and ran for the bailey. Richard was facing Welshmen, and Welshmen carried longbows. She remembered the unholy horror of seeing a wooden haft protruding from steel. It defied logic, and yet it had happened.

  She clutched her skirts and raced down the stairs of the forebuilding and out into the snow-covered bailey.

  Confusion reigned. Men shouted to each other across the yard. Horses were hurriedly saddled and led from the stables. Young grooms held them ready until the knights were armored.

  Torches illuminated the figures of the men, casting huge shadows against the stone walls of the castle. Squires worked frantically, throwing hauberks and coifs on the knights. Nimble fingers buckled and cinched like lightning.

  Gwen ran between the warhorses, dodging hooves and teeth. She didn’t stop until she found Sirocco’s gleaming black hide. A groom fitted the crimson and black trapper lined with hardened leather over the stallion and cinched it in place.

  Richard stood beside the horse while his squire buckled his coif. Torchlight rippled across his hauberk as he turned to her, the shiny metal glittering like the iridescent scales of a sea monster.

  “Holy Christ! What the hell are you doing out here, Gwen? Get back inside before you get hurt.”

  “Richard—you must be careful—I—”

  “Get inside. Now, woman!”

  Wiry arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her backwards. “I’m sorry, milord,” Owain said. “She got away from me.”

  “By all that’s holy, get her out of here!” Richard grated from between clenched teeth. His gaze held hers for an instant before he turned his head.

  “No!” Gwen began to fight, kicking and twisting in Owain’s grasp. Despite his age, Owain was strong and his grip on her was tight. She could not escape. “Richard!”

  The squire finished and stepped back. Richard glanced at her a last time, then turned to mount.

  Gwen clawed at Owain’s arms. Richard was leaving and she might never see him again. She pictured him lying limp across Sirocco’s back, an arrow protruding from his chest. Her breath broke on a sob.

  “Richard!” she cried. “Richard!”

  He stiffened, gathering his reins and ignoring her.

  “Oh God—Richard—I love you!”

  She slumped against Owain. There was no time to consider the implications of her confession. All she knew was if something happened to Richard, her life would be useless and empty. She couldn’t let him leave without knowing it.

  She heard the swift intake of his breath as he turned around. Owain let her go. She flung herself into Richard’s arms. He crushed her to him, kissing her fiercely.

  She loved him, loved his smile, his eyes, his mouth, the way his hair felt between her fingers. She loved the things he did to her, the silky glide of his voice when he whispered wicked things in the privacy of their bed. She loved him. He was hers, had been hers since the first moment she’d seen him at Rhuddlan castle.

  She wound her arms around his neck, sobbing. A steel barrier stood between them. He was shielded from her, and she didn’t think she could bear it.

  “Richard… oh, Richard…”

  He reached up to caress her cheek and could not. His hand hovered, then dropped. Even they were encased in chainmail. He gave an agonized groan, then tried to push her away.

  “You must go in now,” he said, his voice soft, almost pleading. “I will return soon, cariad, I promise.”

  “No,” she said, clinging to him. “No. You cannot leave me.”

  Richard pulled her arms from his neck and pushed her away, motioning for Owain to take her. “I must, Gwen.”

  Owain’s strong hand wrapped around her arm. She stood, stubbornly refusing to move. Wasn’t he going to say anything else?

  “Do not make this any harder on him,” Owain whispered in her ear. “Come.”

  Gwen brushed at the tears spilling down her cheeks. She let Owain escort her through the bailey to the castle stairs. She walked slowly, glancing over her shoulder at Richard every few steps. He stared at her for a minute, then turned and swung into the saddle. He did not look back again.

  Sirocco danced and pawed, throwing snow from his large hooves. When all the knights were mounted, Richard gave the signal and they trotted out the now open gates of Claiborne castle, disappearing into the night.

  Gwen broke away from Owain and ran all the way to the master chamber, ignoring the startled looks of the servants she passed.

  She burst through the door and ran to the window. Pressing her face against the glass, she watched the torches move through the valley until they faded from sight.

  Gwen sank into the windowseat, sobbing anew.

  God in Heaven, she was in love with Black Hawk de Claiborne.

  27

  It was late the next day when the knights caught up to the Welsh warriors on the lower slopes of the Cambrian Mountains. They were traveling on foot, and though the cattle they’d stolen could have been driven faster, the Welsh indulgence in females cost them the race.

  The village women screamed, running for the woods when their captors turned to fight. War cries hurtled through the air as the Celtic warriors drew longbows to cheeks and loosed arrows upon the kni
ghts. Once the arrows were spent, the Welshmen dropped the bows and charged with spears and battleaxes.

  Even while he unsheathed his sword and prepared to charge into their midst, Richard didn’t fail to admire the indomitable spirit of the Welsh. They never hesitated to attack armored knights, despite their own lack of armor.

  The warriors wore leather jerkins sewn with iron scales and carried shields made of toughened goatskin. They should be no match for well-equipped knights, but often they were.

  This time was no exception. Most of the Englishmen were still trying to shake the aftereffects of too much ale, and the Welsh seized on the weakness.

  The fighting wore on for a quarterhour. The icy air hung heavy with the shouts and grunts of men, the weeping of women, and the wailing of cattle.

  Richard was bone-weary, but he closed off that part of his mind and drew from an inner well of strength and resolve that had never failed him.

  He didn’t know how many men fell before his blade. He never did. He just fought until no more came, then turned and surveyed the battle scene.

  Riderless horses joined the cattle. The snow ran crimson with the blood of the slain. Most of the bodies were Welsh, and for that he was thankful.

  The Welshmen who still fought suddenly realized they weren’t going to win and turned for the forest. The knights managed to cut off the escape route for all but a handful.

  The destriers’ sides heaved, their breath clouding the air with steam. Some of the knights slipped from their horses and collected the weapons from the bodies of the fallen Welshmen. Knives, broadswords, spears, and precious longbows.

  Richard wiped the edge of his sword on his mantle and resheathed it. It would do no good to pursue the escapees through that tangle of trees. Let them carry their tale of defeat back to the clans.

  The knights fanned out. Some gathered the cattle while others sifted through the bodies for those of their fallen comrades.

  The village women huddled together at the edge of the trees, weeping. Richard shook his head in disgust, rage bubbling in his soul. Young, old, it did not matter, the Welsh had taken them all.