The Dark Knight's Captive Bride

by Natasha Wild

  The snow had been cleared to the side and the horses’ hooves clicked on the cobblestones. People in bright cloaks hurried past, barely noticing the arrival of yet another nobleman and his household though none hesitated to get out of the way once they looked up and saw the crimson and black livery coming their way.

  Gwen gazed at her surroundings with wide eyes. Nothing Elinor or her father had ever said prepared her for this. The houses and shops were packed together tightly, stone and timber buildings rising three and four stories above the street. The dirtiness Richard spoke of was not at all apparent here.

  As they rode farther into the burough, the houses became larger—sprawling stone buildings surrounded by walls that enclosed vast courtyards and grand gardens. Houses of the nobility.

  Westminster Palace rose above the Thames in the distance. They rode toward it, then turned onto a street that Richard said was called the Strand.

  Anne Ashford’s party didn’t turn with them, continuing toward the palace instead. Gwen breathed a sigh of relief. She’d hoped the woman wouldn’t try to insinuate herself at Dunsmore House, but she’d fully expected it.

  Dunsmore House was one of the grander residences, or palaces as they were sometimes called. Set against the flowing Thames, its white walls and intricate gardens were enhanced by the great sheets of costly glass adorning the windows. It took great wealth to indulge in such an extravagance. Gwen swallowed. She’d had no idea Richard was so wealthy. Why did a baron with the power and status he carried risk his life riding the borders?

  Servants in the Dunsmore livery hurried to greet them. Richard swung down off Sirocco and came to help Gwen. Gripping her hand firmly, he turned to Owain, who was still wide-eyed from the ride through the city.

  “The steward here is Sir Charles. Find him and see to the unloading. Do not disturb me unless it’s important.”

  Owain’s gaze trailed to their linked hands. A broad smile creased his face, and he bowed. “As you command, my lord.”

  Gwen didn’t mind that Richard pulled her through the house before she got a good look at the marble columns, the spacious hall with its gilded walls, the floor-to-ceiling windows that bathed the rooms in light. She didn’t care because she was as singularly minded as he at the moment.

  She could see it later. Everything could wait until later. Everything but the wild heat that begged for release.

  He sent her up the stairs in front of him. When she was halfway up, she turned and put her arms around his neck. Even standing on the stair below, he was taller than she.

  Hungrily, they fused their mouths together. Gwen clung to him, pressed against him until she felt his hard manhood like a pillar between them.

  He cupped her breasts and she whimpered. God, it was so long since they’d made love that she was extra sensitive.

  Nearly mindless with need, Gwen sank backwards onto the stairs. Richard came down on top of her. Her hands slipped beneath his tunic and he shuddered as she caressed bare skin.

  “Gwen, ah Christ, Gwen…” His lips moved down her throat, licking, kissing, rediscovering. “We must get upstairs before I take you here and now,” he said thickly.

  “I care not,” she breathed.

  “We must, cariad.”

  He picked her up and started to carry her to the master chamber. “The stitches!” she cried. “You will hurt yourself!”

  Richard laughed. “Jesú, wench, you are too light to injure me. I strain it more when I pull myself into the saddle than I do when holding you.”

  He set her down and kicked the door closed. Gwen threaded her fingers through his hair and pulled his head down. His lips on hers were firm and strong and devouring.

  His fingers worked her laces until he could push her surcoat and chemise open. Then he bent to seize a nipple. Gwen cried out.

  His arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her close while he suckled her breasts with heartstopping precision. Gwen kneaded his shoulders like a kitten.

  He groaned when she cupped his manhood in both hands. Somehow, they found their way to the bed. Richard pressed her onto the mattress, shoving her skirts up while she worked to free his chausses.

  “I want to be inside you, Gwen. I want to feel you hot and tight and clinging. I want to hear you cry my name while I’m thrusting into you,” he said huskily. “I’ve wanted it for weeks.”

  “Yes, Richard, yes. I want it too…”

  Someone rapped on the door. They ignored it. It came again, louder. Richard swore. “Go away!”

  “Milord? Milord?”

  “Later!”

  Gwen almost had him free. Another minute and they would be joined. She kissed him. His tongue plunged into her mouth with the same dark rhythm his body would soon imitate.

  “Milord! A message from the king, milord!”

  Richard’s head snapped up.

  “No!” Gwen cried, trying to pull him back down. “Can’t it wait?”

  “Nay.” He went to the door and opened it a crack. Gwen sat up. She couldn’t hear what was said, but she knew as soon as he closed it he was leaving.

  He walked back to the bed, straightening his clothes. Gwen tugged her skirts in place. “Please stay,” she said.

  He shook his head. “I cannot.”

  “We need to talk, Richard.”

  His expression softened. “Aye, I know. When I return, I promise.” He snatched his mantle off the floor. “Why don’t you take a hot bath and get some rest? We’ll have all night for talking… and other things.”

  He winked before he slipped out the door.

  * * *

  Richard strode through the corridors of Westminster, anxious to get this meeting over with and return to Gwen.

  His body still throbbed with the memory of his arousal. He’d been so hard he thought he might explode the instant she touched him.

  He’d missed her. At first he was able to ignore it, thinking it would pass soon enough. But instead of going away it had only gotten worse.

  She was a fever in his blood. He needed her. For weeks he’d fantasized about the kinds of things he wanted to do to her body.

  He refused to believe it was anything beyond a physical connection. She was just so beautiful and passionate that he desired her above all others.

  He would not deny himself any longer.

  When he reached the king’s solar, a youth stepped inside to announce him. The boy returned and held the door open, bowing as he swept past.

  “Richard! Jesú, but you are prompt,” Edward said, rising and clapping his friend on the back. “Fetch some wine. Gascon, I think,” he said to a servant.

  At Edward’s bidding, Richard sank into an ornately carved and cushioned chair. The room was richly appointed with velvet hangings and sendal tapestries. The golden-lion banner draped across one wall. The ceiling was green, spangled in gold, and over the fireplace the wall was wainscoted and painted with scenes of the strange animals in the royal menagerie.

  Richard knew, because he knew Edward, that the room had not changed since the days of Henry III, Edward’s father. Henry had loved magnificence and opulence whereas his son barely took heed of it at all. Edward was a soldier at heart. His energies would more likely be directed at strengthening a keep’s defences than decorating its chambers.

  “So where’s the little wife?” Edward asked. “Leave her at home so you could play?”

  Richard grinned. Ned was always thinking with his prick. “Nay, she’s at Dunsmore House.”

  “Ah. Pregnant yet?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Jesú, I thought you’d have planted your seed deep by now.”

  Richard shrugged. “She is Llywelyn’s daughter. Mayhap it takes longer than with other women. ’Tis not from lack of trying, I can assure you.”

  Edward laughed, his eyes twinkling. “I knew you’d not have a problem. That lass could get a rise out of a corpse, I’ll warrant.”

  Richard shifted uncomfortably, remembering the rise she’d given
him not too long ago. He changed the subject before he got it again. “Has the queen given birth yet?”

  “Aye,” Edward said, his eyes lighting. “’Tis another daughter, but she’s beautiful. The next one will be a son.”

  Richard smiled. Ned needed an heir. The last one had died years ago, but the king never failed to rejoice over the birth of a daughter. England didn’t much worry over it either. She still had Edmund and his sons if it ever came down to it.

  But Edward was young yet, barely in his forties, and he had the cool confidence of a man who knew he’d give England her next king eventually.

  The servant returned and poured wine into two golden goblets. When he took his leave, Edward fingered the rim of his cup and said, “The pope wants me to lead another crusade.”

  Richard’s heart dropped to his feet. “When?”

  “Sometime next year.”

  Richard took a drink, let it bathe his suddenly dry throat. The last crusade had taken four years.

  His palms slipped on the goblet and he gripped it tighter. Ned could not require him to go. All he had to do was pay the scutage and send the knights he owed the crown. That would be enough.

  His free hand strayed to his sword. He had to go with his king! Honor demanded it. He had sworn to always support Ned’s causes, no matter what, no matter where. It was his duty.

  Richard tossed back the wine and reached for the flagon to pour another.

  “We’ll have to call a council to discuss it, of course. Perhaps in the spring. What do you think?”

  “Aye,” Richard said.

  Edward’s face lit with excitement. “’Twill be like old times, eh Richard?”

  The king continued to speak but Richard did not hear. He downed a third goblet of wine, then poured another. Why did life suddenly seem meaningless?

  30

  Anne, too, was partaking of wine at that moment. Except hers spilled across the hard abdomen of her lover before she could lick it all up.

  Dafydd groaned when she painted the tip of his penis and started to lick. Anne giggled as she drew him in her mouth.

  When she’d drained him dry, he pulled her up and suckled a breast lazily. Anne arched her back.

  “Did Dunsmore suspect anything?” he asked.

  “Nay, he did not know ’twas your men mingled with mine.”

  Dafydd reached for the wine. “And how fares my niece with the mighty Black Hawk?”

  Anne pouted. She didn’t want to think of that flame-haired witch right now. “She loves him, though he does not return it.”

  That was satisfying, at least. Anne toyed with the hair on Dafydd’s chest.

  “’Tis fitting that fate deal her the same lot in life as her mother. Eurwen loved my brother to distraction, but he was too caught up in his precious Wales. If Eurwen had listened to me—” He took a deep swallow of blood-red wine.

  “You were in love with her.”

  Dafydd’s face was stony. He finished off the wine and set the cup aside. “Aye,” he said, staring straight ahead. “Llywelyn has always beaten me in everything. Love was not an exception.”

  “Nay, Dafydd, you have beaten him in one thing.” Anne smiled. “You have sons! You have seven children. He has but one.”

  “Aye, and one on the way. This one could be the boy he’s been waiting for.”

  Anne traced a circle around his nipple. “Accidents do happen.”

  “Yes,” he said carefully, “yes, they do, dearest Anne.”

  Anne’s hand slipped to his groin. “We haven’t much time left. The king will seek me as soon as the castle is abed.”

  Dafydd rolled her on her back. “We mustn’t allow the king to bed you before we are quite certain everything is in working order.”

  Anne could not agree more.

  * * *

  Gwen luxuriated in a hot bath scented with rose oil, then slipped into a silk chemise and velvet robe. She had a quiet supper of roasted fowl and winter cabbage, followed by baked apples and honeyed wine.

  It was several hours since Richard had gone and she was beginning to get annoyed. She’d saved her explorations for the house until tomorrow, thinking Richard would be back soon. Every minute that passed only increased her annoyance.

  She stood and began to pace. The master chamber wasn’t as large as the one at Claiborne, but it was luxurious nonetheless. The bed was big and canopied, its wooden posters carved with intricate designs of birds and animals. The hangings were crimson velvet, embroidered with a spread-winged hawk. They were pulled back to reveal sheets and pillows of linen and silk, and coverlets of fox and rabbit.

  The ceiling was painted with a forest mural and a fierce hawk, and Gwen marveled at the delicacy of the work. Two narrow windows looked out over the Thames. She’d stared out them until nightfall obscured the view. It was nothing less than amazing.

  Even in winter, boat traffic slogged up and down the mighty river that was England’s trade link with the rest of Europe. As far as she could see, the waterfront was lined with buildings both large and small.

  London was intimidating to someone born and raised in the pastoral splendor of Wales.

  Sighing, she sank into a velvet-cushioned chair. Mayhap Richard had found an elegant lady he preferred over her. Certes, she could not compare with the painted and pampered ladies of the royal court.

  She curled into the chair and laid her head on her arm. If he didn’t come soon, she was going to bed and to hell with him.

  She had no idea what time it was when she was awakened by loud voices. She stood quickly, massaging the crick in her neck. The door swung open and two men came in, supporting Richard between them.

  “Is he hurt?” Gwen asked, hurrying to his side. She recoiled when the strong smell of wine hit her head-on. Fear was immediately replaced by anger.

  He raised his head slowly. “Gwen,” he slurred.

  “Put him on the bed,” Gwen said crisply.

  “Aye, milady,” the two men said in unison.

  Richard refused to lie down, gripping the bedpost instead. The men gave up and left him standing.

  “Where the hell have you been?” she demanded, knowing it was ridiculous to ask when he was not in any condition to give her a decent answer.

  He blinked. “Wessminsser.”

  Gwen rolled her eyes, then went to him and started to remove his garments. His free hand entwined in her hair and he pulled her up to kiss him. She pushed him away.

  “Lemme make love t’you,” he said.

  Gwen laughed ruefully. “I doubt you could, my lord.”

  He blinked, then lay his head against the post. Gwen got his mantle and tunic off, then started to remove his chausses. He twirled one of her curls around his finger.

  “I love you…” he said, soft and slurred.

  Gwen straightened, her heart skipping a beat. She searched his face, hoping for some spark of lucidity. There was none.

  He was drunk. He had no idea what he was saying. He tormented her with the one thing she desired above all else when tomorrow he would have forgotten he’d ever said it.

  Gwen slapped him.

  His eyes widened. Perversely, he grinned. “Never do what I think.”

  “You are insufferable,” she whispered.

  “Aye.”

  She finished undressing him, then unwrapped his hand from the bedpost and led him to the side of the bed. He fell on it and she pulled the covers over him.

  She pushed her hair over her shoulders, then raised her hand in front of her face. It was shaking, just like the rest of her.

  * * *

  It was the incessant pounding that woke him. His head felt like a battering ram.

  Richard turned over and tried to go back to sleep. It didn’t work. Finally, he sat up and looked around. It took several minutes to realize where he was and several more to focus on the still form of a woman at the window.

  “Gwen?”

  She started, then turned to look at him. He couldn’t tell from this dis
tance, but she looked like she’d been crying. “I did not expect you to awaken for quite some time,” she said, sniffling.

  Richard raked his hands through his hair. “I wish I hadn’t. Jesú, what the hell happened?”

  She laughed, but it didn’t sound happy. “Oh I knew you would not remember.” She wrapped her arms around her body. “’Tis a good thing I am accustomed to disappointments.”

  But unfortunately he did remember the one thing he wanted to forget. He had no idea how he’d gotten back last night, but he could never forget the crusade. His heart constricted.

  The morning light was dull with sleet and snow, but where it touched Gwen, it shone like sunshine. Her glorious hair was like a river of flame and molten gold, the lushness of her form outlined by the velvet robe she wore. Richard could picture every delicious curve in perfect detail.

  Oh God, how could he leave her? How, when he’d only just discovered he loved her?

  Despite the ache in his head, he went to her. She refused to face him and he slipped his arms around her, pulling her against him.

  Nuzzling her hair aside, his lips sought the sweet curve of her neck. “I’m sorry we did not get to talk last night. I know it was important to you.”

  “Aye,” she said softly.

  Richard knew they should probably talk now, but he couldn’t stop his hands from sliding up to mold her breasts. He felt her quiver and he was encouraged. Lord God how he needed her!

  One hand slipped inside her robe and down to cup her feminine mound. His tongue made light circles around her ear. Her breathing quickened.

  His shaft filled and he pulled her harder against him until she was aware of his arousal. “God, I want you. Make love with me, Gwen.”

  His finger slipped into her cleft. She moaned her pleasure as he began to stroke her.

  “That’s right,” he whispered. “Surrender to me.”

  She turned in his arms and he bent to kiss her. How had he ever thought that all he felt for this woman was desire?

  She was soft and warm and he crushed her to him until she protested it was too much. He eased his grip just enough to let her breathe.