by Shayla Black
He thought back to his first battle—Tewkesbury, the bloodiest battle England had yet seen. A boy of twelve, he’d stood anxiously back from the battlefield’s edge, watching the bloodied knights fall. Friends of his father and his uncle had lost their lives that day, men he had known from the cradle. Men he had respected were gone forever, but the succession of England’s throne remained precarious despite their sacrifices.
His last battle, that with the Campbells of Scotland, had felt little different. Too much spilled blood for very little reason.
He would not have Lady Gwenyth’s blood on his hands as well.
Aric sighed and rose as night grayed toward a new dawn. Should he send her to Northwell to stay with his younger brother, Stephen? Nay, his she-devil of a stepmother, Rowena, remained there.
And Gwenyth’s words bothered him. ’Twas clear she had expected better of a home. Her expressive face had revealed her deep disappointment when she had first set eyes on his cottage. He had seen the yearning in her eyes for more, recalled with clarity that she thought him a mere hermit, worthy of her contempt.
Ambition in a woman had poisoned him since Rowena, once his betrothed. She had married his father for power and wealth. What would Lady Gwenyth do with the knowledge he had both in plenty now that his father was gone?
Aric had no intention of sharing that information. She and her displeasure might remain here out of necessity, at least until he could send her elsewhere. Before that day came, he would simply ignore her and her unforgettable mouth…somehow.
CHAPTER TWO
By midmorning, Gwenyth noted her host—the term she preferred over husband—looked bleary-eyed. Guilt needled her for taking his bed last eve, until she remembered she would not have taken it at all had he but fought this cursed union.
As the sun inched up in the sky, Aldrich—no, Aric he had called himself—lay down on the surprisingly comfortable bed and drifted off to sleep.
Gwenyth stared at the hulking man in repose. He should have looked relaxed in slumber but did not. ’Twas something of a puzzle, along with his use of well-born English. How had a peasant learned to speak so well?
Neither was of import, really. Her life had taken a terrible, unexpected turn, and during the wee hours, she had realized she must remedy the problem by seeking an annulment to this marriage. Sir Penley would take her to wife. Then she could have her own grand home where people welcomed her, accepted her. Sir Penley would smile at her, as he’d done from the moment they had met. He would hire poets to write flowering stanzas explaining why he needed her so.
None of those dreams could come true without the handsome hermit’s help.
Gwenyth perched on the edge of the rickety chair and wondered how to proceed. To gain an annulment, Aric had to say they had not shared a bed. Aye, they had, but not at the same time, so she supposed that was different. The marriage was not consummated, not that she would allow him to poke her with his shaft. ’Twould end her hopes with Sir Penley, and it sounded most unpleasant besides.
While her husband slept, she would sneak back to Penhurst to reason with Uncle Bardrick, if such a thing were possible. She could creep back to the keep without Aric’s knowledge. After all, he had told Dagbert he had no want of a wife. If he wished to remain in the thick of the forest with a wild dog his only friend, she would oblige him with pleasure. She wanted to avoid those piercing gray eyes and the sculpted magnificence of his face. He made her tingle in a most unusual way. Sir Penley never had such an ill effect upon her, thank goodness.
As she turned away to braid the dark mass of her hair, Aric groaned. Gwenyth whirled around to him and noticed sweat filming his face. His large fists bit into the mattress. She frowned.
His body jerked, and he groaned again. Gwenyth leaned closer in concern. Why did he rest so unwell? ’Twould seem nightmares troubled him. Did he dream of his black magic, or was he no sorcerer at all?
Suddenly, Aric lunged up, grabbed her arms, and threw her to the bed below. His large, hot body pinned her to the mattress; his strong grip made escape impossible.
In shock, Gwenyth stared at the half-wild man above her. His eyes closed, he snarled fiercely as his fingers crushed her throat. Gasping, she choked in a breath of air. Sweet Mary, did he mean to kill her?
Panic assailed her, and Gwenyth kicked and lashed out.
She could not budge him.
Spots danced before her eyes, but she managed to scream. Suddenly, Aric snapped upright at her side, his hands whipping away from her throat. His eyes opened wide.
Gwenyth sat up and backed away on the bed, clutching her abused neck. Horror flashed across Aric’s face before he turned away and raked a tense hand through his long tawny hair.
“You wed me to slay me?”
“I am sorry,” he mumbled as his taut back filled her gaze. “I…I but dreamed.”
“Of killing me?” she questioned.
“Nay,” he replied, breathing harsh.
“Of what, then?”
“Of hell.” His voice sounded like desolation itself.
Knowing somehow he would reveal no more, she frowned. “’Tis just as well I am returning to Penhurst. Uncle Bardrick is not likely to kill me himself.”
“Are you certain?” He whirled, his face now without expression. “Dagbert seemed certain last eve your uncle would indeed end your life.”
Gwenyth bit the inside of her lip. Aric spoke true. Would her own uncle put an end to her? For what purpose?
Nay, ’twas all foolishness. Dagbert had never liked her. She, the daughter of a dead baron, would always be a dunderhead in the kitchens and a burden to the current baron. Dagbert had reminded her of that irritating truth often indeed. So had her uncle. Even so, would he truly see her dead?
“Uncle Bardrick will see reason. He cannot turn family away thus.” She brushed Aric’s words aside with a flip of her hand.
His skeptical expression bespoke much. “If Dagbert followed Lord Capshaw’s orders, why did the baron send you to wed me? Why not one of his own daughters, if he feared the drought so?”
Gwenyth knew why. Uncle Bardrick had never wanted her there. He found her presence too distracting from his own two daughters, around whom the sun revolved, should one ask him. He would never offer up one of his precious girls to a man of dark powers.
The dead baron’s daughter, who had been little better than a servant for some years, however, was of no import. She was a fitting sacrifice—young, untouched, and unnecessary. And Gwenyth would gladly choke on her pride before she would make the husband she wanted not aware of her sorrow and shame.
“He lies about my uncle. Dagbert is naught more than a droning hedge pig filled with hot air,” she said, ruffled. “What does he, a mere foot soldier, know of a baron’s mind?”
Aric’s thoughtful gray gaze touched Gwenyth and lingered. Bristling braies, why did the man always make her shiver?
“He did not seem confused about your uncle’s orders,” Aric pointed out. “What shall you do if Dagbert spoke true?”
Gwenyth, refusing to consider that, waved his words away. “My uncle would not dare harm me! No uncle would.”
Her host’s lean face tensed until it appeared carved from granite. Pain, sadness eve, clouded his eyes before he turned away. “Anything is possible.”
She glared at his broad back as he rested his large fists on his narrow hips. She would not believe his doomsday view. Aye, Uncle Bardrick had never thought much of her, but he had never wanted to see her blood spilled, either.
“Such is possible only in your lunatic mind. Is that not grounds for annulment, your madness?”
Aric turned to face her, crossing his thick arms over his chest. His face had hardened with vexation. “You cannot prove I am mad, Lady Gwenyth.”
“But you do not deny it.”
He released a long-suffering sigh. “I will deny that foolery until my last breath. You shall have to think of some other way to rid yourself of me.”
“I shal
l cry male impotency, then. That will relieve me of you.”
Aric cocked his head to one side, his arms crossed over a chest that should have been a warrior’s. A more potent-looking man she had ne’er seen.
Gwenyth swallowed hard as he dropped his arms to his side and made his way toward her slowly. His massive, muscled frame blotted out the light and the view of her surroundings as he came closer. Gwenyth bit her lip as she glimpsed the hot challenge in his stare.
“I shall be happy to prove you wrong.” His whisper sounded low and not well pleased.
Gwenyth resisted the urge to back away. Had she pushed him too far? After all, he was her husband—for now—and well within his rights to demand she share his bed. She had no doubt he could fill every inch of that duty.
“Nay.” She curled her shaking fingers into fists. “I shall have to be a maiden still for this marriage to end.”
“True. But should you stay long as my wife, dragon-tongued or nay, do not expect you will remain untouched.”
“You would have me unwillingly?” she challenged him.
“I would not.”
“Then you would not have me at all.”
“Wrong,” he whispered, reaching out to capture her arms and bring her flush against the heated, rigid length of his body.
As Gwenyth gasped with both fear and shock, Aric closed his mouth over her own.
A thousand sensations assailed her at once—the feel of him close to her, his solid, strong hands as they slid around her shoulders and down her back. The rasp of stubble on his cheeks as he dipped his head to place another hard kiss across her tingling mouth. The smells of rich earth, midnight rain, and aroused male blended to an intoxicating elixir that blotted out all thought.
The taste of him clung to her lips as he parted them and found his way inside without haste, swirling, dipping, tasting, until Gwenyth could not find her next breath, until honeyed fire flowed within her. Then his groan reached her, vibrated inside her, echoed in the pit of her stomach and lower.
He lifted his head and spoke. “Stay here long at all, and we will share that bed.”
Gwenyth raised a trembling hand to her lips. Why did she feel so alive? Why did pulses and tingles skip and hum inside her? That sensation he roused by looking at her had multiplied tenfold. She actually wanted the recluse to kiss her again. And again. Had he worked sorcery upon her?
Taking a deep, steadying breath, she vowed she would not remain here to find out.
“Then I shall depart this moment, for I’ve no intent to share your bed.”
Aric said nothing to stop her as she walked out of the shanty and emerged into the noonday sun. Not a single word of farewell! She walked briskly across the clay-soiled hills, listening to the chirping of birds, determined to put her temporary husband from her mind.
’Twasn’t as if she truly cared that he did not speak to her, but could he simply dismiss her after such a kiss? Forget such oddly pleasurable sensations? The roguish sheep-biting buffoon! She had not given the lewdster permission to touch her, nor had she wished to feel any pleasure at his kiss. Certain she could not get away from him quickly enough, Gwenyth made haste through the forest.
She reached Penhurst so soon, she was near startled. The swaying leaves parted, some dropping to the ground in a green cascade, as the castle came into view and stole her breath.
The round turret and the battlement were as familiar to her as her own heartbeat. This was home, the place of her memories of a laughing papa and a tender mama. She had missed being here in the past days, even if Penhurst’s current inhabitants had not missed her.
The portcullis was lowered against intruders. Against her.
Inside, she heard the bustle of the castlefolk, the blacksmith, the apothecary, the soldiers training. Animals bleated and lowed as the sun rose to its zenith. Gwenyth so longed to be a part of it all again that she ached.
Gazing into the turret, she motioned to the lookout, a scrawny lad named Hamlin, to let her inside.
The boy shook his head. “Lady Gwenyth, milord said ye ain’t to come in.”
Mortification blazed through her entire body. Hamlin had spoken loudly enough for the whole of the castle to hear she was not wanted. ’Twas likely he had yelled loudly enough for Aric to hear. Heaven forbid!
Drawing in a deep breath, Gwenyth calmed. Uncle Bardrick could not be so cruel as to cast her out of his life completely, without a single word in the doing. Mayhap Hamlin was to open the portcullis to no one.
No matter, she decided. The ancestor who had built Penhurst had also built tunnels beneath, in case of a siege. She had played in the tunnels as a child and knew they would take her near enough to the solar.
She made her way around the outer curtain of walls surrounding the castle. Just within a cluster of brambles and bluebells lay the opening to the tunnel, covered now by twigs and rocks and leaves.
Sweeping the impediments aside, Gwenyth lowered her feet into the opening and slid down into the narrow red-brown passage until her feet touched the ground. Cool, dark, and musty—just as she remembered—the tunnel soon became narrow and short, forcing her to crawl. Firm damp earth filtered through her fingers and no doubt soiled the knees of yesterday’s gown. Goodness, she would look a fright when she saw her uncle, which would no doubt displease him.
At the tunnel’s end, Gwenyth found herself behind the chapel. The stairs to her right would lead her to the solar and her uncle.
Dusting herself off as best she could, Gwenyth turned to the stairs, only to find Sir Penley striding toward her, his face a mask of surprise. His sandy, shorn hair was unmoving in the breeze, which she knew would lift the glinting strands of Aric’s golden mane.
Nay! Now was not the time to think of her surly husband.
“My Lady Gwenyth.” He took her hands in his, concern furrowing his pleasing features. “You have returned, and worse for the wear,” he said, frowning at her tousled appearance. “Lord Capshaw told me you had gone away to wed. Is that so?”
Certainty that her uncle had indeed ordered her gone muted the joy of Sir Penley’s concern. But she would fix it, by the moon and the stars!
“I but went away to visit a…friend. An ailing friend. I’m up to see my uncle now.”
Relief crossed Sir Penley’s smooth features. “Joyous news. Not that your friend is ailing, of course, but that you have come back. I will see you later?”
Gwenyth’s heart sighed. Sir Penley was so eager to see her, so tender with his words. He had actually been worried about her wedding another. ’Twas a good sign, so long as she could rid herself of the roughhewn hermit she had wed.
“I vow you shall see me the moment I am done with my uncle.”
Sir Penley smiled. “After you, I shall speak to him, so that I may talk to you of a very important matter.”
Gwenyth knew what those words meant. He wanted to marry her! Of that she was certain. Though she was no longer the baron’s daughter, Sir Penley had chosen her. Joyous news, indeed! Now she must see her uncle and convince him to help her have this marriage annulled.
“Then I shall return with all haste,” she vowed.
“And I shall count the moments.” His soft blue eyes probed hers as he lifted her hands to his mouth. Upon seeing the dirt there, however, he merely smiled and released her. “I await you.”
Nodding, Gwenyth dashed to the stairs and rushed up to the solar door. There she took a deep breath to still the trembling of her stomach, then pushed her way inside.
In a chair beside the window, her uncle sat drinking from a tankard of ale. At her entrance, he glanced up from the account books before him. His eyes narrowed in anger when he saw her hovering just inside the door.
“I thought I made it clear you are no longer welcome at Penhurst.”
Gwenyth closed her eyes for a moment, fighting a wave of grief. She had always known that Uncle Bardrick had little heart, but to cast her from the only home she had ever known without so much as a word… She battled t
ears.
“Why?” She hated the fact her voice shook. “I have always done as you asked, worked in the kitchens, slept in the straw. I endeavored never to be in your way.”
Bardrick stood to his full height—five inches over five feet—and settled his arms across his round stomach. “Gwenyth, my brother and his slut of a wife spoiled you, gave you the finest clothes, the finest home, and educated you, though for what purpose I cannot fathom. You are willful, too spirited by half. Opinions fly unheeded from your mind to your mouth. And ’tis a foul mouth, full of naught but curses and slurs.”
The aging man turned his back to her and cast his gaze out the window to the inner bailey below. “I could find clever enough ways to ignore you until Sir Penley came. He would be Lyssa’s husband, but she does not have your beauty or wit.”
Gwenyth gasped. Nay! Her future, her dreams, given to her timid younger cousin?
“But ’tis me Sir Penley wants!”
Her uncle turned to spear her with an ugly stare. “Aye, and well I know it. I have seen the lust in his eyes when he looks upon you. Think you I don’t know he plans to ask me for your hand?”
“But you cannot alter the course of love,” she blurted.
Bardrick’s mouth turned up in a sneer. “I already have.”
Icy fingers of anguish squeezed Gwenyth’s heart. She wanted to ask if her uncle could indeed be so cruel, but she knew the answer. This was the man she had seen starve a headstrong servant near to death, the man who had ordered a starving poacher to be rendered sightless for his thieving.
This was the man who had stripped her of everything dear.
“Go home to your husband. Warm his bed and keep your viper tongue in your head. If the drought ends, I shall be pleased enough to allow you to visit. If not, expect never to see Penhurst again.”
“But—”
“Get out of my sight, girl. And do not come back, for I will see you dead.”