Chapter 5
“You want to do what?” Llywelyn roared.
Edward swept him with a cool stare. “Not want, Llywelyn. I am doing this.”
Richard lounged in a chair at one end of the heavy oak table. His eyes followed Llywelyn as he treaded a path back and forth in front of the hearth.
Beneath the solid expanse of the table, Richard cracked one fist inside the other, his gut churning like the sea at full boil.
The worst was yet to come. Edward was forcing him to sign a treaty of friendship with Llywelyn as part of the marriage agreement.
They hadn’t gotten that far though. Right now, the Prince was still trying to get over the shock of having his daughter wedded to Black Hawk de Claiborne.
Llywelyn pointed a battle-hardened finger at Richard. His tones were clipped as he spoke to the king. “You intend to marry my daughter to that blood-thirsty barbarian?”
Richard stood slowly and walked around the table.
Llywelyn braced his feet apart and waited.
Lesser men tucked their tails between their legs and ran when Black Hawk de Claiborne stalked them.
If Richard hadn’t been so blinded by rage, he’d have admitted a begrudging admiration for Llywelyn’s steadfastness.
Edward gripped the table and shot Richard a warning look.
The prince was trying to object to the marriage on the grounds of his daughter’s safety, but they all knew what was really at stake. Llywelyn didn’t want to give up any portion of his greatly diminished princedom as dowry.
Richard fingered his sword, his voice deceptively mild. “You had no such qualms when you gave her over as a hostage. Why the sudden attack of conscience, old man?”
Llywelyn’s eyes flashed. “You’re a disrespectful bastard, Black Hawk. But then again I would expect no less from the son of William de Claiborne.”
No one heard the singing of steel until the blade was already out of the scabbard. Edward leapt to his feet, his fist crashing onto the table. “Richard! Goddammit, put it away!”
Llywelyn stood rigid with the point of the gleaming sword resting at the base of his throat. Eyes met across a chasm of mistrust; Llywelyn’s fearful yet defiant, Richard’s malicious and cold.
Richard smiled lazily, but it was forced. “As you command, my liege,” he ground out between clenched teeth.
He stepped back and resheathed the sword in one smooth stroke, then gave Edward a curt bow before returning to his seat.
Edward glared at him for a long moment, then sank down into his own chair, smoothing the folds of his blood-red surcoat with great deliberation.
Llywelyn took a deep breath and rubbed his throat. His face was scarlet with fury. “That is precisely what I’m talking about, Majesty. How can you give my daughter to the likes of him? The first time the lass opens her mouth to disagree, he’ll skewer her on the point of his sword!”
Richard crossed his hands behind his head and leaned back in the chair. “I’ll use my sword on her all right.” He smiled. “I daresay she’ll enjoy it much more than you just did.”
Llywelyn’s jaw worked, but he turned to the king and ignored the taunt.
“I am sorry, Llywelyn, my mind is made up,” Edward said.
Llywelyn whirled around and began to pace back and forth. “What about Arwystli? What are you going to do about that?”
Edward shrugged. “My commission is busy working on it. We’ll hear their findings soon enough.”
“Give me Arwystli, and you can have her.”
“’Tis not that easy, my friend. I am your king and I am commanding you to betrothe your daughter to my baron. Arwystli has nothing to do with this.”
Richard sat back while Llywelyn continued to protest and Edward countered. He thought he might choke on Llywelyn’s self-righteousness. First, the man said he feared for his daughter, then he was willing to trade her for disputed land. Richard wanted to kill him even more.
Finally, the raw terms were hammered out: a parcel of land that bordered Richard’s, a treaty of friendship, money and sheep, and the succession to the Welsh throne if Llywelyn failed to get any heirs of his own.
Edward leaned back in his chair while Llywelyn crossed to stand by the window. The King winked at Richard and took a swallow of wine.
“Well, shall we send for the lass and introduce her to her husband-to-be?”
Gwen curled in a chair and rested her chin on her fist. She’d not left her room since retreating to it last night. It was small and cozy and far removed from the dark dangers of broad shoulders and silver eyes.
Her heart quickened against her will, her cheeks heating. Richard had been so dangerously handsome in the wavering torchlight. She’d been drawn to him, ready to surrender before he even struck. His smell—spicy, powerful—lingered in her memory, taunting her.
She closed her eyes, leaned her head against the chair. She could feel his lips on her skin, his hands like sweet torture on her innocent flesh.
Gwen had relived the scene a thousand times since last night.
It felt so real, even now. She had a sudden thought that if she turned around, he would be standing there, watching her.
She pictured him, one corner of his sensual mouth curved in a mocking smile, a smile that told her he knew all of her darkest dreams.
Oh God, would that he had kissed her before that woman came along!
Gwen pressed a trembling hand to her forehead. Why did she think such things about that vile man? He was handsome, yes, but he was English and he was horrible and he was—
“Gwen?”
“Come in, Elinor,” she said, more than happy to be interrupted.
The older woman hurried into the room. “Gwen, you must change. That simply will not do.”
Gwen looked down at the plain surcoat belted over a white undergown. “Are we not leaving? I have ridden like this before.”
“Nay, you are being summoned to an audience with the king. You must change,” Elinor repeated.
Gwen clutched her throat. “The king?”
“Do not worry,” Elinor soothed. “Your father is with him. ’Twill be all right. Now, let me help you.”
She busied herself in one of Gwen’s trunks, pulling out a gown of sea-green silk and an ivory surcoat embroidered with silver birds.
“This will do,” Elinor said, laying the clothes across a chair before turning back to Gwen.
“Do you know why, Elinor?” Icy fear washed over Gwen’s body, rendering her immobile.
“Nay.” Elinor grasped her shoulders. “But I do not think he wants to keep you hostage. He gave his word.”
Gwen stared into the other woman’s hazel eyes for some moments before nodding mutely. She shrugged out of the garments she was wearing and tossed them onto the bed, then donned the others as Elinor handed them to her.
Gwen thought of the leman Anne and the way her tightly laced gown had shown her figure. She glanced at Elinor. The other woman’s back was turned, so Gwen tugged the laces tighter, satisfied with the way the gown cinched in her waist and molded her breasts and hips.
If she chanced to run into Richard again, he’d not see a girl, but a woman.
She chided herself for caring what he thought of her, but that didn’t stop her from unplaiting her hair and shaking it into a torrent of flame. Elinor knotted a girdle of silk and silver around Gwen’s waist, frowning only slightly at the way the gown hugged her curves.
“Mayhap, you should wear a wimple,” Elinor said, touching the cloth that covered her own tightly braided hair.
“Nay. ’Tis not the Welsh way.”
Elinor shrugged. “As you wish.” Squeezing Gwen’s hand, she said, “All will be well.”
The light that flooded from the chamber’s interior seemed unbearably bright when coupled with the murky darkness of the passage Gwen had just come through. She squinted, holding her hand up to shield her eyes.
Unmistakable currents of tension emanated from the three men present. The air crackled with the sparks of their anger, curbed, but not forgotten, at her entrance.
Her father stood at one end of the room. King Edward lounged easily at a table. Her heart started to flutter as her eyes met the third man’s.
How, and better yet why, was he here?
“Your Majesty,” she said, sinking into a curtsy.
“Come, Gwenllian, sit beside me,” Edward beckoned, all smiles as he patted the chair next to him. “May I present Richard de Claiborne, Earl of Dunsmore?” he said sweetly.
Gwen gasped. Oh God—Gwalchddu! Only moments before, her fickle heart had been pounding so loud she thought all three men could hear it. Now, it struggled with the effort to beat.
King Edward and Richard de Claiborne.
The Lion with the leash in its mouth. The fierce Hawk he controlled.
The dark knight of her dreams was Black Hawk de Claiborne.
But Black Hawk was supposed to be cruel and evil and ugly, not handsome and seductive!
He was a brutal guardian of the March. Stories were told of him, bards’ tales of unspeakable horror chanted in the great stronghold of the Prince of Wales.
Gwen had heard them all. Black Hawk tortured his captives most gruesomely. He drank the blood of newborn babes and devoured children for dinner. He’d sold his soul to the devil and sacrificed virgins regularly on the altar of his masculinity.
Gwen wasn’t quite sure what that last part meant, although she had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with the strange sensations she’d experienced when he’d touched her.
A shiver washed down her spine and she crumpled in the chair Edward offered.
“Are you all right, my dear?” Edward asked, leaning forward to touch her cheek.
“Aye, thank you, Majesty,” she replied quickly. “Lord de Claiborne,” she murmured, lowering her lashes. She thought of all the Welshmen who had died at his hands, all the women who mourned their husbands and brothers and sons because of him.
Bitter disappointment ate at her. He was horrible. She raised her gaze to him, tempered it with defiance and hatred.
The look he returned to her was raw and sensual, and full of contempt. Gwen broke the contact first, stared at her hands clenched in her lap.
“Princess Gwenllian,” he replied. His voice was cool and detached. Strangely, it hurt. She dared to look at him once more.