Chapter 9
Gwen awoke to the soft rushing sound of water being poured. She lifted her hand and brushed the curtain of hair from her face. A tart smell assailed her nostrils and she realized it was the dried juice of the orange. She had fallen asleep in the windowseat.
“Your bath is almost ready, Your Highness,” Alys sang out. She fussed at a steady stream of youngsters who were emptying pails of steaming water into a tub. When the task was finished, she hurried them out the door and came to help Gwen undress.
“How long have I been sleeping, Alys?”
“’Tis well past dinner, but I brought you a tray.”
“Jesú! The men—”
“Are fine,” Alys finished. “They’ve been quartered with Lord de Claiborne’s knights. I’ve heard he’s threatened his men with beatings if any of ‘em so much as blink wrong at a Welshman.”
Gwen sank into the tub. She didn’t believe it for a minute. “Still, I should send a message to Rhys. Make sure all is truly well.”
Alys unstoppered a bottle and dribbled a few drops of precious scented oil across the surface of the water. “I will see to it, Highness.”
Gwen breathed deeply the smells of Wales. “Nay, Alys, you are making me feel rotten. I’ve been sleeping like a lazy cat and you’ve not had a rest. Please, go to bed. I’ll find a page as soon as I’ve finished bathing.”
“I am fine, Highness.”
“We’re alone now. You don’t have to call me that.”
“I will see you treated properly whilst we are here,” Alys insisted.
Gwen knew better than to argue. She dictated a message and Alys went to find a servant. When she returned, she sank into a chair with a groan.
“Please go to bed, Alys.”
The old woman waved her hand. “Nay, nay. I will sit with you until you are finished.”
Gwen sighed and picked up the rose-scented soap. Already, this had been a hell of a day. Why had Richard chosen that exact time to come to her room? It disturbed her to realize she’d wanted to see him. Just not under those circumstances.
Gwen lathered herself vigorously, angered that she even cared what he thought. Her lips twitched in a smile. He’d know soon enough she was untouched. What would the mighty Black Hawk say then? She was going to enjoy making him take back his filthy words.
The water was beginning to cool when Gwen finally decided to rouse herself. Alys snored softly, her sewing sprawled across her lap.
Gwen reached for the large drying cloth that lay beside the tub. Wrapping it around her, she crossed to the table to examine the contents of the tray.
She had just finished the soup when she was startled by the insistent rap on the door. Alys jumped out of the chair, her needlework flying as she scurried through the antechamber to answer it.
Gwen frowned. Who would come at this hour?
Rhys! It would be just the sort of thing he would do. She should have sent the message to one of the other men. Any one of them would have had sense enough to send a reply rather than come in person.
All she needed was for Richard to catch her with another man in her chamber. He’d definitely kill her then.
Alys’s voice rose desperately. “My lord, you cannot!”
Richard strode into the room, Alys bustling behind him. Gwen stood quickly, her pulse pounding in her ears as she clutched at the wet linen. She glanced with longing at her robe draped over the end of the bed.
Alys’s face showed an indignant red. “Your Highness, he would not—”
“’Tis fine, Alys,” Gwen said coolly, determined to keep the upper hand in this encounter. “I am certain Lord de Claiborne has pressing business if he needs to disturb us at this hour.”
“You may leave us, old woman,” Richard snapped.
Alys looked helpless.
Gwen wanted to slap his arrogant face. “I will be fine,” she said. The iron gaze holding hers made her think otherwise, but she would not worry Alys. “Wait outside the door, would you please?”
The woman nodded and reluctantly left the room.
Gwen whirled on him. “How dare you come in here and treat Alys so rudely!”
He frowned. “She is important to you?”
“Aye.”
“Then I will apologize to her.”
Gwen gaped at him. Black Hawk de Claiborne apologizing to a Welsh maid? It hardly seemed believable. “What do you desire of me, my lord?”
Leather and steel stirred against one another as he walked toward her. Instinctively, she moved to keep the table between them, glancing at the sword strapped to his side.
He followed her and she had to will herself to stop. No matter how hard her insides shook, he’d not have the pleasure of knowing he intimidated her.
“Desire is an apt word,” he said softly.
Gwen gripped the edge of the table for support. “Do state your business, my lord, and then leave me be. I am not your wife yet. You cannot order me around for another two days.”
“You have changed, Gwen,” he murmured, his gaze sliding down her body. “In more ways than one.”
His breath fanned warmly across her face. Gwen started at the stale smell of ale. She noticed then that his striking silver eyes were slightly glazed, bloodshot.
“You are drunk, my lord.”
“Aye, drunk,” he agreed, picking up a tendril of damp hair and rubbing it between his fingers. “Drunk with desire.”
He allowed his gaze to trace the hollow of her throat. Linen, still damp from her bath, clung seductively to the soft fullness of her breasts. He hardened with hot need.
Richard wanted to carry her to the bed and ravish her. He wouldn’t though. He wanted to hear her admit she desired him too. He was going to seduce her.
He traced her jaw, her throat, the ivory skin above her towel. She stared at him warily. Her eyes were mesmerizing. She parted her lips, and he centered on them, remembering the feel of their dewy softness beneath his.
Three years since he’d kissed her. It seemed a lifetime.
In that moment, he knew he stood on the brink of madness with his desire for this woman.
“Did you enjoy Ned’s kisses?” he growled, pulling her against his body, all thoughts of slow seduction suddenly gone. Unable to feel her softness through his mail, he groaned inwardly.
“Nay, I—”
“Did you wish him to make love to you?”
“I—”
“None but me will ever touch you. Ever. Do you understand?” he demanded, cupping her face between his hands. He did not wait for a reply. He had a sudden desperate need to erase the memory of any kiss but his from her mind.
Gwen opened her mouth to protest and his tongue slipped inside.
She heard a soft sigh, and was surprised to realize it had come from her.
She was no longer in control of her own body; she was clinging to him, meeting the eager thrusts of his tongue with urgency.
It was as if she’d waited for this moment her entire life.
His arms wrapped around her, and he pressed her against him so hard that the steel rings of his mail bit into her flesh. Gwen barely noticed, a tide of conflicting emotions doing battle in her head.
She suppressed a whimper when his mouth found her earlobe. Liquid heat flowed through her, an incredible ache spreading from deep in her stomach to the apex of her thighs in one agonizing leap.
He kissed the hollow of her throat, then moved to the sensitive curve of her shoulder.
An inner voice screamed that she should stop him.
Now.
But she could not. The sweet sensations he was arousing made her bones melt, her legs tremble, her mons ache. She had lost her will to resist from the moment his mouth branded hers.
Her breath caught when he cupped her breasts, squeezing them as he pressed hot kisses along her shoulder. Firelight played across his dark head and she bit her lip, stifling an urge to bury her fingers in his hair.
He straightened, and she tilted her head back to look up at him. His face was a mask of fury and desire, and her heart lurched. She’d never known a man’s passion could be so frightening and so breathtaking in its intensity.
“I have waited a long time for this,” he murmured thickly.
Deliberately, his hands came up to linger on the top of her drying cloth. She felt the air rush in as he loosened it to slide down her breasts.
Gwen grabbed at the linen. “Nay!” she cried, backing away from him. She was not ready for this, not yet! She still had two days!
“Gwen,” he said huskily, cradling her head in one large hand, “what is the harm of letting me taste your sweetness now? ’Tis only a couple of days until the wedding.”
“No.”
His voice was oddly mocking. “You would withhold from me what you were so willing to give the king?”
“’Tis not true!” She raised her hand to strike him.
“Not this time, wildcat.” He caught her arm and propelled her toward him. The kiss was sweet, long, and wet.
Gwen forgot why she was angry. She couldn’t think. Her blood stirred and she put her arms around his neck, giving herself over to his heady kisses.
She shivered, though not from cold, as he slowly pulled the cloth down. A distant part of her knew he was baring her body to his sight, but she no longer cared.
The towel slithered to the floor.
Gwen sucked in her breath as his calloused palms touched her bare breasts. His skilled fingers toyed with her nipples, the delicate peaks becoming taut and sensitive beyond belief.
What was the matter with her? She should be screaming at him, telling him to stop, to go away. But dear Lord, even in her dreams she’d never known such bliss was possible. She arched against him, not knowing she was applying pressure to the rigid flesh beneath his armor.
He groaned. “Yes, Gwen. God, yes!”
He dropped to his knees and pressed his lips to the hollow between her breasts, his hands splaying over her back and buttocks.
Gwen teetered between fear and pleasure. His mouth closed over her nipple and she cried out with the shock of it. The sensation was exquisite. Her fingers threaded through his hair.
And then he swept her into his arms, his lips fusing to hers as he carried her to the bed. Fear won the battle as she realized just exactly what he was about to do. He was big and savage and he thought her experienced. He would not be gentle.
“Stop!”
He stopped, one knee on the bed. “What is wrong?”
“I-I am not ready—I cannot—”