Chapter 13 #2
“Nay, I have not.” Rhys glanced in the direction she had come. “Be careful of him, Gwen.”
Gwen nodded, unsure if he meant Dafydd or Richard, and unwilling to ask. She stepped away, forcing herself to smile.
“Take care, Rhys ap Gawain.”
“I will.” He studied her for a moment, his blue eyes keen. “If you ever need my help, I will be there.”
She reached for his hand. “Oh Rhys—”
He shook his head. “No tears, Lady de Claiborne.”
“No tears,” she repeated, smiling past the glitter in her eyes. She knew he’d emphasized the title on purpose. She needed that reminder of her new life before she broke down and cried like the frightened girl she was.
The Welshmen who had brought her to Shrewsbury sat their mounts quietly. They all watched her, waiting. A lump formed in her throat. “Farewell to you all. Tell my father and Elinor I am well.”
Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heel and hurried away. She would surely cry if she allowed herself to wonder whether she would ever see any of them again.
Richard had emerged from the armory and stood beside Alys, a scowl on his face. He wasn’t looking at her and she turned to follow his gaze. Rhys held the bay in place, returning Richard’s stare.
Gwen’s steps faltered momentarily. She forced herself to walk toward her husband. He was menacing in his chainmail. Covered from head to foot in leather and steel, the only splash of color was the crimson surcoat embroidered with the hawk device. Gwen shivered. He looked murderous.
His face was framed in metal, his eyes like silver-ice. He didn’t utter a word when she stopped beside him.
A groom came from the stable, leading a huge black stallion. The horse pranced, snorting and neighing, and the boy’s face turned white.
Richard jerked his gaze from the retreating Welshmen and whistled an intricate five-note call. The horse’s ears pricked, then he quieted, stepping quickly. Gwen turned to stare at her husband. ’Twas a falconing call he had used.
The boy handed over the reins with shaking hands. Richard spoke to the horse in soothing tones, words Gwen could not quite hear although she recognized them as Welsh.
’Twas almost odd the way he used Welsh so naturally. But he had probably lived in the March his entire life and had learned it as a boy. It was a musical language, very suited to calming nervous animals. Or women. Awareness pricked her as she watched him smooth his hands over the stallion’s neck.
Sirocco’s body quivered. Gwen looked away suddenly. Had she trembled beneath Richard’s hand too?
“Which horse am I to ride?” Gwen asked. The mare she had ridden to Shrewsbury was unsaddled and tied to a line of packhorses.
“You are riding with me,” Richard said without looking at her.
Gwen fisted her mantle. “I am not a pampered English woman, my lord. I am capable of handling a horse.”
He turned to regard her for a moment. “The March is dangerous. You ride with me.” His tone did not invite argument.
Gwen fumed.
“Mount up!” Richard cried to the party. He turned to one of Lady Ashford’s servants. “Girl, tell your mistress if she does not get out here now, I will leave without her.”
“Aye, milord,” the girl replied, sinking into a curtsy before running toward the castle.
Richard grasped Gwen by the waist and lifted her sideways onto Sirocco, then swung into the saddle behind her. Locked within his iron embrace, she wasn’t afraid of falling from the tall stallion.
“Are you comfortable?” he asked.
“Well enough, my lord.”
“I thought we had settled that,” he said dryly.
Gwen refused to answer. A woman emerged from the castle and Gwen’s jaw slackened. ’Twas the leman, Anne!
What the hell had she expected? Richard was an Englishman. He did not need his wife’s permission to keep a mistress.
But the worst part was he thought so little of her that he would take no pains to hide it.
It hurt to think the things he had done to her—the words he whispered and the way he touched her in places no man ever had—were nothing more than the skilled actions of a man well accustomed to lying with women.
Gwen bit back the bitter tears of betrayal that stung her eyes. She knew what kind of man he was. All men were horrible, and this one most of all.
Gwen shifted. She was much too aware of him, much too close to him right now. She did not think she could endure being held between his powerful thighs league after league.
She half-turned toward him. “Please,” she begged. “Please let me ride my own horse.”
He looked down at her and frowned. “What is the matter with you? I’ve not hurt you and yet you always want to get away from me. Do you truly find me so unpleasant?”
Gwen stared at the castle gates. No, not unpleasant. Just unnerving.
He stiffened when she didn’t answer. Sirocco began to dance beneath them, his ears swiveling backward as he awaited his master’s signal.
“Are you ready, Lady Ashford?” Richard asked irritably, his warm breath stirring past Gwen’s ear.
“Aye, my lord,” Anne replied.
As Sirocco surged forward, Gwen was pushed against Richard’s chest. That woman was Lady Ashford? She glanced at the lady perched delicately on a small grey palfrey.
Envy flared in Gwen’s soul. Anne was the court ideal, the one the romances sang about. Pale blonde hair peeked from under her headcovering, her skin was as white as snow, and her eyes were the blue of the sea. It was no wonder Richard wanted her.