Chapter 13 #3
But if she was not his leman, then he must have another one waiting at Claiborne castle. Gwen’s spirits sank even further.
Richard kept Sirocco to a brisk walk until they reached the open country. Once outside the town gates, he signaled the company forward, and Sirocco leapt beneath them, eating the ground with long strides.
Gwen tried to forget where she was for a little while. The wind blew in her face, cold and exhilarating. The raw power of the horse beneath her was breathtaking, and she realized Richard was holding the stallion back so the packhorses could keep up.
Sirocco eventually settled into a smooth rhythm, and Gwen’s eyes began to drift shut. She tried to keep them open, but she finally gave up and fell asleep against Richard’s chest.
Richard turned to look at the train stretched out behind the company of knights.
He’d had to call for a walk long ago. Anne’s baggage could not keep up with knights on the move.
Jesú, at this snail’s pace they would never make Oswestry!
He could not see the sun for the clouds, but he guessed it to be past midday.
He cursed Anne under his breath, and Ned for making him bring her.
Though he doubted her reason for this journey, mayhap he was wrong.
She’d not cared for her husband much, but her son was growing up quickly and would be lord of Ashford Hall in another few years.
How old was Tristan now? Eight or nine, surely.
Sir Thomas of Ashford had been many years older than Anne when they married. When she had given him a son, Thomas was overjoyed, but then the poor man died in a border skirmish, as so many of the men living in the March did.
For a time, Anne had hoped to better her station by marrying him. In the end she’d had to be satisfied with being his mistress. He felt no guilt over it. Anne would spread her legs for any man with money and power. She had benefited as much as he from the pleasurable hours spent in bed together.
But even had he wanted, he could not have married her. She was a burgher’s daughter and a knight’s widow. She did not have rank, or land, or money—the things an earl needed in a bride, the things Elizabeth had when he married her.
Ned had found a way around Dunsmore’s lack of wealth when they first returned to England. He had given Richard an heiress with land and money almost equal to that of Gilbert de Clare.
Richard squinted into the distance, trying to push away the memories of his first wife.
On one side of them rose a tall forest of oak and evergreen.
On the other were open fields of hay and, in the springtime, heather.
Up ahead the road branched, one path leading into the forest, the other through the fields.
They would stick to the open country. With Anne’s belongings screaming their presence, ’twas better to stay in the open, even though the forest path was the quicker.
Richard squeezed the reins, bearing down until the mail gauntlet bit into his flesh.
Poor Elizabeth. He had never done right by her.
He had married her for her possessions, and she knew it.
She had loved him anyway, even though he didn’t love her.
He’d failed her in the end, just like he’d failed his father.
Richard looked down at the sleeping woman in his arms and had a sudden feeling that even had she possessed nothing, he would have married her anyway.
He shook his head. It was a fanciful notion brought on by his feverish desire to have her.
Once he’d made her his wife in deed as well as name, he would no longer have such ridiculous ideas.
Her hood had fallen back to reveal her face. Richard studied her. He could look as long as he liked and she’d never know. And he did like to look at her.
Long dark lashes feathered softly against pale cheeks. Tendrils of autumn-colored hair had come free from her braid and ringed her face in loose, spiraling curls. Her generous lips were parted like the petals of a blushing-rose, tormenting him with remembered kisses.
Her body was soft in sleep, molding to him so trustingly.
Richard shifted in the saddle as he thought of her naked and in his arms just like this.
Nay, not like this. Better. He pictured her beneath him, her body molded intimately to his, his masculine flesh surrounded by her silken heat.
He shifted again. Chainmail and saddles were not designed for a man’s comfort when aroused.
A fat droplet of rain smacked against Richard’s helm, echoing in his ears. He snapped his head back. The sky was black. He swore vehemently. “Andrew!”
The captain of the guard reined his horse in beside Richard. “Aye, milord?”
“We have to find shelter. The women cannot ride in a storm.” He paused, scanning the treeline. “We’re still too far from Oswestry. Llanwell cave is near, is it not?”
Andrew grimaced, then nodded. “Aye, milord.”
The wind began to swirl around them, the raindrops falling faster. Gwen stirred as the water hit her face. Richard tightened his arm about her waist. “We’ll have to take a chance on it then!”