Chapter 15 #2
“Christ,” he whispered, pulling her against him. She clung to him, the tears spilling soundlessly. He stroked her hair, her back. “You should not have seen that.”
He smelled of sweat and steel and rust. Gwen gripped his surcoat, pressing her nose against it, inhaling him. The sound of his breathing was reassuring, and for a while she could pretend he was still her knight from Rhuddlan castle.
He held her for a long time and Gwen realized he would not break the contact first. She stayed in his arms longer than necessary, enjoying it even though she should not.
For a time, it did not matter who and what he was.
She had feared for him and he was safe and he was holding her and it felt good.
But it could not last forever. She dried her eyes on her sleeve and tried to move away. He tightened his arms around her. “You could have been killed. Never leave safety so foolishly again.”
Gwen traced the outline of the hawk over his breast. His concern did seem genuine, whether it was or not. She decided to pretend it was. It felt nice. “Yes, Richard,” she said softly.
He tilted her face up and kissed her. She melted against him, clung to him like he was an anchor in a fierce storm. He pulled away first.
Pressing his forehead to hers, he said, “We cannot leave until Andrew returns. I have much to do until then.”
He took her hand, gently this time, and led her back to the others. When she sat next to Alys, he went to join his men.
Anne shot her a smug look. “Not doing so well, are you dear?”
Gwen was not in the mood for Anne Ashford. She ignored her, hoping the woman would take the hint. She did not.
“Richard is not difficult to please. Demanding, certainly, but not difficult. Of course, if you had managed to satisfy him, he would not be so hard on you now.”
Gwen raised her head slowly. Anne smiled. Gwen’s voice was low when she spoke. “You should be careful, Lady Ashford. You know what is said of the Welsh. We are savages, barbarians. There is no telling what we might do.”
Anne’s smile faded. The two maids’ eyes widened. Alys glared at them, punctuating Gwen’s meaning.
“Come, Alys.” Gwen stood, brushed the folds of her gown, and walked away with her chin in the air. Alys trailed behind her. Gwen could hear the woman chuckling under her breath.
“That was telling her, my lady,” Alys said when they sank down closer to the entrance.
Gwen smiled. “Sometimes, ’tis an advantage to have the English think us barbarians.”
Richard reentered the cave, and her eyes were drawn to him. He was every inch a commander. His men listened to him with admiration and respect, then hurried to carry out his orders without question. And yet he also seemed to be listening to them, accepting their advice, and acting accordingly.
Gwen clasped her hands together to keep from fidgeting with her cloak. When the Welsh had attacked, she’d had no thoughts for her countrymen. She’d only been afraid Richard would die.
But wasn’t that what she really wanted? If he were dead, she could go home. She would not be forced to be his wife, to bear his touch. Her heart cried out at the thought of him dead, the same as she had cried out earlier.
No, she did not wish him dead, especially after what she had seen today. She would wish that on no man.
Almost an hour passed before the knights returned. Andrew rushed in, his panting breath frosting quickly in the frigid air, his words coming out in half-gasps.
“Got away, milord. No sign of others.”
Richard smacked a mail-clad fist inside his hand. “God’s bones! We can’t stay to track them. I’ve got to get the women out of here.”
“Me an’ Matthew can do it. Leave half the garrison an’ we’ll catch ‘em, milord.”
Richard rubbed his face absently. It was a good idea under normal circumstances. He glanced at Gwen, then shook his head. “Nay. I need every man to guard the ladies and the baggage. We’ll make Claiborne by the end of the day, then we will return on the morrow.”
“Aye, milord,” Andrew said, dipping his chin to his chest in salute.
Richard’s gaze strayed to his new wife. Jesú, he did not want to leave her so soon, but he had no choice. Duty called.
He went to her and held out his hand. “We are leaving now, sweet.”
He wasn’t angry with her anymore although he should be. When he’d seen her standing in the clearing amid all that arrow fire, his heart had dropped to his feet. And when he’d pulled her inside and confronted her, he’d had to fight himself not to shake her until her teeth rattled.
But then she’d turned to him for comfort and like some poor besotted fool, all his anger fled. In that moment, all he’d wanted was to hold her close and protect her.
She slipped her hand in his and he helped her to her feet. Her hand was so small, so soft and delicate; so out of place in his large, battle-hardened one.
Her sweet scent wrapped around his senses, tormented him with remembered dreams. God how he wanted her! He barely stopped himself from crushing her to him and burying his face in her silky hair.
Outside, Sirocco stamped his feet, snorting and twitching. The battle had excited the stallion and he was eager to gallop. As before, he quieted instantly when Richard spoke.
He turned to lift Gwen onto the horse. She was watching him, but her gaze darted away, her cheeks flushing light pink.
With the instinct of a man who knows the strength of his attraction to the opposite sex, Richard knew she had watched his hands skim Sirocco’s neck, had remembered them skimming her body.
The knowledge sent a surge of triumph through him—and a desire so strong it nearly took his breath away.
His hands spanned her waist and he found himself thinking how slight she was. For an instant, he wondered if she could withstand his passion. Surely he would break her in two if he weren’t careful.
He pulled her to him, held her against him longer than necessary. Their gazes locked, and she suddenly turned her head away.
“Look at me,” he commanded softly.
She did and he touched his lips to hers. Unable to stop at such a brief taste, he deepened the kiss. Her response was both innocent and passionate, and his loins ached from want of her.
“Jesú,” he swore.
“My lord?”
He traced a finger from her forehead to her jaw. “I was just wondering if the rest of you will taste as sweet.”
Her color deepened. He lifted her onto Sirocco’s back, then donned his helm and buckled the straps securing it to his hauberk. When he’d pulled on his mail gauntlets, he climbed behind her.
“Where is he?” she asked as they began to move.
“Who?”
“The dead knight.”
“His body is tied to his horse. We must take him home and give him a proper burial. I shall have to tell his wife.” He cleared his throat. “Hugh had two children.”
Gwen swallowed past the raw ache in her throat. She wanted to cry for Hugh, for his wife, for his children, but she had no tears left. She didn’t know him, but the senselessness of it all appalled her.
Would this bloodshed between Wales and England never end?
Richard obviously cared about his men. It was the sort of thing her father would do, personally telling the wife of a fallen soldier instead of sending a messenger. It was noble and honorable.
Gwen relaxed in the iron embrace of the man behind her. Black Hawk de Claiborne had just risen a notch in her estimation.
When at last Claiborne castle rose in the distance, Gwen squinted as though she could see it better by doing so. They’d long ago parted company with Anne, who was on her way to Ashford Hall with some of Richard’s knights for escort. Gwen prayed that was the last she would see of Richard’s lover.
Beyond the castle, the River Dee slashed through mountain rock on its course to the Irish Sea. Claiborne perched on an escarpment high over the river valley, the crimson banner with the black hawk waving from its turrets.
It loomed larger and larger with each passing second. Gwen swallowed a bubble of fear. This was Claiborne castle, castle of cruelty, castle of death. It was the last, the mightiest castle between the March and Snowdonia.
A small village clustered onto the hillside below the castle. Daylight waned as they approached the town. A cry went up from the watch and the heavy gates creaked open slowly.
A dog barked somewhere. Chickens scattered, clucking noisily, as the big destriers disturbed their pecking. The mingled smells of food and filth permeated the air.
The road was muddy. Thatch-roofed houses lined the street on either side. The shops were closed, their windows boarded up until tomorrow. Smoke rose from holes in the ceilings, carrying the smell of stews and meat. Gwen’s stomach growled.