Chapter 18 #2
The two men trudged across the bailey together. “Aye, I reckon ye can’t wait to see that dainty wife o’ yours. I intend to find me a bit of womanly company too. Christ, ’twas some hard ride!”
“Aye,” Richard said. He stifled a yawn as he and Andrew climbed the stairs of the forebuilding. He stumbled as they entered the hall and Andrew reached out to steady him.
“Mayhap ye should skip the wooing and go straight to sleep, milord. Ye should ha’ stayed in Shrewsbury for a night or two.”
Richard looked at his captain’s bloodshot eyes. “Mayhap we should both skip the wooing til we’re better rested.”
Andrew grinned. “I’m not so tired I can’t lay on my back and let some wanton female take advantage of me.”
Richard’s smile faded as he let his gaze wander over the hall. “My God…”
Owain came up to him. “Milord,” he said, bowing. His tunic was spotless with not a wrinkle to be found.
“What the hell is going on here?”
Owain grinned. Andrew’s jaw hung open. Richard walked into the hall and stopped. He turned around slowly. The walls had actually been whitewashed! The tables were draped in white linen and the men seated at them talked quietly.
The serving wenches were laced up to their necks. One of the knights laid a familiar hand on a wench’s bottom. Richard gaped as she slapped him and stormed away.
And where were the hounds?
He stared at the mural. Jesú, he didn’t remember it being so bright, even when his father had had it painted. The little wench had turned his castle on its head!
Owain came up beside him. “Your countess has made some changes.”
“I can see that,” Richard growled. His head was spinning.
The changes weren’t bad, just shocking for a man who was used to routine.
How in the hell had she managed it? And, better yet, where was she?
Why wasn’t she waiting for him? Surely she’d known he was coming.
The whole damn castle knew he was here before he’d even ridden through the town gates.
“Your wife awaits you in your chamber, milord,” Owain said, as if discerning his thoughts.
Richard felt a tension he’d not even known was there drain from his body. “Send food and bathwater.”
Owain’s smile broadened. “She has already ordered them for you.”
Richard brushed past him and headed for the stairs at the other end of the hall. Tired as he was, the muscles in his groin tightened. He clamped down on his desire. He was too weary for seduction and she would not come willingly.
He hurried to his chamber and flung open the door. Gwen whirled to face him, her hair swirling around her like liquid fire. Richard stared. Why had he ever wanted to make her wear a wimple?
Her golden-green eyes were wide as her gaze flickered over him. Richard swallowed. Jesú, she was radiant. Her pale skin was like flawless cream against the blue velvet of her gown.
He wanted to gather her into his arms and feather kisses across her face.
Impatiently, he pushed off his chain-mail coif.
His hair was matted with sweat, and he raked a hand through it.
The crimson surcoat with the hawk device was torn and dirty.
The great sword hung limp at his side, no longer shining and fierce.
“’Tis good to see you, my lord,” she said.
“Is it?”
Gwen blinked. “Aye,” she said, lowering her gaze. It really was good to see him. She hated to admit she’d missed him. Even tired and dirty, he was handsome. She was drawn to him as only a woman could be to a man.
He stripped off his gauntlets and tossed them aside, then came to stand before her. He picked up a lock of hair.
“You have not been wearing a wimple, have you?”
“I said I would not.”
He dropped the flaming tendril and entwined his fingers in the hair at her temple, running them through to the ends.
“We will compromise then,” he said softly. “You do not have to wear one except when we go to court. Agreed?”
Gwen looked up in surprise. He watched her expectantly. “Aye, my lord,” she said, gifting him with a smile.
He sighed. “Will you never call me by my name without my reminding you?”
Gwen stared at his chest. She loved his name, loved to say it over and over. How many times had she lain in bed and said it to herself just for the pleasure of hearing it on her lips?
She raised her eyes to his. He’d just given her something she wanted, so she would give him something in return. “I will not forget again, Richard.”
The smile he gave her was heartstopping. He ran his fingers lightly over her cheek. “’Tis like sweet music when you say it.”
“Shall I help you out of your armor?”
His eyes glittered. Gwen swallowed. She saw herself in the depths of his silver gaze, saw what he was thinking at that moment. It was something she’d thought about for the past fortnight.
She didn’t know why she’d gone to the armorer and insisted he teach her how to armor a knight. It had seemed like a good thing to know at the time. Now she was glad she’d done it.
“Aye, show me what you have learned.”
She stood on tiptoe to reach the laces of his coif. She managed to unbuckle it from the hauberk and he bent over so she could pull it off. Flakes of rust drifted to the floor.
She frowned. “Is it ruined?” The headcovering was heavy and she carried it over to a trunk and laid it on top.
“Nay,” he said. “Bruno will make it shiny as new.”
Gwen returned to his side. “How?” She lifted the bottom edge of the mail shirt to get at the buckles beneath. He watched her, his brows drawing together as she found the buckles and laces with sure fingers.
“He will roll it.”
Gwen stopped. “Roll it?”
“Aye, he puts it in a barrel with sand and vinegar and rolls it around. The vinegar eats the rust and the sand washes it off.”
“Oh. Bruno didn’t tell me about that.”
“You’ve been talking with Bruno, sweet?”
“Aye, ’twas he who explained how to remove the armor. It wasn’t easy to get him to talk, but once I did, he was most thorough.”
Richard laughed. “Aye, ’tis Bruno all right.”
Gwen finished unlacing the mail stockings. She pushed them down his hips and he stepped out of them. She bent to pick them up, dropping them when they were only halfway off the floor.
“Mayhap you can help with the clothes underneath,” he said. He started to unbuckle his sword, but Gwen was there first. She laid it aside, then removed his surcoat. She thought he winced as he shrugged out of the heavy hauberk, but she wasn’t sure.
He picked up the leather and metal in his right arm and carried it to the trunk where she’d laid the coif.
She helped him out of the gambeson and tunic, gasping at the ugly black bruise snaking across his left shoulder. Her fingers skimmed over it. “My God, what happened to you?”
“Axe,” he said. “ ‘Tis much better than it was. Christ, I thought he’d severed my arm when it happened.”
Gwen felt the color draining from her face.
Richard cupped her chin. “I am fine, Gwen, truly. I forget how delicate women are sometimes. Forgive me.”
She batted his hand away. “I am not a mewling Englishwoman!”
He grinned. “Nay, more like a Welsh spitfire.” She turned away and he grabbed her arm. “You’re not finished yet.”
His undergarments! How could she have forgotten those? She took a deep breath. Her hand strayed to the drawstring waist. His shaft strained against the cloth and she hesitated.
“I told you before, ’tis you who causes it. You do not have to worry, Gwen. As much as I wish it were otherwise, I am far too tired to try to make love to you.”
She worked at the string, her heart fluttering. She had lain awake nights, remembering how he had touched her, knowing that if he did so again she would be powerless to resist. She almost wished he would touch her.