Chapter 21
The shadows of late day stretched dark fingers across the solar. Gwen fancied that the dark fingers also closed over her heart, gripping her in an unshakable melancholy. The dinner bell rang, and she rose from the windowseat.
She would not succumb to Richard’s smooth charm ever again. She had been a fool to believe the things he said. They were lies, all lies.
He was nothing but a cold English barbarian who thirsted for revenge and wouldn’t balk at using her to achieve it. He would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. There was nothing he would not say, nothing he would not do.
She wasn’t about to help him in his quest. He would get a surprise tonight when he tried to bed her. She would not give in so willingly ever again.
Gwen shoved aside thoughts of the previous night, the way she’d felt lying in his arms, beneath him, taking him inside her and—
She would not give in. But why did it have to hurt so much, knowing that Richard was using her for his revenge? Had she expected any less from a man as evil as him?
Gwen dashed away a tear as she entered the hall. Servants and knights smiled and nodded as she passed. Gwen acknowledged them all, but she had eyes only for Richard. He stood on the dais, his impressive height emphasized by the raised platform.
She wondered if he knew the effect he had. Anyone walking toward him would have the feeling they were puny and weak while he appeared powerful and larger than life.
Einion had once told her that kings and queens did this sort of thing on purpose. They sat on huge thrones at the end of long, vast halls so that all who approached felt humbled in the presence of greatness.
Was Richard proclaiming his mastery over her?
He truly was magnificent and she almost hated him for it. One look from his predatory eyes made her want to forget all she had resolved.
He was dressed entirely in black for a change, and she thought wildly that the devil himself would look no different if he were to appear before her at this very moment.
Behind him, the crimson and black coat of arms screamed the brutal legacy of the lord who ruled here.
When she reached the dais, he took her hand and drew her close. Gwen flinched as a coil of heat uncurled within her. She fixed her gaze on his chest, certain if she looked in his eyes she would be lost.
She learned she was to have no choice in the matter as he lifted her chin with a finger. His eyes narrowed. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing,” Gwen whispered.
“Then why wouldn’t you look at me?”
Gwen felt her lip begin to tremble. She dug her nails into her palm. There was no way she was going to cry over him. “I am looking at you now, my lord,” she said coolly.
He frowned. Hurt crossed his features so quickly she almost missed it. His eyes hardened to silver-ice. “I am so relieved we settled that,” he said, taking his seat.
Gwen sank next to him. How was it he managed to make her feel horrible when he was the one in the wrong? God, what an idiot she was! She had to suppress an insane desire to beg his forgiveness, to do anything to see the warmth return to his eyes.
She forced herself to smile throughout dinner. She thanked the servants, sent her congratulations to Oliver, and talked pleasantly with Father Stephen while Owain darted puzzled looks between her and Richard.
Richard remained dark and closed. He attended her dutifully but never spoke a word to her. He ate heartily, drank wine with dinner, and then switched to ale before dessert was served.
The girl who filled his cup was buxom and pretty. Gwen figured the wench was perhaps a year or two older than she was. Her black hair was twisted in a braid and a few strands dangled over her shoulder. Her bosom strained against the rough wool of her gown as she leaned in front of Richard.
The girl spoke in English, and Richard answered. Gwen understood I and you and the girl’s name, Maude.
Richard smiled at Maude, his gaze lingering on her abundant chest. Maude slanted him a seductive smile in return. Gwen felt a hot shard of jealousy prick her.
This wench had to be the one he’d bedded before he’d ridden after the outlaws!
Gwen knew suddenly that he would not even attempt to bed her tonight. Once had probably been enough to get her with child. He would spend the night where he really wanted, which from the looks of it was in Maude’s bed.
Gwen jerked away when he turned in her direction. She let her gaze wander over the crowded hall. People engaged in raucous conversations, laughing, slapping backs, drinking toasts to health and success.
She tapped her fingers on the table. ’Twas all a stark contrast to the heavy silence between her and Richard.
After dessert was served, Richard leaned toward her, his breath tickling her ear. “Go up to bed, Gwen.” He tossed back the ale and motioned for Maude.
Gwen stared at him in disbelief. He was going to bed that wench and he could care less if she knew it.
By God, she’d be damned if she’d stand for it!
She threw her eating knife on the table and shoved herself to her feet.
“If you touch one—one!—woman, I will cut off that which you pride so much and—”
“And deprive yourself too, sweet?” He laughed and she felt a chill run down her spine at the lack of humor in it.
His voice had a hard, bitter edge to it as he said, “You’ll not do it and I’ll tell you why—because if you did you’d not get to scream my name to the heavens as you did last night when I was buried within you. ”
Gwen’s eyes bulged. She flew at him. He caught her wrists and jumped to his feet. His eyes flashed pewter, his jaw tightening. “I told you before, never again,” he said from between clenched teeth.
“You are a bastard, Black Hawk de Claiborne!”
“Aye, so I am.” He picked her up and swung her over his shoulder. The hall erupted as the knights and men-at-arms cheered their lord. Gwen beat her fists against his back in impotent fury, screaming Welsh curses at him.
She barely heard herself above the din. English barbarians!
He kicked open the chamber door, then walked over to the bed and threw her down. For a minute, his face was so savage she thought he was going to rape her and she was appalled at the surge of heat between her thighs. Dear God, her traitorous body wanted him to loose his passion on her!
He turned and strode to the door, leaving her breathless and disappointed.
Gwen scrambled off the bed. “English bastard!” she screamed, running after him.
He slammed the door. She started to fling it open and follow, then stopped.
St. Dafydd’s bones, she was not going to chase him like a lovesick little girl! She crossed to the window and threw herself in the seat, staring out at the darkness beyond.
She didn’t care what he did or who he did it with.
A sob escaped her trembling body. She brought her knees up and put her face in her hands. For the last damn time, she was not going to cry over him!
Richard downed another cup of ale. The hall had long since cleared of women, except for the serving wenches, and the men diced and drank with abandon. Occasionally Richard joined in their games.
He was beginning to want things he had no right to, things he did not deserve. Was it too much to want a woman who accepted him for what he was, a woman who could see past all the tales to the man beneath?
Jesú, he didn’t even know who the man beneath the hardened exterior was anymore. How long since he had buried his self under an avalanche of honor and dedication to duty?
And God help him, he’d wanted Gwen to be the woman he could share his inner self with. But she wasn’t and he found that sorely disappointing.
He laughed. Hell, who was he kidding anyway? Men like him didn’t deserve happiness. Men like him only knew war and killing and blood. Endless, endless blood.
What woman would ever see beyond that? They flocked to him, because of his face and his position and his reputation, but none ever cared what, if anything, lay beneath their preconceptions.
“To lowest hell with all women,” he muttered.
A young knight raised his cup in agreement. “Aye, m’lord, women’s tricksome, they are. Always sayin’ one thing, an’ meanin’ another.” The boy’s head slipped to the table, cradling on his outstretched arm. He was snoring within seconds.
Richard sighed, saluting the lad with his cup. “Aye, tricksome.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Richard watched Andrew move across the room to intercept a pretty wench. The captain bent to whisper in her ear. The girl shook her head, covered her mouth and giggled.
After a little more coaxing on Andrew’s part, they disappeared into the pantry.
Richard scanned the room, looking for Maude, then dismissed the thought of lying with her as quickly as it had come.
He wasn’t capable of it, not any longer. From the first moment he’d glimpsed Gwen in Shrewsbury, he was unable to get aroused by anyone else, no matter how comely or skilled.
Richard tightened his grip on the goblet until the beaten metal started to crumple. He opened his fist and dropped the mangled cup on the table.
She was playing games with him, the Welsh bitch! All women did it—they learned it from the goddamn cradle!—but he had not expected it from her. Her response seemed so genuine this morning, but it was all a lie.
She was just like the rest. He’d seen the same trick hundreds of times. Hot one minute, cold the next, all in an effort to confuse and bewitch some poor unsuspecting male. He’d never fallen for it before and he was not about to fall for it now.
He swiped his arm across the table, knocking the cup to the floor. It hit with a dull thud, bounced, and rolled into the rushes. Several of the knights glanced up, then turned back to their dicing.
Richard bounded to his feet. Goddammit, if she wanted to play, he’d play! Why should he deny himself anyway? She would be all soft and womanly now, begging him to make love to her. The trick was always the same.
He took the stairs two at a time, then flung open the door with such force that it slammed against the wall.