Chapter 22 #2
He pulled on his clothes and belted his sword in place before going to her. She stood with her back to him, running a silver brush through her tangle of curls.
He took the brush and stroked her hair a couple of times, then tossed it on the bed and threaded his fingers in the silken mass.
“Jesú, you manage to seduce me with a hairbrush, wench. Do you have any idea how desirable you are?” He bent to kiss her neck, pulling her against him so she felt his arousal. “Mmm, would that I could stay. At this rate, you’ll be breeding in no time.”
He turned and walked out the door. Gwen curled her hand around the bedpost and leaned against it numbly as silent tears slipped down her cheeks.
“Milord?”
Richard jerked his gaze to Sir John Frost, his estates steward. John was going over the manor accounts with him, telling him how much revenue he had collected, how much was still due, which estates had produced which goods for their lord.
Richard knew John was fleecing him to line his own pockets. All estates stewards did it. The trick was in finding one who wasn’t too greedy. Richard figured he’d done just that. As far as he could tell, the amount was fairly insubstantial, and the man was efficient if nothing else.
Richard set his wine cup on the table. “I’m sorry, John. My mind is elsewhere.”
John smiled. “’Tis understandable, milord. What with being newly wed and all.”
“Aye,” Richard said. It did seem as if being newly wed was muddling his brain. He’d thought of nothing but Gwen all morning, barely paying attention to John’s recital. No, he was not himself, not at all. He forced her image from his mind. “You were saying, Sir John?”
“I have put together a tentative expense list for the Christmas festivities, my lord.”
“You must take that up with Owain. I will not be in residence at Christmas.”
“You are going to London?”
“Aye.” Richard stood, ending the audience. “Owain will find you suitable quarters.”
John got to his feet and bowed. “Aye, milord. Thank you, milord.”
Richard made his way across the hall, gripping his sword unconsciously. Why couldn’t he keep his mind on business? All he could think of was Gwen. He would have even sworn he could feel her presence, as if she were a vital part of him.
He wanted to drop everything and go to her right now. He wanted to make love to her, of course, but he also wanted to talk to her, hear her laugh, learn more about her.
He stopped. Jesú, there were a million things he didn’t even know about her! Did she have a favorite food or a color she preferred over all others? Did she like a particular jewel? Hell, did she even like jewels?
Richard gripped the sword hilt tighter. Since when had he ever cared about such things? Wives were for keeping households and getting heirs. He made sure she had plenty of money in her own purse. If there was something she wanted, she could buy it. She did not have to go without.
A niggling voice told him how pleasurable it would be to give her gifts, how beautiful her face would look when she bestowed her smile upon him, how grateful her body would be when he finally loosened her gown and made love to her.
Richard shook his head. He was a warrior, not a courtier for God’s sake! He didn’t have time to chase around the countryside looking for pretty baubles just to put a smile on his wife’s face.
There was one place in this castle that would bring him to his senses.
The chapel was at the far end of the fortress.
It was a cool place, not too large, and set with stained glass windows that cast rainbow light onto the stone floor.
Richard didn’t come here often, despite Father Stephen’s reproving lectures on his immortal soul.
Richard rather figured his immortal soul was lost anyway.
He’d done way too much killing in his life to ever be forgiven.
But the chapel was not his destination. His destination lay beyond the sanctuary of God. He stepped into the crypt and let the cold air envelop him. There was a small window high overhead that sent a shaft of light into the stillness.
Six sarcophagi greeted him in stony silence. There was his grandfather, Henry de Claiborne, the first Earl of Dunsmore. Awarded the earldom by King Richard the Lionheart for bravery in the Holy Land.
Richard had always thought it ironic that his own position also came from service to a Plantagenet in a faraway land.
His grandmother, Isobel, lay beside the first earl. They had both been dead when Richard was born. His father had spoken often of Henry’s gallantry and Isobel’s beauty.
Richard touched an ornate sarcophagus. His father, William. Another only son. Perhaps a better one, too.
He turned, traced the raised stonework of Catrin de Claiborne’s resting place. Died too soon.
Richard thought the same thing he’d always thought: Would that I had known you better, Mother.
But that was not why he was here. Taking a deep breath, he turned. The last two tombs were the ones he was most responsible for. Elizabeth, and beside her, a tinier version.
His son, Matthew. She’d named him, their dead son, before she’d slipped into the sleep that was not a sleep.
She’d named the boy, and Richard had not been there for either one of them.
He sank to his knees beside her and pressed his forehead to the cold stone. Dear God, he had no tears to give. He’d never had any, not for either one of them. And he should have, goddammit!
He smoothed his hands over the lifeless marble. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth.”
He always said it. Always, and she never answered, never gave a sign. The only sound was the hollow echo of his own voice.
He tried to picture Elizabeth, to see again her doe-eyed gaze as she’d stared at him with utter devotion.
But he couldn’t see her. All he could see was a woman with autumn hair and mysterious eyes, a woman who made him feel more in the little time she’d been his wife than he’d ever felt for Elizabeth.
Guilt stabbed through him, twisting dagger-like tentacles until he wanted to cry out from the strain of bearing it. He squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the cold stone. “You deserved more, Elizabeth. More than I ever gave you.”
Richard shoved himself to his feet and exited the crypt. He was halfway to the lists when he realized he’d never even thought of his father or of Llywelyn.