Chapter 23
“Milady, there are men riding into the bailey.”
Anne looked up from the game of chess she was playing with her son. “What sort of men, Gena?” she snapped.
Witless woman! Men. What kind of a description was that? How was a lady to know whether she should run and hide or play the gracious hostess?
Gena swallowed, and wrung her hands. “Knights, I think, milady.”
Tristan shot to his feet. “Knights, Mama! Mayhap Lord de Claiborne has sent for me at last.”
Anne’s hand fluttered to her throat. Richard? Had he returned to her?
Gena shook her head. “Nay, ’tis not Dunsmore. The heraldry is wrong.”
Tristan’s face fell. His blue eyes, so much like his mother’s, showed his disappointment. At nine years old, he should have gone to Claiborne castle to begin his training. He would train as a squire, then he would become a knight, then he would return to rule Ashford Hall.
Anne refused to let her own disappointment show. It angered her she could still be vulnerable to Richard after all this time.
A servant rushed into the solar and bowed. “A man to see you, milady. He wouldn’t give his name, but said to tell you he is a prince.”
Anne’s heart quickened. “Show him in.”
The man bowed again. Gena followed him out. Tristan turned to his mother, his brows drawn together in a look that was not meant to grace a boy’s face.
Anne squeezed his hand. She had never wanted to be a mother.
She’d not enjoyed her son very much when he was smaller, but now that he was growing up and resembling her more and more, she felt a certain fondness for him.
“’Tis all right, Tristan. ’Tis only a friend.
I will introduce you to him, and then I wish you to find your tutor and see about your lessons. ”
Tristan returned her smile. “Aye, Mama.”
The door to the solar opened. The servant who had announced the visitor held it until the man entered, then closed it behind him.
“My lord,” Anne said. “Be well come to Ashford Hall. May I present my son, Tristan?”
Tristan stepped forward. “Be well come to Ashford Hall, my lord.”
“You may call me Dafydd,” he replied, clasping the offered hand. His gaze locked with Anne’s and she felt a tremor pass through her.
“Run along now,” she said to her son.
“Aye, Mama.”
When Tristan was gone, Anne sank into a chair. “What can I do for you, my lord?” she asked coolly.
Dafydd ap Gruffydd sprawled in the chair Tristan had occupied. “My men and I would like lodging for a night. Or mayhap two…”
One corner of his mouth lifted in an insolent grin. Anne let her gaze sweep over him slowly, measuring his abilities.
When she met his stare, he showed no hint of irritation, only amusement. She crossed her arms over her breasts. “Why should I even consider it? I’ve had the favor of powerful earls, and even the king himself. What could I possibly have to gain by allowing you… lodging?”
Dafydd shot out of his chair and pulled her to her feet. His mouth crushed down on hers. Anne couldn’t stop her response. She melded to him, returned his kiss with a hunger that had not been eased by the attractive young knight she’d recently taken to her bed.
Dear God—finally—a man. A man who knew how to please a woman. Her arms slipped around him, her breasts flattening against his chest, her woman’s center unerringly finding the hard evidence of his desire for her.
His grip tightened as she rubbed against him. Even through the layers of cloth separating them, his fingers managed to tease her nipple into aching arousal.
Her hand slipped between them to close over his hardened manhood. She expected him to groan, to lose control, to undress her and slide deeply into her body. Most men did.
It was men like Richard, like King Edward, who resisted and tormented and teased until she was a quivering mass of desire.
And men like Dafydd ap Gruffydd. Anne shuddered.
Dafydd lifted his head. “We have a common enemy, you and I. We both wish to see Richard de Claiborne brought to his knees. I propose we work together to achieve it.”
Anne disengaged herself from his arms. Revenge on Richard. It sounded so sweet. And was there nothing she would not do to achieve it?
“What do you have against Richard?” she asked, partly to prolong the anticipation of lovemaking, partly to learn if his reasons were good enough to ensure dedication.
Dafydd’s eyes hardened. “Let us just say he owes me a crown. If not for him, I would be sitting in my brother’s place.”
Anne crossed to the door and slid the bar home. Her hands strayed to the laces of her gown, loosening them with great deliberation. “Very well, Dafydd ap Gruffydd, but you’d better make it worth my while.”
His eyes softened, swept lazily from her feet to her head, leaving her with no doubt as to the thoroughness with which he would also peruse her naked body. “You can count on that, my dearest Anne.”
Richard shrugged his sore shoulder as he walked into the hall. Andrew was beside him, still laughing about the young knight who’d gotten knocked off his horse during jousting practice.
“He’ll learn, Andrew. I’ll wager you and I both fell off our horses a time or two when we were still learning.”
“Aye, yer right about that,” Andrew admitted.
It was almost dinner and the hall was crowded. Richard scanned the knots of people, frowning when he didn’t see Gwen. Owain stood behind the dais, intent on a conversation he was having with a woman Richard couldn’t see. When Richard approached, the two stepped apart.
“Milord,” Owain said, rubbing his forehead absently.
Richard turned to Alys. “Where’s Gwen?”
Alys’s face seemed redder than usual. Her eyes widened and she clutched her gown. “I thought she was with you, milord.”
Richard bit down on the shred of unease curling around his heart, reminding himself not to lose his temper with Gwen’s maid. “When did you last see her?”
Alys stole a guilty look at Owain. “Two, maybe three hours ago.”
Richard forgot his patience. “Christ, woman! Are you always in the habit of leaving her alone?”
Alys paled. Owain started to speak, but she cut him off. “Nay, Owain! He is right. I-I shouldn’t have left her. I’ll find her now, milord.”
Richard raked a hand through his hair. “My apologies, Alys. Gwen is a grown woman. You shouldn’t have to watch her.”
In a move he’d not have tolerated from anyone else, Alys took his hand and patted it like she would a boy’s. It was a strangely endearing quality she had, trying to mother him years too late. “I’ll find her for you, milord.”
Richard’s voice was soft when he spoke. “Nay, Alys. She’s probably still upstairs. I’ll get her.”
Richard took the stairs to the master chamber two at a time. He swung the door open and entered. The room was quiet. “Gwen?”
He checked the bed, then went to the small adjoining solar. Next, he checked the family solar. When he made his way back down to the hall, his heart was beginning to hammer.
Alys and Owain hurried forward, both of them frowning.
“She’s not upstairs,” Richard said. “Do you have any idea where she could have gone, Alys?”
Alys’s fingers dug into her gown. “Nay, I—”
Richard spun around and motioned for Andrew. “Gather some men and start searching the outbuildings and bailey for any sign of my wife.”
“Aye, milord,” Andrew said.
Richard considered having him question the guards at the gate, but found he couldn’t even think of what that would imply. She couldn’t leave him, could she? A tingle of apprehension slid down his spine.
“Owain, start searching the keep.” Owain nodded and moved off to issue orders. “Is there anywhere else you can think of, Alys?”
“Nay, I… yes! The walls, milord. At her father’s stronghold, she went up there sometimes.”
“You stay here in case she shows up.” Alys sank onto a bench, her face pale and drawn. Richard squeezed her shoulder. “I’ll find her, Alys, and when I do, you may have to stop me from paddling her backside.”
“Nay, milord, I’ll help you,” the old woman vowed.
Gwen huddled against the stone battlements and stared at the valley.
She’d come up to the walls to think, and stupidly lost track of time.
The sun had not been out in days, so all she saw was a dulling of the lead tinted horizon.
When she’d turned to leave, she’d realized the white glare of the snow had thrown off her perception of time. Night had fallen.
Shadows, blacker than the night itself, yawned across the battlements, but if she kept her eyes on the snow, it didn’t seem as dark. It was childish to be afraid, but she was.
How was she going to get down? There were no torches lit in the stairwell. The logical thing was to feel her way along the passage, but she was too scared to do it.
She’d yelled into the bailey for help, but she was too high up and the wind carried her words away before they could fall.
Her eyes stung with tears and she wiped at them impatiently. Some Welshwoman she was! If her father could see her now, he’d probably disown her. She was the daughter of a great man and she was weak, spineless, simpering.
’Twas no wonder she was such a disappointment to him.
Dear God, what would Richard think? She laughed then, a frightened, hopeless sound. The mighty Black Hawk wouldn’t want a woman such as she to be the mother of his sons. He was strong and brave, all the things she was not.
The joke would be on him when she gave him his heir.
She leapt to her feet as the door to the stairwell banged open. A torch burned in the wall sconce, silhouetting a man’s shape against the opening.
“Richard!” she cried, throwing herself in his arms, burying her face against the broad expanse of his chest. She was shivering—from cold, from fear, from relief.
His arms tightened around her, then he thrust her away. “What the hell are you doing up here? I’ve got Andrew and Owain tearing up the place looking for you!”
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, threading her arms around his waist and pulling herself close once more. “I’m cold. Can we go inside now?”
He drew her into the stairwell and unclasped his mantle. “Why didn’t you come down if you were cold?” he said, wrapping it around her.