Chapter 26
Gwen whirled around as the door to the solar opened. Richard entered, stripping off his gauntlets and throwing them on a table. His hair was windblown, his cheeks and nose reddened by the cold. He flashed a smile, and Gwen sank into a chair, no longer able to hold herself up.
Unconsciously, she pressed a hand to her thundering heart. Surely, even at this distance, he could hear how loud it beat for him.
“I did not expect you so soon,” she said.
“Are you disappointed?” he asked softly.
“Nay. I-I missed you.”
He laughed. “I was but making sure Tristan was settled in with Andrew and Justin. I’ve not been gone that long, wench.”
Gwen stared at her lap, willing the ridiculous tears she’d been holding back to go away. She heard him move, and then he was at her side, kneeling and clasping her hands between his.
“I had to say yes, Gwen. As much as I would rather refuse Anne, ’tis better to take her away from the March. She prefers life at Edward’s court and will not wish to return with us.”
Gwen nodded, unable to meet his gaze, unable to speak for fear of crying.
Richard squeezed her hands, then framed her face and forced her to look at him. “What is it, Gwen?”
When she didn’t answer, he searched her face, his eyes widening. “You think she is still my mistress.”
After a moment, he stood and went to the other side of the room, his back to her.
Yes, God help her, she was afraid Anne was still his mistress. She should have known today had been too perfect to be real. Richard was a man, like the king, like Rhys.
Gwen stood, one hand still clutching the chair arm for support. “She told me you were with her on our wedding night.”
He whirled around, his face taut, hard-edged with anger. “And you believed her?” he asked incredulously.
Gwen stared at the floor. “Why should I not? You are English. You don’t need my permission to keep a mistress.”
She looked up, found him staring at her intently. She thought he was going to say something but then he crossed the room in a flash, dropping to his knees in front of her.
It happened too quickly for her to respond with more than a surprised squeak.
She would have stumbled backward and fallen in the chair had he not wrapped his arms around her waist and held her tight.
He pressed his face to her breasts, and when he spoke she could feel his hot breath through her garments.
“I swear to you—on my life, on my honor, on everything I hold sacred—that I have been with no other woman since I first saw you again in Shrewsbury.”
Mute shock stilled her vocal cords for long seconds. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but this had definitely not been it. Slowly, she entwined shaking fingers in his hair and clasped him tight. When she found her voice, it was barely a whisper. “I believe you. Oh God, I believe you.”
He tilted his head back. “There is only you, I swear it.”
Gwen cupped his face and pressed her lips to his. The kiss was long, infinitely sweet, perfect. Her heart sped dizzily.
He put her off guard, twisted her insides with his nearness, made her want things it was impossible to have.
She tore away from him and went to stand in front of the fire, suddenly chilled. Another minute and words would have poured from her lips unchecked, words she was not yet certain she was ready to say.
She heard his breath leave him on a long sigh, and she peered over her shoulder. He still knelt, his arms limp at his sides, his chin bowed to his chest, his eyes closed. She turned away when he lifted his head.
The scraping of his sword against the floor told her he was rising. Gwen prayed he would not come to her. If he took her in his arms one more time, she would be lost.
She strained to hear his movements, but there was only silence.
“Gwen?”
“Yes?”
“What do you want?” he asked softly.
She turned, searched his face. His eyes were intense, his features so impossibly beautiful he stole her breath away. I want you to love me, to need me the way I’m beginning to need you.
“I-I am not certain,” she whispered, her vision growing fuzzy around the edges. “’Tis too soon…”
He raked a hand through his hair. “I have some things to do before dinner.” He retrieved his gauntlets and tucked them in his sword belt. “I will see you in the hall tonight.”
He was already out the door when Gwen started forward.
“Richard, wait!” He turned, watched her expectantly. “I…” But she faltered, not knowing what to say.
He smiled and leaned against the doorframe. The tension still evident in his body was strangely at odds with the casual stance. “Miss me already, wench?”
Gwen couldn’t help but laugh. It was either that or cry. “You are impossibly conceited, my lord.”
“Aye.” He straightened and let his gaze sweep her from head to toe. “Now why don’t you take a nap, love? I have a feeling you won’t be getting much sleep tonight,” he drawled.
And then he was gone. Gwen sank into the chair. Oh God, what was wrong with her? What was this feeling that heightened and swelled in his presence, then refused to give her a moment’s peace even when he was gone?
“Sweet Jesus, milord, ye nearly took my arm off with that one!”
“Sorry, Andrew,” Richard said.
Andrew got to his feet and grabbed his sword from the floor. He flexed his arm, arcing his weapon back and forth and grumbling to himself.
“Shall we go again?”
Andrew’s head snapped up. “What, are ye crazy?”
Richard grinned. “I promise to go easy on you this time.”
“Easy? Ha! Ye fights like a woman! I was only bein’ kind when I let ye win.”
Richard’s laughter echoed off the walls. “Then you won’t mind fighting me again,” he said, clashing swords with the other man before he could reply.
Servants hovered in the doorways, watching the contest between warriors. Knights leaned against the walls, shouting encouragement.
Owain had stared at him like he was a madman when he’d ordered the Lesser Hall stripped of furniture. But the old Welshman had made sure it was done, mumbling something about stubborn fool noblemen Richard only half caught.
The fires had been banked, but sweat dripped down the inside of Richard’s tunic, plastering the garment to his skin. His hair clung to his head and his muscles screamed their agony with every movement.
He blocked a thrust from Andrew’s sword, then whirled away before the captain could redirect. Indeed, Richard felt like a madman, but he couldn’t stop. He needed this mind-numbing exercise, needed it to stop thinking about one beautiful Welshwoman.
But it wasn’t working.
All he could remember was that one moment of blind desperation when he would have done anything to erase the doubt from her eyes.
He had fallen on his knees and sworn to her, sworn as though what she thought of him was the most important thing in the world. Christ, it still shook him up!
But it was important, so important it scared him.
He sent Andrew backwards with a mighty heave, then rushed in, his battle cry on his lips. He’d never knelt to anyone but Edward, never been willing to swear away his very soul to gain the trust of a woman. Why now? Why her?
His sword caught the hilt of Andrew’s, stripping it from the captain’s hand.
Because he wanted her. Because he wanted all of her, her body, her heart, her soul. No one had ever made him feel the way she did.
No, this could not be love! He refused to let it happen!
Love was deadly. It weakened warriors, toppled empires, left nothing but the destruction of lives and hearts in its wake. He would not love any woman, ever!
Gradually, Richard became aware of the men standing around him. They called to him, their eyes wide, their faces pale. He blinked.
“Richard.”
He felt Owain’s hand on his arm and he turned.
“Drop the sword, Richard,” Owain said quietly.
Richard looked down the length of his blade. Andrew lay on the ground, the tip resting against the base of his throat. Blood and sweat pooled in the hollow above his breastbone.
Richard flung the sword away and knelt beside his captain. “Jesú, Andrew, are you all right?”
Andrew gulped in air. He rubbed his neck, smearing the blood. It still welled up from the wound Richard had inflicted, but fortunately it was only a scratch. “That’s the last time I accuse ye of fightin’ like a woman,” he choked out.
Richard offered his hand and Andrew clasped it. The men loosed a cheer as Richard helped him to his feet.
The cheers heightened when Richard told Owain to let the ale flow freely. The men hustled from the room, heading for the Great Hall and the entertainment awaiting them.
Richard scrubbed a hand through his matted hair. Owain retrieved his sword and handed it to him. The steel sang as it slid home in the scabbard.
“Can’t be easy, keepin’ a mistress and a wife in the same castle,” Owain said, shooting Richard a disapproving look. “Course, ’tis no reason to kill one of your men.”
Richard glared at the old man. “I told you years ago not to interfere in my life,” he growled.
Owain snorted. “I promised your mother I’d look after you. And that debt is more important than any you would lay upon me.”
Richard accepted a mug of ale from a serving wench. She curtsied, eyeing him appreciatively. He winked out of habit.
“Be about your duties, wench!” Owain barked. “And stop twitching your arse! His lordship cares naught!”
The girl rushed from the room, red-faced. Richard lowered the ale. “What the hell was that all about?”
“If you want to scatter your seed to the wind, then do it elsewhere! I’ll not sit by and let you make a fool of your wife! Can’t you see how it would hurt her?”
Richard let his breath out in a rush. “Jesú, must you always assume the worst of me? But why not, since Black Hawk de Claiborne is a ruthless bastard? He destroys all he touches, isn’t that right? He’s incapable of caring about anyone but himself.”
Richard drained the mug and flung it in the rushes, then stalked from the room.