Chapter 35 #2
“Sweet heaven, if you do not take me home now, I will scream!”
Richard laughed. “You have a way of making a man feel very much like a man, my love.” He stood and pulled her up with him. “I believe being pregnant has made you lustier.”
Gwen stamped her foot. “Oh you are an insensitive beast, Richard de Claiborne! You provoke my desire apurpose, then tease me with your prattling.”
“Prattling?” Richard exclaimed with mock indignance. Gwen started marching toward her horse, but he grabbed her and swung her high. She braced her hands on his shoulders, giggling down in his face as her hair fell forward to curtain them. “I will show you prattling, wench,” he growled.
Richard buried his face in the hollow between her breasts, pressing hot kisses through the silk fabric. She threw her head back and laughed. He slid her down his body, kissing her throat, her chin, her lips, the tip of her nose, her forehead.
God how he wanted to take her right here beneath the brilliant turquoise sky!
They rode back to the castle, and she slipped away to their chamber while he saw to his men and the readying of the garrison. The royal host, some twelve-thousand men strong, was gathering in Worcester. Soon, they would march to Chester.
And tomorrow Richard rode north to take command of the men amassing at Rhuddlan.
But this day was for other things.
When he finally managed to get away, Gwen awaited him, dressed only in her chemise. She came to him and began to remove his armor. He helped her, unwilling to allow her to strain herself.
His arousal bulged against the cloth of his undergarments and she shot him a smug smile. “Who is the lusty one now, my lord?” she teased softly.
“You are a wicked wench.”
She only laughed. When he was naked, he tried to pull her in his arms, but she evaded him. “Nay, I must bathe you first.”
“’Tis some new Welsh torture device, is it not?” he grumbled as he sank into the steaming water.
She unstoppered a bottle and dribbled golden oil across the surface. The scent of roses drifted to him on curls of steam.
“Jesú, now you seek to make me smell like a pampered whore!”
Her only answer was a saucy smile.
He tried to remain unaffected as her hands moved over him, but his lust only grew until he thought he would die of it. He sucked in his breath when her hand brushed over his hard shaft.
That was the end of all pretense of patience. She gasped when he stood, then ran when he followed, naked and dripping.
“Richard! You are wet!” she cried, scrambling onto the middle of the bed.
“Aye, and so shall you be,” he said, crawling after her on all fours. She huddled against the headboard, trying not to laugh. When he got too close, she kicked at him playfully. He caught her ankles and pulled her beneath him.
“You are a vicious, teasing wench,” he said, burying his lips against her throat.
“You are soaking me!”
“Certes, I hope so,” he whispered hotly. “It makes the whole business much more pleasant when things slide together.”
“You are insufferable.”
“Aye.”
“Incorrigible.”
“Aye.”
“Insatiable.”
“Aye.” His hand found the edge of her chemise. She grabbed at him when he tried to lift it away.
“Nay,” she said in a rush. “I am fat and you will not wish to look at me.”
“I want to see you,” he said firmly.
Her lip trembled as he pulled the garment up and off. “You are beautiful,” he whispered, dropping down to press fervent kisses to the mound of her belly. “Beautiful.”
He retrieved the rosebud from where he’d left it on his tunic, then returned to tickle her with it while his lips followed the trail he made.
When he slipped it between her legs and rubbed it over the swollen petals of her womanhood, Gwen’s breath caught on a moan of pure pleasure. Never had she experienced anything so erotic.
“Let us see which tastes sweeter,” he murmured, “you or the rose.”
Gwen cried out as his tongue slid within her folds. Her fingers clutched his dark head until he turned her and lifted her astride him.
“Oh, sweet merciful God,” he groaned, his eyes closing as they began to move together.
Much later, when they lay entwined in the sheets and each other, and the late-day sunshine streamed in the windows and cut a swath across the bed, Gwen pressed her lips to his throat and said, “I am so glad you are home.”
She felt him stiffen and she pulled back to gaze at him. “You are going to fight Dafydd,” she stated. She knew even before he answered.
He sighed. “Aye, Gwen.”
“When?”
He tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I must leave on the morrow.”
She forced a smile, but her heart fell in her breast. “It should not take long for you to beat him then. He cannot have half the men they say he does.”
“Gwen…” He drew in a deep breath. “Ah Christ, I wish I didn’t have to tell you this, but I would rather you hear it from me.”
“What?”
He raked a hand through his tousled hair. “Your father is a vassal of the king of England. When he swore his oath of fealty, he agreed to uphold the king’s writ, the king’s law, and to come to the field in defense of the king if necessary.”
“Yes, I know that, but—”
“Dafydd does indeed have a large army, Gwen. I know not how, but he has the support of several of your father’s chieftains. Edward has demanded your father obey his oath and come to the field for England—”
“Nay! ’Twill be Welsh against Welsh! He will not do it!”
“Yes, well, he is trying to remain neutral, but he cannot for much longer. Everywhere, the Welsh rise in sympathy. They’ve torched the king’s castles, stormed towns and killed English citizens. ’Tis war, Gwen. ’Tis not merely a rebellion, ’tis war.”
Gwen pressed her palms to her eyes, willing herself not to cry.
War.