Gwen was a traitor. She knew it as soon as she awoke and saw the man lying beside her. She could not resist his lovemaking, even if it endangered her father and her country.

She started to wake him, but had not the heart to disturb him. She climbed from the bed and slipped on her chemise along with a fur-lined cloak for warmth.

Richard lay on his side, his dark head a sharp contrast against the white pillow. His eyes were closed and he snored softly. He stretched his arm to where she had lain, groping for a moment before stilling.

Gwen watched him, confused at the tangle of feelings he caused within her. She would stop him. Somehow, she would stop him.

Unwilling to dwell on it now, she turned and stole to the window. The Dee was the only thing moving in the entire landscape. The snow had stopped falling and the valley was covered in a white so new, so perfect, that it seemed as if the world were new and perfect also.

Gwen pressed her hand to the cold glass, half wanting the iciness of it to shock her back to reality. She glanced over her shoulder at Richard and a wave of longing swept through her. Lord, would she never get over it?

She stared out the window for a while longer. Someone tapped on the door and Gwen went to answer it. Alys waited on the other side, her ruddy face creasing in a smile. “I didn’t know if you’d be awake yet.”

“Aye. What’s that?” Gwen asked, motioning to the tray in Alys’s hands.

“I thought maybe you and Lord de Claiborne would not wish to go to the hall this morning.”

Gwen smiled. “You’re a gem, Alys.”

“Nay, my lady, not at all,” the old woman said, bringing the tray in and setting it on the table. She regarded Gwen with knowing eyes. “All is well between you?”

Gwen nodded. She wanted to say no, all is not well, all is wrong, I feel things I shouldn’t be feeling, but she couldn’t.

Alys glanced at the hearth. “The fire has gone down. I’ll get someone to tend to it.”

As soon as she left, a chambermaid hurried in. When the fire roared with renewed life, the girl curtsied and hastened out the door, closing it behind her quietly.

Gwen flipped up the cloth covering the tray. Oliver had prepared pastries sweetened with honey and costly sugar. Flagons of water and wine were there also, as well as the usual bread and cheese.

Gwen returned to the bed and sat next to Richard.

The covers had slipped down to his hips, revealing his broad chest. The ugly bruise was purple, yellowed around the edges. It made her heart ache.

He was scarred in places, fine lines marring his perfect golden flesh. Despite his warrior’s marks, he was still beautiful. She touched one of the scars on his side, tracing it along his ribcage. Had a Welsh sword caused it?

The thought didn’t give her the satisfaction it once would.

Catching her lip between her teeth, she slipped the covers farther down his body. The part of him that gave her such pleasure was different this morning. Always before it had seemed huge and overwhelming.

How extraordinary it changed so much when he was aroused!

Just the mere thought of him ready to sheathe his hard length in her body excited her.

Gwen swallowed, pulling the covers up, then slid down and propped her head against her pillow. She watched him sleep, reaching out once and a while to touch him or to brush his hair from his forehead.

She lay next to him for a long time, never tiring of looking at him. When he finally opened his eyes, he was facing her, and she was struck by the incredible clarity of his gaze.

He gave her a breathtaking smile as his eyes flickered over her chemise. “How long have you been awake?”

Gwen smiled. “A long time.”

“What have you been doing?”

“Watching you,” she said, her traitorous heart singing.

He pulled her into his arms. His mouth slid over hers, shaping her lips, demanding surrender. Gwen melded to him without the slightest hesitation. “You forgot to wake me,” he murmured against her mouth.

“Nay,” Gwen said, breathless, “you needed to sleep.”

“I need something else even more now,” he said. Gwen became aware of his pulsing arousal as his hand slid down her spine and brought her against his loins. Her breath caught. Dear God, he wanted her again. She was more than willing.

He grasped the end of her chemise and slipped it up her body. Gwen helped. When it was off, he stared down at her, his eyes turning smoky. “Jesú, you are going to be the death of me.”

“Do not say that!” she blurted, her hands curling into fists against his chest.

His brows drew together. “I was not serious, Gwen.”

She touched his face, ran her fingertips over his lips. He kissed them, and her heart lurched. What would it take to stop him from killing her father? What would be the price?

“I know,” she replied, shivering suddenly.

She saw that hint of vulnerability flicker through his eyes, and then it was gone, making her wonder if she’d imagined it in the first place.

Before she could dwell on it any further, he was kissing her, stoking the fires of her passion, loving her until they cried out together with the sweetness of their joining.

---

Alys tripped into the family solar with the light step of a girl half her age. Owain rose at her entrance. His face was marred by a frown. Alys couldn’t help but think he’d been handsome when he was younger. Sweet Mary, he was still a fine figure of a man.

“Well, how goes it?” he asked.

Alys cleared her throat and pushed aside her wanton thoughts. A woman her age for heaven’s sake!

“My lady said all was well between them. And they’ve not emerged yet, so one can assume they are, er, getting along…”

She thought Owain’s ears were red when he turned away. “ ‘Tis good then. I was afraid…”

Alys went to him, laid a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t fret. Gwenllian is stubborn, but sensible all the same. It came as a shock to her, was all.”

Owain took her hand in his. “Richard needs a woman who’ll stand up to him for a change. He’s entirely too used to being lord and master of all he surveys.”

Alys squeezed his hand. “I should be going. I have a million things to do.”

Owain cleared his throat, then brushed off his tunic self-consciously. “Stay a while, Alys. If all is indeed well with the young ones, they’ll not emerge for some time being newlyweds and all.” He coughed, his ears going red again.

Alys smiled. There was nothing she would like better than to stay and talk to this handsome Welshman. “Very well, Owain, I imagine I can spare a minute or two.”

---

Richard sat at the table and pulled Gwen into his lap. Her coppery curls spilled over her shoulder and he brushed them back, kissing her. He thought if he wasn’t careful, he might never stop kissing her. “I love the way you look in the morning with your hair all wild and tangled.”

She combed her fingers through his hair, smoothing it in place. “And I love the way you look with yours sticking up.”

“My what sticking up, sweet?”

She flushed. “You are positively wicked, my lord!”

“Aye, you bring out the worst in me.” He broke off a piece of pastry. “Open for me.”

She did, just as trusting as a baby bird. He fed her without any thought for himself, his finger tracing her lower lip after every morsel. So soft, so tempting.

Finally she pushed his hand away. “I cannot eat another bite. Will you not let me attend you now?”

“If you wish,” he said.

She fed him a piece of the pastry, tracing his lips in imitation of what he did to her. He sucked her finger into his mouth. Her breath caught. She pulled her finger away slowly, trailing it over his lower lip and down his chin.

Richard threaded his fingers in her silken hair and pulled her down to kiss him. Christ almighty, he was getting aroused again! She really was going to be the death of him if he didn’t regain his control.

“I don’t understand this,” she said quietly, shaking her head.

“Don’t understand what, sweet?”

She raised her lashes and he saw it. Desire—naked, unadulterated, consuming.

Richard took a deep breath. Hell, he was hard pressed to understand it himself. It was too intense, nearly maddening, and impossible to stop. He shifted her on his lap until she felt him. Her eyes widened.

“Yes, I feel it too.” He raised her hand to his lips, pressed kisses into her palm and across the back of her wrist. “Passion is a beautiful thing. ’Tis not meant to be questioned or understood.” He pushed up her sleeve, his lips following. “It should be enjoyed, appreciated, encouraged.”

A knock sounded on the door. Richard ignored it. He sought her sweet mouth, fully intending on taking her back to bed and assuaging this maddening passion.

The knock came again, stronger this time. Gwen pulled away. “Shouldn’t you answer it?”

“Do you want me to?”

Her arms were around his neck, pulling him to her rather than pushing him away.

“No,” she said truthfully. She eased her hold on him with a sigh. “But it might be important.”

“Enter,” Richard said, never taking his eyes from her face.

“Milord?”

It was Owain’s voice.

“Yes?”

Owain cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon, milord, but your estates steward has been waiting to see you for quite some time.”

“Tell him I’ll be down soon,” Richard replied.

“Yes, milord,” Owain said. Something in his voice made Richard turn. Owain was grinning from ear to ear. Richard stared at the closed door for a second, wondering what the hell had gotten into the old man.

Richard sighed, his gaze sweeping over his wife with longing. “We must wait, it seems.” He brushed aside a lock of hair that had fallen in her face. “Promise you will behave no differently when next I see you.”

“I promise,” she replied softly.

“A kiss to seal the bargain?”

“Is it safe?”

Richard laughed. “I doubt it, but let’s try anyway.”

Their lips touched. It was like igniting a fire. At the last minute, when he felt his sanity slipping away, Richard managed to set her away from him.

He stood and smacked her on the bottom. “Get dressed, temptress.”

She shot him a look of pure indignance. “Temptress? ’Twas you who insisted on a kiss!”

“Aye, but only because you tempted me.”

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.