Time was moving too fast. Richard leaned against the wall and stared at the valley below. He’d taken up Gwen’s habit of coming to the castle walls whenever he was troubled. It was soothing in a way to stand so high and fool yourself into believing you were alone in the world.

They’d been home for a fortnight now, and Gwen was lovelier each day, her middle gently swelling with his child.

Richard loved to look at her, at the miracle of her body. When she was clothed, it was barely noticeable because she was still so small. But when she lay in their bed, naked before his eyes, the proof was there. Sometimes when she slept, he would pull back the covers and just look at her, stamping every moment on his memory. God only knew how long it would have to last him.

Another month and he would have to leave for the king’s council in Wessex. He rubbed his forehead absently. It was all happening much too soon.

Already, he’d noticed she was withdrawing from him. It was nothing specific, nothing he could definitely place his finger on, but he sensed it all the same. It was as though she held a part of herself back, as though she refused to share her innermost self.

Richard sucked in a breath. God, he’d never thought, never dreamed he could feel so deeply for a woman. He was indeed his father’s son. And she was the daughter of his father’s murderer.

He shoved that thought away, again picturing her, and a shattering pain tore through him. What if she didn’t survive childbirth? God forgive him, but he’d already killed one woman with his child. He could not bear to lose this one.

He refused to even think of leaving her while she was still pregnant, though the possibility existed.

His hand strayed to his sword hilt, a physical defense against a phantom threat. Going on crusade was something he had to do, something he could endure knowing he would see her again. But if she died, would he be like his father? Delusional, drunken, shattered?

“Richard?”

He spun around at the sound of her voice. God, she was beautiful! Her russet tresses were barely contained by the golden circlet she wore. Her skin, always the color of purest ivory, was rosy with the cold. And her scent…

Roses. It stole to him, borne on the chill wind. He breathed deeply. A rose in winter. She was the color of them, too, dressed in a crimson sendal surcoat and undertunic. Even her cloak was crimson.

Richard felt his loins responding, tightening, filling. She turned him into a slavering beast when she was near.

“Yes, my love?”

She smiled tentatively, and moved closer. Her delicate hands, gloved in soft velvet, splayed across his chest. Her lovely face turned up to his, and he found himself drowning in eyes the color of springtime.

Absently, he traced her lower lip with his thumb. What had he ever done to deserve the love of this woman?

“I have been thinking,” she began, “since you will not stay behind when the king goes, why don’t you take me with you?”

Richard closed his eyes. “Gwen…” They’d had this conversation too many times to count, though this was a new twist. Always before, she’d begged him to stay. “I cannot take you, cariad.”

“Why not? Queen Eleanor is going.”

He opened his eyes to look at her. “If I took you, you would hate me before ’twas over. The Holy Land is nothing but dust and heat so scorching it chokes the breath from you. The journey is long and miserable, cooped up on boats, sailing without seeing land for weeks at a time.”

“But if I were with you—”

Richard shook his head vehemently. “’Tis too dangerous. If, God forbid, we were defeated, do you know what those heathens would do to you? One look at you my precious wife and they’d hustle you off to a harem to service some fat, balding sheik for the rest of your days.”

She stared up at him, her lip trembling. Then her face clouded with anger. The change was so swift that Richard was not prepared when she flung away from him.

She whirled around in a blaze of brilliant color, spitting like a wildcat. “Fine! Go without me! You do not care what happens to me. You are willing to leave me, just like you did Eliz—”

“Silence!” he said, his voice cracking like a whip in the wintry air. She stopped, her teeth firmly seizing her lower lip. Richard clenched his fists at his side, fighting to contain his sudden rage. “I suggest if you do not wish to move us beyond what is forgivable, you will say no more.”

She stood there, staring at him, her pretty breasts rising and falling. Richard thought himself a madman. Angry though he was, the thought of loosing her nipples from her gown and suckling them into arousal made him harder than the stone ramparts he was standing on.

He almost hated himself for the weakness.

He took a step toward her, not quite sure what he was going to do at this moment. She held up her hand to stop him. “I wish I’d never met you,” she said, her voice edged with anguish. “The pain is too much. I hate you, even while I love you.”

She backed away until she was certain he wasn’t going to move, then turned and fled. Richard slumped against the unyielding stone, suddenly weary. Jesú, she was right. No wound received in battle had ever hurt this much.

---

Alys tsked as Gwen stabbed her needle through the embroidery.

“I didn’t want to sew anyway,” Gwen said, tossing the needlework aside and leaping to her feet. She paced, twisting her hands together unconsciously. Alys watched her for a minute, then shook her head and bent over her work.

Gwen felt she would burst at any moment. She was trying—God how she was trying!—to live each day with Richard as though it was their last. But the strain was wearing on her because she knew one day it would be their last.

She pushed him away, she pulled him to her. She loved him, she hated him.

He would not stay. He would not take her. He was determined she would have no say in the matter. Wasn’t her life and her happiness at stake too? But he was a man. And bloody men always thought they knew what was best!

She stopped at the window and looked toward Snowdon. She’d not told him what Dafydd had said about her father. She’d not told anyone, not even Alys who might have known something more. Gwen couldn’t bear to speak it aloud for fear it would make it true.

Her father had never denounced her and she would never denounce him. But one day she would ask him if he really believed she was not his, if that was the reason he’d never loved her like she wanted. He owed her an answer and she would accept nothing less than the truth, no matter how it hurt.

She didn’t see Richard for the rest of the afternoon. When the dinner bell rang, she descended to the hall and joined him on the dais. They ate in silence while laughter floated around them, teasing and tormenting.

When the meal was over, Gwen excused herself and returned to the master chamber. She sat for a while, working on the embroidery she’d tossed aside earlier, then gave up and prepared for bed.

Lying on her side, she stroked the sheets where Richard would lay. What was happening to her? She didn’t like the person she was becoming around him. Even though she knew it was wrong, she couldn’t stop herself from arguing with him, from pushing him, from trying to make him as miserable as she was.

If she kept it up, he would be pleased to leave her.

She drew her hand across the sheet and settled it on her belly. Caressing the soft curve, she talked to her baby. Ridiculous it might be, but she did it nonetheless, only stopping when she heard the door open and shut.

She closed her eyes and pretended sleep when Richard came to bed. She waited, hoping he would draw her in his arms, knowing he would not.

His breathing didn’t deepen, and she knew he lay awake as she did. She wanted to touch him, to breach the widening chasm between them, but it was too difficult.

“Richard?”

He sighed. “Aye?”

“You will not be faithful, will you?” she asked in a small voice.

He was silent for a long moment. Gwen cursed herself for saying it when in truth she didn’t want to hear the answer. But it had been at the back of her mind for so long that she needed to get it out.

Quietly, he said, “When the need overtakes me, ’twill be your face I see, your voice I hear, your body I touch.”

Gwen choked back bitter laughter. “Oh, ’tis so comforting.” Why had she asked? Why? Men could not be faithful, even where there was love. She’d already known that, but she’d insisted on making him say it. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Her voice quavered with anger and regret. “And what about me? What about my needs? Will you mind terribly if I take a lover in your absence?”

She knew she was goading him and she hated herself for doing it, but she was on a path of no return. She wanted him to feel what she was feeling.

Lightning fast he was on top of her, his hard body pressing into her soft curves, her face imprisoned between his hands. In the shadows cast by the flickering fire, she could see the outline of his features, hard, angry, breathtaking. Oddly, a rush of exhilaration roared through her veins.

“Christ almighty, Gwen! You want my fidelity? Will that ease your mind? Will you finally cease this madness?”

Gwen opened her mouth, but he rushed on before she could speak.

“By God, you have it then! On my honor, I swear to you I will bed no other. Should I be gone for one year or ten, it matters not. I will have none but you, ever.”

His mouth claimed hers in a savage kiss. He was not gentle, nor did she want him to be. She needed to feel his passion for her, wanted to know he needed her desperately, so she could keep on living for another day.

“You are mine. Mine!” he said against her lips. “Do you need me to prove it to you? Do you need to know I hunger only for you?”

“Yes,” she breathed, “yes.”

With a groan, he slid his hands down her sides, over her quivering thighs, and hooked them behind her knees.

Gwen whimpered softly when he brought her knees up to her chest. And then she felt him.

His voice was husky with need. “Then you had better hang on, my love. I am about to prove it to you in terms you will never forget.”

A scream of delicious excitement built in her throat. He entered her in one hard thrust, drinking her cries into his mouth as his body began the pounding rhythm that would bring them both to shattering bliss before it was over.

---

It was late evening when Dafydd rode into the bailey of his castle on the Welsh coast, near Chester. He’d just spent a very lovely sennight at Ashford Hall, fucking the mistress of the manor.

Anne was a delightful bed partner. There was nothing she would not try. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure why Dunsmore gave her up. Certes, little Gwenllian could not be that interesting.

But Anne’s need to have a man between her legs was her undoing. She was quite easy to manipulate as long as she thought she might achieve some measure of power.

As long as she did what Dafydd asked, when he asked it, he cared not what he had to promise her. And right now he wanted her back inside Claiborne castle with a couple of his men in tow. If his guess was right, Richard de Claiborne was not at all what he seemed, and Dafydd needed details.

He swung down off his destrier and tossed his reins to a waiting groom. A woman garbed in green ran to him and flung her arms around his neck. “I missed you so much, Dafydd!”

Dafydd laughed, then kissed his wife soundly. “I missed you, too, Lisbeth. How are the little ones?”

“Anxious to see their papa,” she said, stepping back. She still gripped his hand and Dafydd smiled. Lisbeth was slender and pretty and she loved him with devotion. She’d given him two sons and one daughter in the five years they’d been married. And he still had four other children by his Welsh mistresses.

If there was one comfort he had, it was in knowing Llywelyn envied him for his ability to sire children. But even that wasn’t entirely true anymore, now that Llywelyn’s wife was expecting.

Dafydd put his arm around his wife and they walked into the hall. He stopped, his arm dropping to his side, and stared.

“Oh, Dafydd, I forgot to tell you he was waiting—”

“’Tis all right, my dear,” he said.

Hywel ap Madog stood. “Prince Dafydd.”

Dafydd met the other man’s keen stare for some moments. Without turning, he said, “Lisbeth, send food and drink to the solar. Hywel and I will talk in there.”

He heard Lisbeth swallow as she mumbled, “Aye, Dafydd,” and he knew she’d not missed the significance of the greeting any more than he had. Prince.

The two men entered the solar. Dafydd gestured for the lord of northern Clwyd to take a seat. Hywel sank his squat bulk into a chair and Dafydd sat across from him, pulling off his gloves and tossing them on the table.

“How did the meeting with the king go?” Hywel asked.

Dafydd clenched his jaw. “As expected. He’ll not rein in his justiciars or police his bailiffs and sheriffs. In short, ’tis business as usual for England, and Wales had better get used to it. And Llywelyn?”

Hywel leaned forward. “He’s ready to strike, but not until the king is gone.”

“And the other chieftains?”

“They are behind him.” Hywel’s eyes glittered suddenly. “But there are those of us who prefer not to wait. Edward may never leave, and each day sees the erosion of our lives and our culture. We cannot let him get away with it any longer.”

“Cura’r haearn tra fo’n boeth, eh?” Dafydd said, arching an eyebrow. Strike the iron while it is hot.

Hywel nodded. “Aye.”

“Are you telling me they will stand behind me?”

“Yes.” It was said without hesitation.

Dafydd threw back his head and laughed. “Why should I risk it?” He swept his hand outward, encompassing the room. “Look around you, Hywel. His Majesty favors me. I have land and money and royal favors.”

Hywel shot to his feet, surprisingly quick for a gnarled old warlord. He came around the table and glared down at Dafydd.

“Nay, Dafydd, you are a Welshman through and through! What’s more, you are a prince of our people. You cannot sit idly by while Edward crushes Wales beneath his bootheels. ’Twas because you love Wales that you fell out with your brother. You do not agree with the way he did things, the way he defied traditions and claimed all!”

Dafydd gritted his teeth. “Aye, and look where it has gotten me.”

Hywel’s voice softened. “There are those who have always sympathized with you, Dafydd.” He put a battle-hardened hand on Dafydd’s shoulder. “Gorau Cymro, Cymro oddi cartref.”

“The best Welshman is the exiled,” Dafydd whispered, gripping the edge of the table. God almighty! All he’d wanted in the early days was his rightful share and his equal place beside his brother. And now he had a chance to lead, another chance to lay claim to his birthright.

Edward would never change. His laws would choke the very life from Wales if something weren’t done soon. Even though he’d promised to respect the Welsh and their customs, every passing day proved he did not.

Llywelyn would wait until there was nothing left to salvage. In his younger days, he’d dared to claim Wales as his own, dared to challenge feckless King Henry III, dared to contract to marry the daughter of a traitor.

Now, he wanted to sit back, wait, and play things safe. Age was creeping up on Llywelyn and making him lazy. This could be the chance Dafydd had been waiting for.

“Very well, Hywel. We shall call a meeting. I want to see who is offering me support before I decide.”

Hywel ap Madog smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Aye, Prince Dafydd.”

---

“No!”

Richard bolted upright, wakened out of a dead sleep. His first thought was to reach for his sword, but as he became more coherent, he realized Gwen was beside him and they were alone.

“What is it, Gwen?”

“No,” she said, softer, crying. He reached for her, enfolded her in his arms as he sank back against the pillows. She curled into his chest, shaking.

“Tell me, cariad. Let me help.” Her soft crying continued and he stroked her back rhythmically. He very much feared she’d been dreaming about him leaving, and he didn’t really know how to help her.

He’d demanded too much of her, made love to her until their bodies were drained of all emotion. It had been difficult on them both: the outpouring of feelings too strong to be governed, the entwining of souls too intense to be drawn out.

“Richard… I have to go home,” she whispered.

“We are home,” he said carefully.

“No,” she said, her voice turning desperate. “Snowdon. I must go to Snowdon.”

A chill washed down Richard’s spine. “Snowdon? Why?”

She pushed away from him. “I have to go! Elinor… ’tis Elinor.” Her voice broke on a sob. Richard pulled her against him, at a loss for what to say to calm her.

“What about Elinor, sweet?”

“I saw… I saw her dying.”

Richard sighed. “’Tis only a bad dream. I will send a messenger if you like. We’ll make sure she is all right.”

She grasped his shoulders suddenly, her fingers digging into his flesh. “Richard, I beg you, you must let me go!”

“’Tis only a dream, Gwen. All will be well,” he said, bewildered by her vehemence.

“You do not understand,” she whispered. “They come true sometimes.”

“It means nothing, sweet,” he soothed.

“Yes, yes it does! You do not understand!”

Her voice rose hysterically. Richard was seized by a fear she’d hurt herself and the child she carried. Her father’s court was more than twenty leagues away, through the mountains. It would be madness to try and go there in winter.

She clung to him, shaking, her tears bathing the flesh over his heart. He rested his chin on top of her head, his fingers dancing up and down her spine. Her anguish twisted inside him as though it were his own. Right now he would give her anything ’twas in his power to give.

“Hush, cariad. I will take you to your father’s court, I promise.”

Aye, he would take her to Llywelyn’s court, straight into the wolf’s lair…