“You want to do what?” Llywelyn roared.

Edward swept him with a cool stare. “Not want, Llywelyn. I am doing this.”

Richard lounged in a chair at one end of the heavy oak table. His eyes followed Llywelyn as he treaded a path back and forth in front of the hearth.

Beneath the solid expanse of the table, Richard cracked one fist inside the other, his gut churning like the sea at full boil.

The worst was yet to come. Edward was forcing him to sign a treaty of friendship with Llywelyn as part of the marriage agreement.

They hadn’t gotten that far though. Right now, the Prince was still trying to get over the shock of having his daughter wedded to Black Hawk de Claiborne.

Llywelyn pointed a battle-hardened finger at Richard. His tones were clipped as he spoke to the king. “You intend to marry my daughter to that blood-thirsty barbarian?”

Richard stood slowly and walked around the table. Llywelyn braced his feet apart and waited. Lesser men tucked their tails between their legs and ran when Black Hawk de Claiborne stalked them. If Richard hadn’t been so blinded by rage, he’d have admitted a begrudging admiration for Llywelyn’s steadfastness.

Edward gripped the table and shot Richard a warning look.

The prince was trying to object to the marriage on the grounds of his daughter’s safety, but they all knew what was really at stake. Llywelyn didn’t want to give up any portion of his greatly diminished princedom as dowry.

Richard fingered his sword, his voice deceptively mild. “You had no such qualms when you gave her over as a hostage. Why the sudden attack of conscience, old man?”

Llywelyn’s eyes flashed. “You’re a disrespectful bastard, Black Hawk. But then again I would expect no less from the son of William de Claiborne.”

No one heard the singing of steel until the blade was already out of the scabbard. Edward leapt to his feet, his fist crashing onto the table. “Richard! Goddammit, put it away!”

Llywelyn stood rigid with the point of the gleaming sword resting at the base of his throat. Eyes met across a chasm of mistrust; Llywelyn’s fearful yet defiant, Richard’s malicious and cold.

Richard smiled lazily, but it was forced. “As you command, my liege,” he ground out between clenched teeth.

He stepped back and resheathed the sword in one smooth stroke, then gave Edward a curt bow before returning to his seat.

Edward glared at him for a long moment, then sank down into his own chair, smoothing the folds of his blood-red surcoat with great deliberation.

Llywelyn took a deep breath and rubbed his throat. His face was scarlet with fury. “That is precisely what I’m talking about, Majesty. How can you give my daughter to the likes of him? The first time the lass opens her mouth to disagree, he’ll skewer her on the point of his sword!”

Richard crossed his hands behind his head and leaned back in the chair. “I’ll use my sword on her all right.” He smiled. “I daresay she’ll enjoy it much more than you just did.”

Llywelyn’s jaw worked, but he turned to the king and ignored the taunt.

“I am sorry, Llywelyn, my mind is made up,” Edward said.

Llywelyn whirled around and began to pace back and forth. “What about Arwystli? What are you going to do about that?”

Edward shrugged. “My commission is busy working on it. We’ll hear their findings soon enough.”

“Give me Arwystli, and you can have her.”

“’Tis not that easy, my friend. I am your king and I am commanding you to betrothe your daughter to my baron. Arwystli has nothing to do with this.”

Richard sat back while Llywelyn continued to protest and Edward countered. He thought he might choke on Llywelyn’s self-righteousness. First, the man said he feared for his daughter, then he was willing to trade her for disputed land. Richard wanted to kill him even more.

Finally, the raw terms were hammered out: a parcel of land that bordered Richard’s, a treaty of friendship, money and sheep, and the succession to the Welsh throne if Llywelyn failed to get any heirs of his own.

Edward leaned back in his chair while Llywelyn crossed to stand by the window. The King winked at Richard and took a swallow of wine.

“Well, shall we send for the lass and introduce her to her husband-to-be?”

---

Gwen curled in a chair and rested her chin on her fist. She’d not left her room since retreating to it last night. It was small and cozy and far removed from the dark dangers of broad shoulders and silver eyes.

Her heart quickened against her will, her cheeks heating. Richard had been so dangerously handsome in the wavering torchlight. She’d been drawn to him, ready to surrender before he even struck. His smell—spicy, powerful—lingered in her memory, taunting her.

She closed her eyes, leaned her head against the chair. She could feel his lips on her skin, his hands like sweet torture on her innocent flesh.

Gwen had relived the scene a thousand times since last night. It felt so real, even now. She had a sudden thought that if she turned around, he would be standing there, watching her. She pictured him, one corner of his sensual mouth curved in a mocking smile, a smile that told her he knew all of her darkest dreams.

Oh God, would that he had kissed her before that woman came along!

Gwen pressed a trembling hand to her forehead. Why did she think such things about that vile man? He was handsome, yes, but he was English and he was horrible and he was—

“Gwen?”

“Come in, Elinor,” she said, more than happy to be interrupted.

The older woman hurried into the room. “Gwen, you must change. That simply will not do.”

Gwen looked down at the plain surcoat belted over a white undergown. “Are we not leaving? I have ridden like this before.”

“Nay, you are being summoned to an audience with the king. You must change,” Elinor repeated.

Gwen clutched her throat. “The king?”

“Do not worry,” Elinor soothed. “Your father is with him. ’Twill be all right. Now, let me help you.”

She busied herself in one of Gwen’s trunks, pulling out a gown of sea-green silk and an ivory surcoat embroidered with silver birds.

“This will do,” Elinor said, laying the clothes across a chair before turning back to Gwen.

“Do you know why, Elinor?” Icy fear washed over Gwen’s body, rendering her immobile.

“Nay.” Elinor grasped her shoulders. “But I do not think he wants to keep you hostage. He gave his word.”

Gwen stared into the other woman’s hazel eyes for some moments before nodding mutely. She shrugged out of the garments she was wearing and tossed them onto the bed, then donned the others as Elinor handed them to her.

Gwen thought of the leman Anne and the way her tightly laced gown had shown her figure. She glanced at Elinor. The other woman’s back was turned, so Gwen tugged the laces tighter, satisfied with the way the gown cinched in her waist and molded her breasts and hips.

If she chanced to run into Richard again, he’d not see a girl, but a woman.

She chided herself for caring what he thought of her, but that didn’t stop her from unplaiting her hair and shaking it into a torrent of flame. Elinor knotted a girdle of silk and silver around Gwen’s waist, frowning only slightly at the way the gown hugged her curves.

“Mayhap, you should wear a wimple,” Elinor said, touching the cloth that covered her own tightly braided hair.

“Nay. ’Tis not the Welsh way.”

Elinor shrugged. “As you wish.” Squeezing Gwen’s hand, she said, “All will be well.”

---

The light that flooded from the chamber’s interior seemed unbearably bright when coupled with the murky darkness of the passage Gwen had just come through. She squinted, holding her hand up to shield her eyes.

Unmistakable currents of tension emanated from the three men present. The air crackled with the sparks of their anger, curbed, but not forgotten, at her entrance.

Her father stood at one end of the room. King Edward lounged easily at a table. Her heart started to flutter as her eyes met the third man’s.

How, and better yet why, was he here?

“Your Majesty,” she said, sinking into a curtsy.

“Come, Gwenllian, sit beside me,” Edward beckoned, all smiles as he patted the chair next to him. “May I present Richard de Claiborne, Earl of Dunsmore?” he said sweetly.

Gwen gasped. Oh God—Gwalchddu! Only moments before, her fickle heart had been pounding so loud she thought all three men could hear it. Now, it struggled with the effort to beat.

King Edward and Richard de Claiborne.

The Lion with the leash in its mouth. The fierce Hawk he controlled.

The dark knight of her dreams was Black Hawk de Claiborne. But Black Hawk was supposed to be cruel and evil and ugly, not handsome and seductive! He was a brutal guardian of the March. Stories were told of him, bards’ tales of unspeakable horror chanted in the great stronghold of the Prince of Wales.

Gwen had heard them all. Black Hawk tortured his captives most gruesomely. He drank the blood of newborn babes and devoured children for dinner. He’d sold his soul to the devil and sacrificed virgins regularly on the altar of his masculinity.

Gwen wasn’t quite sure what that last part meant, although she had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with the strange sensations she’d experienced when he’d touched her.

A shiver washed down her spine and she crumpled in the chair Edward offered.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Edward asked, leaning forward to touch her cheek.

“Aye, thank you, Majesty,” she replied quickly. “Lord de Claiborne,” she murmured, lowering her lashes. She thought of all the Welshmen who had died at his hands, all the women who mourned their husbands and brothers and sons because of him.

Bitter disappointment ate at her. He was horrible. She raised her gaze to him, tempered it with defiance and hatred.

The look he returned to her was raw and sensual, and full of contempt. Gwen broke the contact first, stared at her hands clenched in her lap.

“Princess Gwenllian,” he replied. His voice was cool and detached. Strangely, it hurt. She dared to look at him once more.

One corner of his mouth crooked in a mocking smile. A dark eyebrow arched upward. Gwen felt her cheeks heating. She lifted her chin and turned to the King as he began to speak.

“Since you are of an age to marry, Gwenllian, it is my duty as your king to find a husband for you. I have chosen Lord De Claiborne.”

“No!” she cried, leaping to her feet.

“I am afraid you have no choice, my dear,” Edward said, leaning his chair back on two legs.

Gwen took a deep breath. She balled her gown in her fists and told herself there was nothing to fear. “Welsh women cannot be forced to take a husband against their will. I do not wish it.”

“You are not a typical Welshwoman, Gwenllian. You’re a princess first and as such you are my ward. ’Tis my divine right as your king to arrange your marriage. You will obey me.”

Gwen fled to her father’s side and grabbed his hand. “Father, you cannot allow this! I’ll marry anyone you wish, do anything you ask of me, but do not make me marry Black Hawk de Claiborne,” she pleaded in Welsh, her eyes searching his.

He extracted his hand and turned his back to her. He stared out the window, and when he spoke, his voice was cool, devoid of emotion. “I’m sorry, lass, but I cannot do anything about it.”

It was happening again. He would not save her. She was being trotted out as a sacrificial lamb, only this time the man who took her was quite capable of slaughter.

Gwen mentally shook herself. She was Llywelyn ap Gruffydd’s daughter for God’s sake! She was supposed to be a brave Welsh princess, not a coward who would beg for rescue from her duty.

She touched his arm. “I will not fail you like my mother did,” she said quietly. He stiffened and she spun around and walked over to the king. Since she had no choice anyway, she would enter into it with dignity, with bravery worthy of her great father. “Very well, Your Majesty. I will marry Lord de Claiborne.”

Edward took her hand in his, rubbed little circles in her palm with his thumb. “I’m glad you see it my way, sweet. The wedding will not be for some months yet. Whilst we finalize the terms of your dowry, you may return to Wales.”

“Thank you, Majesty,” Gwen said. Tears hovered beneath the surface but she swore she would not cry in front of these English bastards.

“Well, Llywelyn, I think we should allow these two a few minutes alone to get better acquainted,” Edward said.

Gwen panicked. “Nay, Majesty, please. ’Tis not necessary.”

Edward stood and smiled down at her. He was tall, though not quite as tall as Richard, and lean. His face was almost boyish in its handsomeness.

“Ah, are you afraid of my fierce-looking friend, my dear?” He raised her hand to his lips. “Never fear, Richard is tame enough with the lasses. He’ll not harm you.”

The room seemed deathly quiet when her father and King Edward were gone. The fire crackled and the wind whispered against the stone outside.

She knew when Richard rose from his chair. He had the quiet grace of a cat, but the chair creaked beneath his weight as he stood.

He stopped beside her and she slanted her eyes toward him without turning to face him. He shifted his weight and she let her gaze trail down the long leg that was thrust to one side.

“Why were you afraid to be alone with me, Princess?”

She didn’t answer and he leaned toward her until his face was scant inches from hers.

“Afraid you couldn’t control yourself, sweet?”

Gwen whirled on him. “If not for the wine, as you pointed out, I would have never allowed you to touch me!”

He grabbed her hand and pressed it to his chest. Gwen gasped and tried to jerk away, but he held her fast. Even through the layers of his clothing, his skin seared her palm.

“Yes, but what made you touch me, sweet? Do you blame that on the wine too?”

Gwen succeeded in wresting her hand free of his grip. She wiped it very deliberately on her dress.

His jaw hardened and he swept her from head to toe with an infuriating glare. “Let me make something perfectly clear to you, Princess. I don’t really care how many men you’ve had before now, but there had better be no more. If you come to me pregnant, I’ll pack you off to a convent. I’ll not accept another man’s brat as my heir.”

Gwen’s mouth dropped open. “You think I—you mean that—”

He arched an arrogant eyebrow. “I’ve bedded enough women to recognize desire when I see it, sweet. ’Tis not the sort of thing one sees in an innocent young virgin, at least not so quickly.”

Gwen felt a rush of anger so strong it almost blinded her. She didn’t even think before reacting. All she heard was the crack of her open palm against his cheek.

And then she was jerked against his body, hard. She looked up at him, unable to tear her gaze away. God, he was so intimidating!

The hard planes of his face seemed chiseled from stone. Black brows drew together over eyes that reminded her of a frozen mountain lake, eyes that bored into hers relentlessly.

Good Lord, this man was Black Hawk. What had she done?

Gwen bit her lower lip to cease its trembling.

“I hope you enjoyed that, because you will never do it again, I assure you,” he said, his voice washing over her like cool silk. His gaze settled on her mouth and Gwen felt a strange shiver ripple down her spine.

“Did you think of me often this past year?” he asked softly.

“Never!” She tried to jerk away, but it was as if she’d never moved.

“Liar,” he whispered.

“Let me go!”

“Not yet, sweet. We have unfinished business, you and I.”

Gwen’s breath caught as his arm encircled her waist and he pulled her tighter against him. The fury that clouded his features was melting, changing into something even more frightening.

She felt light-headed, dizzy with the speed of her reckless heart, and when his head descended to crush her mouth beneath his, her eyes closed in anticipation.

At the last minute, she clamped her mouth tight against his probing tongue. He let go of her wrists and cupped her head in one large hand.

Gwen’s heart hammered in her breast, filling her ears with the sound of her own blood rushing through her veins. The smell of leather and steel, of sweat and horses, of raw power held tightly in check came strongly to her nostrils.

This was nothing like the time when Rhys had kissed her. That had seemed so harmless, so friendly, compared to this.

Suddenly, Gwen wanted to taste the man kissing her, to experience what he was doing. It couldn’t hurt, could it?

She softened, melting against him, and his response was immediate. The kiss changed, became less demanding, more seductive. Running his tongue along her lower lip, he nibbled, then sucked it like a sweet. With each soft tug, there was an answering surge of fire in her veins.

When he stopped, Gwen opened her eyes to find him staring down at her.

His eyes were incredible! Moments before, they’d been the color of slate, but now they were almost black.

“Kiss me, Princess,” he murmured. Slowly, he lowered his head and slanted his mouth across hers. She opened. The tip of his tongue slipped between her lips, searching, stroking.

Gwen’s tongue touched his cautiously. He delved deeper and she mimicked his practised movements, stroking, teasing, tantalizing.

A fire born of his touch kindled in her belly, pulsating, spreading outward and racing along her limbs in a torrent of shivers. She sucked his tongue deeper, tasting him, wanting—what?

Her hands entwined in his dark hair, reveling in the velvety crispness of it. She pressed against him, shock coursing through her at the much harder part of him that pressed into her abdomen.

He groaned, his breathing quickening. Strong hands traced a path of fire down her back, grasping her buttocks and pulling her against the marble hardness of his erection.

She stiffened. Dear God, what was she doing? Another minute and she would prove herself no better than the whore he’d marked her for.

A cry rose low in her throat and she gripped the solid expanse of his upper arms, trying to push away.

Richard lifted his head. “Don’t worry, no one will come in here. We’re quite safe for about an hour. I would certainly like more time, but that will do for now…”

He buried his lips against the slender column of her throat. He’d never expected her response to send him into such a frenzy of need. But she tasted so sweet, like clover and wild honey, and he wanted her beneath him so he could taste the rest of her.

And he intended to do just that.

“No!” she cried, twisting in his grasp, pushing against him. “Let me go! Please!”

Richard marshaled every drop of willpower he possessed to release her. What kind of game was the little wench playing?

She moved to put the table between them. He stared at her, torn between desire and anger. God’s bones, she was beautiful! Her face was flushed, her lips swollen from his kisses, her hair in glorious disarray.

Richard ignored the insistent throbbing of his manhood. He let anger take over. “What’s the matter, Princess? Afraid you might enjoy it?”

“May you rot in hell, Black Hawk de Claiborne! I will never enjoy anything with you! Being your wife will be like never waking from my worst nightmares!”

Richard leaned against the table. “And what makes you think being your husband will be any more of a treat for me? Marrying a Welsh whore is not my idea of a dream come true.”

Gwen turned purple. “You—you—vile, disgusting, murdering—”

Before she could discern his intent, he reached across the table and grabbed the front of her gown. He dragged her toward him until she found herself on her back with him leaning over her.

“So full of fire. Did I fail to tell you that I will enjoy you very much when we are in bed together?” His gaze traveled over her breasts and down her belly. “And I can promise that you will enjoy it too.”

“Never!”

He brushed his lips across hers. Gwen trembled, despite herself. He did it again, soft, gentle. She watched his eyes darken, felt his hand slide up to mold her breast.

Again, he bent to her, his lips firmer this time. The protest she intended came out as a whimper. Her hands slipped up his arms.

And then he let her go. “Your body disagrees with you, my dear.”

Gwen felt her cheeks flame. She hopped from the table and smoothed her gown, refusing to look at him, to meet his mocking stare.

She barely had time to compose herself before he grabbed her hand and led her to the adjoining solar.

Her father and King Edward looked up. Gwen stared at her feet. She’d never been so humiliated in her life. She glanced at the arrogant man next to her. At least she would have a lifetime to pay him back.