Wales, 1281

Prince Llywelyn was in a rage. He sat in the Great Hall of his stronghold on Snowdon and listened as his subjects presented grievance after grievance against the English crown.

Welshmen were being forced to answer to laws and customs that were totally foreign to them. Men were fined heavily for crimes they did not commit. Their woods were cut and timber taken without recompense. Their lands were confiscated and given to English lords.

Merchants were made to sell their goods at the prices the English wanted to pay. If they refused, their goods were seized and the men thrown in jail.

English forest laws were so strict that families could lose everything they had by hunting game in the King’s woods. But if they didn’t hunt, they would starve.

Llywelyn got to his feet and stalked to his solar. Einion limped behind him. Llywelyn poured a large draught of mead and tossed it back in one swift gulp.

“What are you going to do?” Einion asked.

Llywelyn poured another mead and flopped in a chair. Even though he was more than fifty years old, he hung one leg over the arm and leaned back. “What can I do? Edward has me right where he wants me. ’Tis been over three years and he still stalls on my case against Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn.”

“I hate to say this, Llywelyn, but witholding Gwenllian hasn’t helped. God knows I love that lass as if she were my own, but keeping her from marrying that damned De Claiborne is only hurting you.”

Llywelyn laughed mirthlessly. “Aye. When I applied to the Pope for intervention, I’d thought it would be so easy. At the very least, I thought witholding Gwen would make Edward rule on Arwystli! And I had hoped that hothead de Claiborne would’ve talked Edward into striking by now. Then the Pope would have had no choice but to rule in my favor. Christ Almighty! Since Pope Martin died I’ve not looked forward to starting over with his successor.”

“Black Hawk de Claiborne struck all right. His grip on the border is tighter than ever.”

“You know I do not approve of raiding the English. ’Tis pointless. A thousand small struggles will not do what one large effort possibly could. If the clans choose to confront Black Hawk on his territory, then they are fools!”

“But what about the territory he’s seized from you lately? Even now, he sits within spitting distance of Snowdon.”

Llywelyn ground his teeth together. “I’ll get my lands back from the bastard even if I have to face him myself!”

Einion frowned. “I think that’s what he wants. And you’re not as young as you once were, Llywelyn.”

Llywelyn grumbled. Einion was right. He was too old. Black Hawk de Claiborne would hack him to bits on the battlefield.

He stroked the arm of the chair. “I’ve complained to Edward, but he turns a blind eye. Says he’s unaware of any wrongdoing by his Marcher lords.”

Einion snorted. “Did you expect him to say any different? De Claiborne is his favorite by all accounts. Edward would let him get away with nearly anything.” Einion came to stand in front of him, his old face screwed into a grimace. “You must do something, Llywelyn. ’Tis more than just Black Hawk that’s causing trouble. Edward’s bailiffs are harassing our people. And Rhuddlan is the worst insult yet!”

Llywelyn’s temples hammered. “I know.”

“An English town on Welsh soil! And no Welsh even allowed to settle in it! ’Tis gone too far.”

“One day, we’ll have justice, I promise you. But, for now, I will write to Edward and give him Gwenllian before it gets worse.”

“I will send for a scribe.”

Llywelyn lay his head back and stared at the ceiling. God’s bones, he’d wanted an alliance with Scotland! Well, it was not to be and he would have to find another way to keep Edward at bay.

He swore softly. The Earl of Dunsmore had plagued him for years, first the father, now the son.

With the son, it was almost an obsession.

---

“A messenger from the King, milord.”

Richard looked up from the map he’d been studying. “Bring him.”

The knight nodded. Richard stood and walked to the edge of the open pavillion. The canopy swayed in the soft summer breeze, and the haunting scent of roses drifted to his nostrils.

He gazed out across the green meadow. Dandelions and buttercups dotted the grass, vibrant life blazing against a shimmering emerald sea.

And, at the foot of the hill he was encamped upon, roses. Everywhere, roses. They ambled in a thick tangle of prickly vines, choking the hedges, snaking up trees, twisting, grasping, scenting the air with their sweet perfume.

Unforgettable. Just like her. Three goddamn years and he still couldn’t get her out of his mind! Why in the hell had he chosen this site for his camp anyway?

The messenger hurried toward the tent on the heels of the knight. He dropped to one knee. “My Lord de Claiborne,” he said. “His Majesty sends his greetings.”

The man was garbed in chainmail, three golden lions emblazoned on his blood-red surcoat. His face was streaked with grime, and mud dirtied the edges of his mantle. He stood and pulled a sealed parchment from inside his tunic. “The king commanded that I give this into no hands but yours.”

Richard took the document and split the royal seal with his dagger. He sank into the chair and spread the paper on top of the forgotten maps.

Jesú, after all this time, he’d never expected it to end so simply!

He raised his head and let his gaze wander through the camp. They’d not had a fight in weeks. The knights lounged on the grass, laughing and drinking. The destriers were tethered under a stand of trees, munching grass contentedly. Squires played mock games of battle, and the women who inevitably attached themselves to traveling knights were doing what they usually did: relieving the men of pent up sexual energy.

Richard thought of his flame-haired princess. God, how he wished he’d never kissed her. One touch of her lips, one brief taste of her honeyed sweetness, and he was drugged.

He dreamt of her.

Often.

He dreamt of her beneath him, sprawling and wild and hot. He dreamt of easing inside her body, dreamt of her clinging and moaning and writhing. He dreamt of her until he woke, hard and aching, and took whatever woman he’d bedded the night before.

Perhaps that was the reason he’d fought Llywelyn’s treachery. Perhaps he only wanted to taste her again. Perhaps he wanted it even more than he wanted to thwart her father.

He raked a hand through his hair. What the hell was wrong with him? He had never wanted to marry her in the first place, and now he could think of nothing else.

“Are we going to war, milord?” the knight asked.

“Nay, Edgar.” He stood and folded the parchment before tucking it inside his tunic. “Llywelyn yields.”