Richard rode into the bailey of Shrewsbury castle with twenty knights behind him. The chamberlain hurried forward as Richard dismounted.

“My Lord de Claiborne,” he said, bowing low. “I hope you are not offended, but I-I was truly busy with other guests when she arrived. I did not slight her!”

Richard stared at the man’s balding head, bent low in supplication. “Slight who?”

The chamberlain jerked back. He swallowed hard. A tentative smile brightened his cloudy face. “Your bride, milord. She—”

“She is here?”

The man nodded. “Aye. I thought you knew. She only preceded you by a quarter-hour. I put her in the nuptial chamber, but I did not mean to—”

Richard heard no more. He entered the castle and made his way toward the stairs and the upper chambers. He’d been to Shrewsbury castle so many times that he knew where he was going without asking for directions.

He didn’t know why he suddenly had to see her, but he could not have stopped even if he wanted. Three years. Was she still beautiful? Was she everything his mind conjured?

God, he thought of her too much, wanted her too much. Finally, he would see her again and prove to himself that she was only a woman like any other. She did not possess a strange kind of power over him.

The door wasn’t fully closed when he reached it. He thought about knocking, but shoved it open before he could do it. She was as much his property, or soon would be, as his horse or his castle. And though it wasn’t her fault, he supposed he was angry at her for occupying his thoughts so often.

It was just as well he hadn’t knocked.

The little whore was sprawling in the king’s arms. Cold fury engulfed him as the world seemed to lose focus for a breathless minute.

“Should I come back later?” Richard asked mildly. It took great effort to keep his voice calm. His bride flinched.

Edward raised his head. “Richard,” he acknowledged with cool superiority. “I did not expect you until tomorrow.”

“I can see that, my liege.”

Edward sighed and stood up. He handed Gwen the peeled orange, then bent to kiss her on the cheek. “Another time perhaps,” he murmured.

Gwen scrambled upright and smoothed her gown with shaking hands. Thank God it was over, but why did it have to be Richard who stopped it?

He was glaring at her, his look one of intense hatred. Anger radiated from him, charged the air between them. She could see it in the set of his shoulders, the glint of his flinty eyes, the hard line of his jaw.

Oh yes, he was in a fine rage, and she’d just confirmed every low opinion he ever had of her.

Despite everything, she couldn’t help but think how much she’d longed to see him again. He looked the same. No, not the same. Better.

His black hair and beard emphasized the bronze of his skin. He was dark and forbidding in his crimson surcoat with the black hawk emblazoned on his breast. Her gaze darted between him and the King. Edward was tall, nicknamed Longshanks for his height in the saddle, but Richard topped him by a good two inches.

She couldn’t keep her eyes off her betrothed, no matter how hard she tried. There could be no doubt he blamed her over this. She wasn’t sure why that upset her, but it did. She tilted her chin up and met his stare evenly, refusing to balk beneath his icy regard.

He fingered the hilt of his sword. “Don’t let me interrupt you. I can wait outside if you like.”

“Come now, do not be angry, Richard. ’Twould not be the first time you and I have shared a woman.”

“Nay, but lemans are not quite the same as wives.” He looked at Gwen disdainfully. “Then again, when the wife is Welsh…”

Edward smiled. “Aye, Welshwomen are known to be, ah, free with their favors, aren’t they?”

Gwen nearly choked on the rage that rose in her throat like bile. She was on her feet instantly, a torrent of Welsh unleashed as she cursed them both with all the eloquence Rhys had taught her.

The king’s head cocked to one side. Richard crossed his arms over his chest and listened intently, as if he could figure out what she was saying merely by paying close attention.

Gwen relished telling them exactly what she thought of them in a language they didn’t understand, questioning their parentage, their entire ancestry, and their manhood to their arrogant faces.

When she finished, she crossed her arms in a smug imitation of Richard and thrust her nose in the air.

Edward turned to Richard. “What did she say?”

Richard brushed off the sleeve of his tunic. “Many things, Ned, not the least of which was an insult to our manhood. And very colorful, I might add. I would never have imagined such words could cross those delicate lips.”

Gwen gaped at him. “Why didn’t you stop me?” she demanded in Welsh.

“It was such a pretty speech, I had not the heart,” he replied in kind. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Gwen swallowed. It was so odd to hear her language on his lips, and yet it seemed so natural, like he had been born to speak it.

Edward laughed. “The lass has spirit, I’ll give her that. Probably every bit as stubborn as that old goat Llywelyn, too. What is this news your father promised to send me, sweet?”

Gwen was glad for the distraction just then. She pulled out the letter and handed it to the king.

Edward glanced at the dragon seal, then split it with his forefinger, and unfolded the parchment. He read it quickly, chuckles deepening into laughter as he crumpled it in his fist.

“The randy old goat has gotten my cousin with child,” Edward said when the laughter subsided. “Jesú, he has the luck of the devil.”

A muscle in Richard’s jaw began to tic.

Edward took Gwen’s hand and raised it to his lips. “I will give you away in your father’s place, sweet princess. Come, Richard. We have much to discuss,” he said, releasing her to cross to the door.

Gwen forced her face into a stony countenance when Richard came to stand in front of her.

“I will deal with you later,” he said, the softness of his voice a sharp contrast to the hardness of the words.

A wave of fear crashed through her as her eyes swept over him. Elinor had told her that Englishmen could beat their wives. God, he was huge and powerful—he could kill her!

He whirled around and followed the King.

Gwen sank wearily into the windowseat, staring at the orange. ’Twas beginning to get sticky.

---

Richard de Claiborne was in a dangerous mood. He’d lost count of the number of times his cup had been refilled by the saucy serving wench who even now leered at him from another man’s lap. He ignored the invitation, raising his cup to drain it before slamming it onto the wooden table.

’Twas ale he drank this night. Not fine wine, suitable to his station as the King’s most trusted advisor, but ale, coarse, bitter, common. Around him, knights and men-at-arms reveled in their debauchery, oblivious to the Earl of Dunsmore’s presence. Harsh laughter rang through the air unchecked, mingling with the shrill voices of the serving women.

Oft times he would rather drink with these men than the pompous lords of the realm. It reminded him of the days of his youth, before the Crusade and his elevation to great power.

Power was only achieved at tremendous risk and at first he’d had to be careful, to constantly watch for the jealous lords who sought to tumble him from his perch. Few challenged him these days, however. His reputation for ferocity was unequalled among Edward’s barons. When he drank with these men, he could forget who he was for a while.

The girl appeared at his elbow once more, pouring ale into his empty cup. Her long hair had been braided, but as the night wore on had fallen loose, and when it fell across his arm as she leaned forward, he touched it. ’Twas almost red in the glittering torchlight.

“Ye can fondle more than that if ye likes, milord,” she said, thrusting her abundant cleavage in his face. Her eyes were bright, her tongue sliding across her bottom lip suggestively.

“And what will you do for me?”

“I can pleasure ye greatly, milord.” The girl fairly panted with anticipation. Richard knew the things that were whispered about him, the things that made common serving wenches and noble ladies throw themselves at him with delightful regularity.

He struggled to pull the two images standing before him into one. He tried to imagine himself buried within her, and could not. His body burned for a woman, but only for one woman in particular; a woman as deceitful and immoral as she was beautiful. Llywelyn’s daughter.

“Not tonight, wench.”

He lifted his mug and took a long drink. Why should it even bother him that he’d found her in Ned’s arms? Had he expected any less of her?

Jesú, she was to be his wife in two days and he’d found her seducing the king! Not that he could blame Ned for succumbing to her charms. Gwen had become a very desirable woman, just as Richard had known she would.

Not even his hottest dreams had prepared him for the reality of seeing her again.

She was as exquisite as the first rose in spring. Her body had ripened until all the girlish edges filled out. She was small, but she possessed an abundance of curves that could please any man. He couldn’t help but notice the way her breasts thrust upward against the wool of her traveling clothes. He was certain they were full and firm. He’d ached to touch them and find out.

Her scent had stolen to him when he’d stood next to her. Wind and water and mountain heather. And roses, always those damn roses. Would she taste as good as she smelled?

His throat tightened.

And her voice. From the first, he’d thought it sweet and musical, but now it was the sort of voice that dared a man to dream of illicit passion, erotic delights, nights of steamy lovemaking. Husky, breathless.

Richard’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the mug. He remembered the last report he’d gotten from the Welsh court.

Princess Gwenllian has a lover. His name is Rhys ap Gawain.

Richard tossed back the remaining contents of his cup, swirling the bitter liquid in his mouth before swallowing it. He shook his head as the serving wench came forward. His stomach roiled from too much drink and too little food.

“’Tis no shame to stop now, milord. If I was you, I’d be saving me strength for the nuptial chamber.”

Richard turned to his captain. The burly man’s face split into a grin. His mane of brown hair was unkempt, sprouting wildly in all directions, and Richard thought suddenly of the shaggy lions that Ned kept in the royal menagerie. Even the man’s toothy smile looked like a lion’s.

Richard leaned back and crossed his arms. “Indeed, Andrew?”

“Aye. Had me a good look at that pretty little princess today. Right lusty if ye ask me. I’d say ye got yer work cut out for you with that one. And if I know you, milord, ye’ll not let her out of bed fer a fortnight!”

Several men sitting nearby guffawed. Bawdy suggestions were tossed around. One man grabbed a wench and began to demonstrate before she soundly punched him in the ear. Laughter erupted as he yelped and dumped her in the rushes.

The girl scrambled to her feet, red-faced and cursing, and retreated to stand by the wall.

“Don’t you know how to please a woman yet, Edgar?” Richard asked, pushing himself to his feet. He swayed but a moment, then walked slowly to the girl. Her eyes lit up as he extended his hand. Richard looked at the eager crowd.

“First,” he drawled, “you must get her in your arms—willingly, Edgar.” The men roared. “Next, you must kiss her like she’s never been kissed before—or at least you must make her believe she’s never been kissed like it before.”

He bent to place his lips on hers. The room rocked with cheers. Richard kissed her until she went slack in his arms. The girl clung to him for a full minute, staring up at him dreamily, before she let go.

Men patted each other on the back, laughing. Money exchanged hands. Edgar was mercilessly teased.

The wench was not unattractive and Richard desired to bed her, to prove he still could, but his body would not cooperate. He took a deep, cleansing breath.

“Now, Edgar, if you think you can continue where I left off, I’ll leave the bedding of this wench to you. As the captain of my guards so thoughtfully pointed out, I must save myself for my wedding night!”

“To Richard de Claiborne, Earl of Dunsmore!” Andrew yelled, raising his mug.

“To Richard de Claiborne, Earl of Dunsmore!” the men echoed, cups raised in unison. “To good health and a stiff prick!” they cried as he strode from the room.

Richard knew exactly where he was going. He wanted his fiery Welsh princess now, tonight. He was consumed with her. Why deny himself? Gwen was no innocent and he would wait no longer.