“Drink this, dear,” Queen Eleanor said, placing a goblet of spiced wine in Gwen’s icy hand before dismissing the servant.

“Thank you, Majesty.”

It was almost time. Gwen gazed at the gigantic bed, its velvet curtains drawn open, the bedding turned down and strewn with rose petals. Rose petals! Where on earth had they gotten those this time of year?

A log crackled in the fireplace, the fragrant scent of herbs twining with the smoke. Gwen thought she smelled rosemary and mint. She took a deep breath, trying to keep her mind on anything but what was about to happen. It wasn’t working.

She couldn’t think about Rhys or Dafydd, just Richard and the look on his face when he’d found her. She couldn’t get over the gnawing feeling he had seen her and Rhys. His eyes had glittered with a note of challenge when he’d held out his hand. She’d almost felt like he was daring her not to take it.

Eleanor glided to a chair and sank into it gracefully. Even at this advanced stage of pregnancy, she was elegant. “You must drink it all. The first time is better if you are relaxed.”

Other voices piped up, quickly agreeing with the queen. Gwen looked at the faces of the ladies who had volunteered to prepare her for the bedding. They had only been introduced to her today, these wives of Edward’s barons. There were so many people attending the wedding that she knew she’d not seen even a third of them.

God, how she wished Elinor were here!

“Well, ladies, let us prepare this lovely bride for her husband,” said Catherine de Lacy, clapping her hands impatiently. She unclasped Gwen’s mantle and handed it to Alys.

Gwen stifled a smile. Alys’s face was redder than usual, her jaw set stubbornly. Gwen knew Alys was grumbling beneath her breath at having these highborn ladies intruding upon what should be her job. The old woman shook out the cloak, then retreated to the antechamber to hang it.

Mary de Clare, wife of the Earl of Gloucester, lifted the circlet from Gwen’s head, then began to delicately reshape any curls that had fallen flat. Mary seemed rather shy, and Gwen guessed her to be not much older than herself.

“You have glorious hair, Lady Gwenllian,” Mary said, her voice so soft Gwen barely heard her.

“Thank you, Lady Mary.”

Catherine stripped Gwen of her surcoat. “’Tis odd to think of Richard de Claiborne married once more. ’Tis been so many years since Elizabeth died, I was certain he would remain unwed. Certes, he’s had too much fun corrupting married women. ’Twas high time Edward forced him to take another wife!”

Margaret de Valence tittered. Mary blushed. Eleanor turned purple. “Catherine, you should not speak so in front of the Earl’s new bride!”

Catherine blinked. “Oh! Forgive me, Lady Gwenllian. I do not think sometimes. Henry always tells me I should think before I speak, but I can never manage to do so.”

Gwen’s heart dropped. Richard had been married? None of the stories she’d ever heard mentioned that. Had he loved his wife? What had happened to her? “’Tis forgiven, Lady Catherine. I am well aware my husband has a reputation. Our marriage was made for political reasons and not for love.”

Catherine smiled. “Aye, but that doesn’t mean you cannot enjoy the pleasures he can give you this night.”

“Do not mislead her, Catherine. The first time is not usually so pleasant. The second is much better,” Margaret said. “Do you not agree, Mary?”

Mary stammered her agreement, her face losing color. Her hands shook as she twisted a curl into place. No one else noticed Mary’s discomfort, but comprehension dawned on Gwen with chilling clarity.

Life with the Red Earl of Gloucester wasn’t pleasant. He was a big man, not so much tall as broad, and Mary was tiny compared to him. He must ravish her brutally.

Gwen shivered. Good Lord, Richard was far bigger than she. And she’d angered him plenty since she’d arrived. Would he hurt her like Gloucester hurt Mary?

“Finish your wine, Gwenllian, and the first time will not be so unpleasant as these ladies would have you believe,” Eleanor said. “I was but thirteen when Edward took me to bed the first time, although we had been married since I was ten, and we drank wine until we were both giddy. ’Twas not at all unpleasant.”

Margaret spoke first. “And we know the King has never displeased you, Majesty. How many children is it now?”

“Twelve,” Eleanor said, patting her belly. Her eyes lost some of their sparkle. “Though only half my babies have lived.”

“God grant you a son this time, Majesty,” Mary said.

Gwen, Catherine, and Margaret spoke as one. “Amen.”

Eleanor wiped away a tear, then stood. “You are as lovely as a bride should be, Gwenllian. Ladies, remove her chemise.”

Panic seized Gwen as they lifted the garment from her body. Cold air caressed her skin, goosebumps rising where it touched. Soon, Richard would touch her. That made her shiver even more.

Margaret dusted her with scented powder while Catherine daubed her with perfume. At last, they slipped a woolen robe over her naked body.

“Take her to the end of the bed. Catherine, Margaret, be ready to remove her bedrobe. Mary, you stand by the door,” Eleanor said, waving her hand. When all were in place, she turned to Alys, who held a long-handled pan. “Please warm the sheets, Alys.”

Alys nodded and picked up a set of tongs. She selected a few glowing embers from the fireplace and dropped them in the pan.

Gwen forced her breath to come slowly, steadily. Her heart raced. From anticipation? From fear? Perhaps it was both.

Men’s voices came faint at first, growing louder with each passing second. They were on the stairs, moving ever closer. Their voices rose, becoming more distinct, more individual.

Eleanor took the goblet, nodding in satisfaction at its emptiness. “Do not be frightened, my dear. Hold your head high. The inspection will take but a moment and then we will put you in bed. I am afraid you will have to endure listening to their crude jokes for a short time, but I am sure Richard will get them out quickly.”

Gwen returned the Queen’s smile and took a deep breath. She could handle this. She was Llywelyn ap Gruffydd’s daughter.

---

“I want this over with quickly, Ned,” Richard growled in the king’s ear.

“Patience, Richard. You’ll have the lass to yourself soon enough. Let these men have their fun.”

Edmund and Gilbert reached the chamber first and pounded on the wooden door. When it didn’t open immediately, men at the rear of the party began to holler how best to breach a stubborn entryway. Soon, the entire party had taken it up, suggestions ranging from ramming it swiftly to penetrating it slowly.

Richard grated his teeth together. He’d never liked these damn ceremonies, although he conceded the necessity for them. How else to make sure the bride and groom were free of flaws? But it always seemed that the poor bride was the one to suffer from the pop-eyed scrutiny and bad behavior of so many drunken men.

He was in no mood for this tonight. He clung to the edge of his control by the barest thread. Seeing his wife with her lover had frayed his temper badly. He’d stifled an urge to break up their lovers’ quarrel, intercepting Gwen when she hurried away. He’d immediately pulled her to the dais and signaled the king to announce the bedding-down revelries. The sooner he was alone with her, the better.

While the ladies had left the hall to prepare, Edmund and Henry de Lacy had plied him with drink, thinking it would be funny to see him pass out on his wedding night. He’d drank only half of what they’d given him, pouring the rest onto the rushes.

The wine had merely fostered his rage until he was ready to burst with it. He recalled none of the conversation, none of the ribald comments of his peers.

The door opened. Mary de Clare paled when she saw her husband at the forefront. Richard felt sorry for the tiny woman. He knew Gilbert was hard on her. Edward knew it too, but there was nothing to be done about it. A man’s wife was his property, and he could treat her however he saw fit.

Mary stepped back to allow the men to enter. Richard was pushed through first, Edmund and Gilbert on his heels.

“My lords,” the queen said, motioning to the bed.

But Richard was already staring. He searched Gwen’s face, looking for fear, for contempt. Her glorious eyes glittered, but she held her chin high. If she was afraid, she hid it well.

Hands were on him suddenly, removing his clothes. He did not resist, did not help, merely stood. When they had stripped him to his chausses and braies, he stopped them with an upraised hand, ignoring the protests that arose.

Gwen returned his heated stare. From the moment his broad chest was bared, she could not tear her gaze away. A few scars criss-crossed the hard muscles, silent testament to a life spent wielding a sword. Black hair spread across his chest, tapering to disappear beneath the waist of the braies that rode his narrow hips.

When their gazes again locked, his eyes were aflame. But was it desire or anger? Her heart beat faster.

Catherine and Margaret grasped the edges of the robe and pulled it from Gwen’s body. Voices raised in merriment died to a murmur, then hushed altogether.

Gwen fought to remain still. She knew the others stared too, but she could only look at Richard. The intensity of his stare, the darkening of his eyes from slate to pewter, the coiled tautness of his muscles made her weak at the knees.

He took a step forward. Eleanor held up her hand. “Do you find a flaw, my lord?”

He stopped, swallowed. “No,” came the husky reply.

“And you, my lady?” Eleanor asked, turning to Gwen.

Dear Lord, like she would even know what she was supposed to be looking for! “Nay,” she replied, her voice trembling.

Eleanor nodded to the ladies. They put Gwen in bed, then placed a lit candle in one of the niches of the headboard and pulled the bedcurtains closed.

Richard paid no attention while the ladies took their leave. His thoughts were only for the woman waiting for him. His one glimpse of her two nights ago had been so brief he had begun to wonder if he’d only imagined the creamy silk of her skin, the uptilt of her breasts, the rosy crowns of her nipples.

It seemed he had waited for this night for four years and he was suddenly impatient to get on with it. Exasperated, he turned, barely listening to the bawdy jokes that flew through the air. How to tame a wild Welsh filly and how to furrow a ripe field were only a couple of the suggestions offered.

Richard clenched his jaw, meeting Edward’s gaze. One corner of Edward’s mouth quirked. He held his goblet up, calling for silence.

“My lords, it seems our most beloved Earl of Dunsmore is impatient to attend to his bride, so let us drink to his success and be gone!”

“Hear! Hear!” they said, lifting their drinks as one.

“Dunsmore, you’re worse than a ram in rut! But not that I blame you after what we have just witnessed.” Red Gilbert clapped him on the back, laughing.

“Out.” Richard’s voice was hard-edged with leashed fury. “Now.”

They all stared at him. Edward cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “I do believe, my lords, that this is the first time this King of England has ever been dismissed by a vassal! Ah, but if I had not seen the lovely prize awaiting him, mayhap I would be angry. As it is, I cannot find fault with his command.” Edward smiled, motioning the men toward the door. They grumbled about the fun ending before it had begun, but filed out peacefully.

When Edward was the only one left, he winked at Richard. “Try to get some sleep this night, eh?”

Richard grinned suddenly. “As you command me, so shall I do.”

Edward returned the grin, then disappeared through the door after the others. Richard bolted it, knowing from his past attendance at weddings that men delighted in bursting in on a couple who had forgotten to bar the door.

Now that he was alone with Gwen, the anger he’d been holding in swelled to fruition. He stalked to the bed and threw open the hangings.

Gwen gasped. The golden light of the fire licked over his immense frame, caressing the crests and hollows of hard muscles. Her pulse raced. His face was livid.

He was on the bed in a flash, gripping her arms. “In England, a man can beat his wife for less than what you did to me tonight.”

His eyes glittered like cold steel. Gwen no longer cared what happened. He didn’t even know her, just made assumptions based on his own narrow-mindedness. She was not going to take his bullying anymore.

“Do it then!” His eyes widened. A growl rose low in his throat. Goaded beyond reason, she cried, “What are you waiting for, my lord? Do it!”

He released her and she braced herself for the blow, but it did not come. He left the bed, stopped to remove his chausses, then walked to the table and poured some wine.

Gwen stared openly. She could not stop herself. She had never seen a man’s body unclothed before, had never known one could be so beautiful. His braies rode low on his narrow hips, hiding his bottom and his male sex.

She wanted to see it—and yet she did not. She jerked her gaze upward. When he turned to face her again, her breath caught. He was supple and graceful, a lion stalking his prey, and she realized in that moment how lucky she was that he had not hit her.

“You play dangerously close to the edge, sweet,” he said. “But tonight I can think of better things to do than beat you.”

He slammed the goblet down. He had desired her since the first day he’d seen her. He would deny himself no longer.

But he must be careful. After all, she could be carrying her lover’s child. He would not spill his seed in her until he was certain she did not.

There would be no subtle stoking of a virgin’s passions. First, he would make love to her like a storm over the Irish Sea, and together they would explore heights untouched. When they had come down from their initial passion, he would start again, slowly awakening her body to sensations she had never experienced with a man as young and green as Rhys ap Gawain.

Richard stripped off his braies, gritting his teeth when she turned away in silent rejection. All the women he’d ever bedded always wanted to see his manhood, to touch it, to feel its great size in their hands before he filled them with it. Well, he would melt her defenses soon enough, and then she would beg him for it.

His blood pounded in his ears as he reached for her. She stiffened and his control snapped. He crushed his mouth to hers. She’d wanted him before. He would make her want him again.

Perversely, she started to fight, pushing at him, pulling his hair, twisting beneath him as his entire length pressed down on her, flesh searing flesh. Richard found it strangely exciting. She was challenging him, trying to deny the attraction that burned like a flame between them. He vowed she would beg him for fulfillment before he was finished.

“Go ahead and fight me, wife, for it will make no difference,” he whispered against her lips. “Once you are mine, you will never again desire a green boy like Rhys ap Gawain.”

“No! He is not my lover!”

“He never will be again,” Richard said fervently. She stilled, her eyes widening as his hard length pressed against her abdomen.

She sucked in a strangled breath and began to fight with more fury than before. “No!”

“Oh yes, my sweet,” Richard said hoarsely. He forced her legs apart, settling himself between them.

Panting from her exertions, she ceased struggling. Crystal tears glittered in her golden-green eyes.

Richard almost stopped, almost started over, but he was too far gone. He’d wanted her for much too long to stop now. Besides, she would forget all about Rhys once he was inside her, caressing her secret woman’s place.

He stroked her hair, kissed her neck. He would enter her slowly until she begged him to sheathe his entire length inside her. Then they would burn together.

He pressed against her entrance. She was impossibly tight and he shuddered. He checked himself. His need was great and he was dangerously close to thrusting to the hilt. She quivered beneath him and he felt a surge of triumph. His Welsh bride was as affected as he by the joining of their bodies, whether she admitted it or not.

He pressed his lips to her ear, murmured encouragement to her in Welsh, swallowing heavily as he slipped into her folds. So tight.

“Open for me, Gwen,” he said in a husky whisper. She was so small he feared he might hurt her.

“I know not what you mean,” she replied.

“Sweet Christ, do not tease me now, woman!” He pushed deeper still, then froze. “Oh my God,” he groaned. It couldn’t be—it just couldn’t be!

Richard rolled off her, his mind trying to adjust to this startling revelation. There was no mistaking the barrier he had encountered. His wife was no whore.

“I told you so you great black brute!” She scrambled onto him, clawing, slapping. With a quick movement, he pinned her arms to her sides and pressed her onto her back.

The sheet had tangled, coiling around her body and separating them by a thin sheaf of linen. Her breath broke on a sob. She wasn’t quivering with desire. She was shaking with fear! Jesú, he was no better than men like Gloucester!

He wanted to hold her, comfort her, make everything right again. “I did not know. I thought…”

“I know what you thought, you vile English bastard! I hate you!” she said tearfully.

Richard flinched. He deserved her hatred and more for the insults he’d dealt her. He had refused to see her as anything but a whore from the moment he learned she was Llywelyn’s daughter. Nay, that was not true either. He’d considered her for a leman the very instant he slipped off her hood in the stables of Rhuddlan castle.

Her underlip quivered and he couldn’t stop himself from kissing her once more. He coaxed her to part her lips, sliding his tongue over them lightly. He wanted to reassure her, prove he could be gentle.

But kissing her, even so tenderly, was enough to start his shaft pulsing again. When she felt it, she jerked away like a rabbit trying to escape a fox.

“Please, my lord, please don’t hurt me,” she said in a rush.

Richard lifted his head. Her eyes were wide, their depths a mixture of fear and loathing. With a sigh, he buried his face against her neck, breathing deeply of her sweet scent. “I won’t hurt you,” he said thickly. And then he let her go.

Slipping into his clothes, he was siezed by a primal joy that she had known no other man. And he, like some kind of crazed animal, had almost raped her. That left a sour taste in his mouth. He’d never forced his attentions on a woman before, had never needed to.

Returning to the bed, Richard pushed the sheet back and pulled his dagger. He ran the finely-honed blade across the underside of his forearm.

Gwen gasped. “What are you doing?”

“There must be blood on the sheets tomorrow.”

“But…” She looked up with wondering eyes.

“I’ve treated you badly this night. I’ll not touch you again until you wish it.” Clenching his fist, he held his arm over the linen until a few drops had fallen, then wiped the wound on his tunic. “Sleep well, Princess.”

He unbarred the door and called for Alys. “Lock it behind you.”

He waited until he heard the bolt slide into place before he moved.