It was more than a fortnight since Richard had gone. Gwen stared out one of the large windows in his chamber. Their chamber.

A light blanket of snow covered the valley below. The River Dee cut through the white landscape like a knife. Jagged mountain peaks rose beyond the valley. Owain had told her that the highest and furthest was Snowdon.

Every day she looked for it, and every day she was thwarted by the steamy clouds clinging to the mountain range. She sighed and turned away.

Alys sat beside the fire, humming a melody while she sewed. Gwen’s gaze drifted to the huge bed.

She’d come to think sleeping in it was torture. The covers, the pillows, the sheets—they all smelled of Richard. It was like lying in his embrace, and yet it was not.

“I am going for a walk, Alys,” she said, sweeping on a heavy velvet mantle lined with white ermine.

Alys looked up from her sewing. “Is aught amiss?”

Gwen shook her head. “I just need to get out of this room ’tis all.”

“He will return safely.”

Gwen swallowed. “I was not thinking of my husband, Alys.” In truth, she had thought of nothing else for days.

Alys shrugged and bent her head over her sewing. Gwen hurried for the door.

Claiborne castle was huge. Gwen wandered with no real destination, moving from room to room in silence. Servants bowed or curtsied when she passed. She smiled her acknowledgment.

Without thought, she trailed her hand along tabletops and woodwork, searching for a trace of dust. There was none, and that pleased her.

Gwen scanned the faces of the chambermaids and serving wenches she passed, wondering which of them Richard had spent the night with before he’d left.

It didn’t matter. His attempt to belittle her with his servants had not worked, thanks to Owain’s cooperation. She’d had to suppress a desire to be harder on the women, certain all their chattering in a language she couldn’t comprehend was about her. Even if it was, they still obeyed her orders.

There had been a few problems at first. Servants who were asked to do things they’d probably never done before complained bitterly. One woman refused outright to scrub the smoke from the walls. She’d been sent packing only to return the next day humble and ready to work.

Rushes crackled under Gwen’s feet as she walked, the scent of marjoram and roses rising from them. Some of the smaller rooms were carpeted in the same manner as Richard’s chamber. The carpets had been dragged outside and beaten until not a pouf of dust came from them. The wainscoted walls shone with fresh paint. Some were white, others green, some gold.

In the Great Hall, a mural of Richard’s coat of arms commanded the wall behind the dais. Now that it was washed, the colors leapt out and made the hawk seem alive somehow.

As far as Gwen was concerned, they could have left it dulled by smoke.

The hall was orderly these days too. The knights had rebelled at first. Gwen had had to threaten them in the same manner as she’d threatened Oliver. For them, she’d worn silk and velvet and made sure it was tightly laced.

The humor of it hadn’t escaped her. A virgin pretending to be a siren. Just keeping her color down while she’d strutted in front of them and spoken of Richard’s devotion to her had taken all of her willpower. Owain had not needed to translate for them because the knights spoke French as well as English. It had been satisfying to finally be able to speak for herself.

She stopped at the passage leading to the women’s quarters. She’d considered taking a room there, but the idea of leaving Richard’s chamber had disturbed her for some reason. His bed might be torture, but she didn’t want to give up the feeling of being with him. It was ridiculous, but she actually felt safe in his room. Safe in Black Hawk’s lair.

What had Elizabeth felt when she lived here? Gwen chewed her lip. She wanted to ask Owain about Richard’s first wife, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Owain was close to his lord. He would likely tell Richard all she’d said and done since he’d left anyway. Having Richard know she’d asked about Elizabeth was too much.

Gwen turned away from the passage. It was a good thing Owain had not suspected her true purpose when she’d insisted on touring every last inch of the castle. She’d searched all the rooms for a sign of a kept woman. If Richard had a leman, she wasn’t at Claiborne.

She thought of Anne again. Ashford Hall was less than a day’s ride away. Richard could come and go with ease if he so desired. Mayhap that was where he was now. He’d probably caught the Welshmen the first day out and was avoiding his wife.

Gwen was fuming by the time she found Owain in the Lesser Hall. His face lit up when she approached. “How are you today, milady?”

“Very well, thank you,” she replied stiffly. Owain frowned. Gwen’s anger crumbled. “I’m sorry, Owain. Mayhap I am feeling a bit restless.”

She took a seat and studied the bright walls with satisfaction.

Owain followed her gaze. “’Tis as grand as ever it was when Lord de Claiborne’s mother was alive. You’ve done an admirable job.”

Gwen smiled. Owain had told her about Richard’s mother and how the castle had flourished in her day. “Do you think so?”

“Aye.”

She twisted a curl around her finger. “’Tis a grand castle. And big.” It was strange, but she’d come to appreciate Claiborne castle. It had a wild, untameable quality about it that reminded her of its lord.

Owain nodded. “Aye, ’tis. King Edward’s master builder Sir James added onto it a few years ago. Refortified it and enlarged the rooms. ’Tis more grand and fearsome than ever it was in milord’s father’s day.”

“’Tis hard to believe you’ve been here that long.”

“Aye, ’tis for me sometimes, too. But I served William de Claiborne since before Lord Richard was born. Richard is eight and twenty and I was here two years before that.”

“What clan do you come from?”

“I am from Gwent, Lady, in the Black Mountains.”

Gwen nodded. “I thought you spoke the south.”

Owain smiled. “After all these years ’tis still obvious?”

“Aye.” She toyed with one of the golden chains hanging from her girdle. “Owain?” He waited, his eyebrows raised. “I…I was wondering why you continue to serve him. He is an enemy of our people.”

“He does what he must to serve his lord, the king. His father would have done the same had it been commanded of him.”

“But you are Welsh! Does it not bother you?”

He took her hand and squeezed it lightly. “Some ties are stronger than others, Lady.”

Gwen cleared her throat. “What was he like? I mean when he was a little boy?”

Owain sat in a chair opposite her. His mouth curved in a smile that was oddly like Richard’s. “Much the same as now. Stubborn, headstrong. Once when he was four, his mother told him he could not go with his father into the borderlands. Do you think he cried? Nay, he snuck into the stable and would have been out the gates if he could have reached the horse’s back. He came to me to ask for help and I had to talk him out of it.”

“Why didn’t you tell his mother?”

Owain chuckled. “I would’ve eventually, but it was easier to talk him out of it first. Even as a boy, he had a damnable amount of pride. Probably would have never forgiven me if I’d hauled him to his mother.”

“How did you manage it?”

“It wasn’t easy. I had to promise to sneak sweets from the kitchen and be his target for sword practice. Thank God his sword was only a stick!”

Gwen laughed. She tried to picture Richard as he was then. She could not. He was too dangerous, too forbidding, to ever imagine him as a little boy.

“Did you teach him to speak Welsh, too?”

“Aye. He has always been good with languages. He learned very quickly.” Owain shot her a calculating glance. “Mayhap he can teach you English better than I… if the two of you find the time.”

Gwen blushed. Owain had been present for every lecture she’d given about how Richard was besotted with her. A sudden thought struck her. What if he did tell Richard the things she had said? Richard would probably laugh and denounce her in front of everyone.

“Is he usually gone for so long?” she asked, changing the subject.

“’Tis never the same, milady. Sometimes days, sometimes weeks.”

Gwen almost dreaded his return. When Richard was back, he would be the lord and master of Claiborne castle. He might not let her make decisions or continue doing things the way she had been.

She twisted the chain furiously. Damn if she would give up without a fight! She felt useful, needed, and she would not let him take it away.

After she checked on the progression of the afternoon tasks, she returned to the master chamber. The windows drew her, as always, and she pressed her hands to the thick glass.

Snow whispered past to cover the ground below. She tried to make out the individual patterns of the white flakes as they fell. Eventually, her eyes registered movement far off in the valley.

What shepherd would have his sheep out in this weather?

She pressed her nose to the glass, then wiped impatiently at the steam that sprang up. She hurried to the next window, and the next, each one steaming in turn.

She wiped the window with her sleeve and peered into the valley again. Horses. Knights. The crimson and black banner of the lord of Claiborne castle.

“Richard,” she whispered, pressing her fingers to the glass. She turned from the window and ran to the door. There were a million things to do.

---

“Rub him down good and walk him until he’s cool, Edwin,” Richard said, handing over Sirocco’s reins.

“Aye, milord,” Edwin replied. He led the sweating stallion toward the stable, petting his nose and talking softly.

“Are ye ready for a pint o’ ale, milord?” Andrew asked, drawing alongside him.

Richard smiled. “Among other things.”

The two men trudged across the bailey together. “Aye, I reckon ye can’t wait to see that dainty wife o’ yours. I intend to find me a bit of womanly company too. Christ, ’twas some hard ride!”

“Aye,” Richard said. He stifled a yawn as he and Andrew climbed the stairs of the forebuilding. He stumbled as they entered the hall and Andrew reached out to steady him.

“Mayhap ye should skip the wooing and go straight to sleep, milord. Ye should ha’ stayed in Shrewsbury for a night or two.”

Richard looked at his captain’s bloodshot eyes. “Mayhap we should both skip the wooing til we’re better rested.”

Andrew grinned. “I’m not so tired I can’t lay on my back and let some wanton female take advantage of me.”

Richard’s smile faded as he let his gaze wander over the hall. “My God…”

Owain came up to him. “Milord,” he said, bowing. His tunic was spotless with not a wrinkle to be found.

“What the hell is going on here?”

Owain grinned. Andrew’s jaw hung open. Richard walked into the hall and stopped. He turned around slowly. The walls had actually been whitewashed! The tables were draped in white linen and the men seated at them talked quietly.

The serving wenches were laced up to their necks. One of the knights laid a familiar hand on a wench’s bottom. Richard gaped as she slapped him and stormed away.

And where were the hounds?

He stared at the mural. Jesú, he didn’t remember it being so bright, even when his father had had it painted. The little wench had turned his castle on its head!

Owain came up beside him. “Your countess has made some changes.”

“I can see that,” Richard growled. His head was spinning. The changes weren’t bad, just shocking for a man who was used to routine. How in the hell had she managed it? And, better yet, where was she? Why wasn’t she waiting for him? Surely she’d known he was coming. The whole damn castle knew he was here before he’d even ridden through the town gates.

“Your wife awaits you in your chamber, milord,” Owain said, as if discerning his thoughts.

Richard felt a tension he’d not even known was there drain from his body. “Send food and bathwater.”

Owain’s smile broadened. “She has already ordered them for you.”

Richard brushed past him and headed for the stairs at the other end of the hall. Tired as he was, the muscles in his groin tightened. He clamped down on his desire. He was too weary for seduction and she would not come willingly.

He hurried to his chamber and flung open the door. Gwen whirled to face him, her hair swirling around her like liquid fire. Richard stared. Why had he ever wanted to make her wear a wimple?

Her golden-green eyes were wide as her gaze flickered over him. Richard swallowed. Jesú, she was radiant. Her pale skin was like flawless cream against the blue velvet of her gown.

He wanted to gather her into his arms and feather kisses across her face. Impatiently, he pushed off his chain-mail coif. His hair was matted with sweat, and he raked a hand through it. The crimson surcoat with the hawk device was torn and dirty. The great sword hung limp at his side, no longer shining and fierce.

“’Tis good to see you, my lord,” she said.

“Is it?”

Gwen blinked. “Aye,” she said, lowering her gaze. It really was good to see him. She hated to admit she’d missed him. Even tired and dirty, he was handsome. She was drawn to him as only a woman could be to a man.

He stripped off his gauntlets and tossed them aside, then came to stand before her. He picked up a lock of hair.

“You have not been wearing a wimple, have you?”

“I said I would not.”

He dropped the flaming tendril and entwined his fingers in the hair at her temple, running them through to the ends.

“We will compromise then,” he said softly. “You do not have to wear one except when we go to court. Agreed?”

Gwen looked up in surprise. He watched her expectantly. “Aye, my lord,” she said, gifting him with a smile.

He sighed. “Will you never call me by my name without my reminding you?”

Gwen stared at his chest. She loved his name, loved to say it over and over. How many times had she lain in bed and said it to herself just for the pleasure of hearing it on her lips?

She raised her eyes to his. He’d just given her something she wanted, so she would give him something in return. “I will not forget again, Richard.”

The smile he gave her was heartstopping. He ran his fingers lightly over her cheek. “’Tis like sweet music when you say it.”

“Shall I help you out of your armor?”

His eyes glittered. Gwen swallowed. She saw herself in the depths of his silver gaze, saw what he was thinking at that moment. It was something she’d thought about for the past fortnight.

She didn’t know why she’d gone to the armorer and insisted he teach her how to armor a knight. It had seemed like a good thing to know at the time. Now she was glad she’d done it.

“Aye, show me what you have learned.”

She stood on tiptoe to reach the laces of his coif. She managed to unbuckle it from the hauberk and he bent over so she could pull it off. Flakes of rust drifted to the floor.

She frowned. “Is it ruined?” The headcovering was heavy and she carried it over to a trunk and laid it on top.

“Nay,” he said. “Bruno will make it shiny as new.”

Gwen returned to his side. “How?” She lifted the bottom edge of the mail shirt to get at the buckles beneath. He watched her, his brows drawing together as she found the buckles and laces with sure fingers.

“He will roll it.”

Gwen stopped. “Roll it?”

“Aye, he puts it in a barrel with sand and vinegar and rolls it around. The vinegar eats the rust and the sand washes it off.”

“Oh. Bruno didn’t tell me about that.”

“You’ve been talking with Bruno, sweet?”

“Aye, ’twas he who explained how to remove the armor. It wasn’t easy to get him to talk, but once I did, he was most thorough.”

Richard laughed. “Aye, ’tis Bruno all right.”

Gwen finished unlacing the mail stockings. She pushed them down his hips and he stepped out of them. She bent to pick them up, dropping them when they were only halfway off the floor.

“Mayhap you can help with the clothes underneath,” he said. He started to unbuckle his sword, but Gwen was there first. She laid it aside, then removed his surcoat. She thought he winced as he shrugged out of the heavy hauberk, but she wasn’t sure.

He picked up the leather and metal in his right arm and carried it to the trunk where she’d laid the coif.

She helped him out of the gambeson and tunic, gasping at the ugly black bruise snaking across his left shoulder. Her fingers skimmed over it. “My God, what happened to you?”

“Axe,” he said. “ ‘Tis much better than it was. Christ, I thought he’d severed my arm when it happened.”

Gwen felt the color draining from her face.

Richard cupped her chin. “I am fine, Gwen, truly. I forget how delicate women are sometimes. Forgive me.”

She batted his hand away. “I am not a mewling Englishwoman!”

He grinned. “Nay, more like a Welsh spitfire.” She turned away and he grabbed her arm. “You’re not finished yet.”

His undergarments! How could she have forgotten those? She took a deep breath. Her hand strayed to the drawstring waist. His shaft strained against the cloth and she hesitated.

“I told you before, ’tis you who causes it. You do not have to worry, Gwen. As much as I wish it were otherwise, I am far too tired to try to make love to you.”

She worked at the string, her heart fluttering. She had lain awake nights, remembering how he had touched her, knowing that if he did so again she would be powerless to resist. She almost wished he would touch her.

She slid the garments from his body, sucking in her breath when his manhood stood up proudly. What did that male weapon feel like? She wanted to trace her finger along the ridge and find out. Heat unfurled in her belly. She closed her eyes and turned away, her ears suddenly hot.

“Jesú, ’tis not as bad as that, is it?”

“Get in the tub, my lord—Richard,” she said faintly. How was he ever going to fit that inside of her?

The water splashed. He sighed. Gwen pushed up her sleeves before gathering the soap and a washing cloth.

His eyes widened. “You are going to attend me?”

She busied herself so he wouldn’t see the color staining her cheeks. She reasoned that it was because he’d ridden so far and so hard, and because he looked so tired, that she complied.

“Isn’t that what I am supposed to do?” she asked lightly, careful not to look into the tub as she dipped the cloth in the water.

“Only if you want, Gwen. I’m not so spent I can’t do it myself.”

Gwen didn’t answer as she stroked the cloth over the refined angles of his face.

“It feels so good.” He closed his eyes and settled back, trusting her as a child might. Dirt and rust washed away easily. The dark circles beneath his eyes did not.

She frowned, moving down his neck. She washed his shoulder gently, then held up the cloth and squeezed it. Hot water trickled over the bruise, and he groaned.

“Does it hurt much?” she asked softly.

“Like hell.”

“You are sure nothing is broken?”

He opened his eyes. She caught his briefly questioning look, the hint of vulnerability that was quickly veiled. “Aye, I am sure. ’Tis stiff and somewhat sore, but will heal. I’ve had worse.”

Gwen bit the inside of her cheek. “You caught those men?”

“Aye.”

“What did you do with them?” she asked, focusing on the bubbles on her hand.

“What do you think I did?”

Gwen raised her gaze to his. She sensed that what she did or didn’t say was very important somehow, but still she could not answer.

“You think I spitted them and left them to rot. Or that I hung them or mutilated them, don’t you?”

“Nay,” Gwen whispered. The bubbles popped, tickling her flesh.

He let his breath out slowly. “I took them to the king’s justiciars in Shrewsbury.”

“They will hang,” Gwen said dully. How many Welshmen would die before King Edward was satisfied?

“Aye, but they weren’t Welsh, Gwen.”

Her head snapped up. “But, the longbow—”

“English outlaws. The king has been training English archers to use it.”

Gwen frowned. “Aye, Rhys told me so.”

Richard’s eyes hardened. Gwen cursed silently. Suddenly desiring to escape his cold glare, she stood.

His body relaxed as she ran her fingers through his crisp black hair. She massaged his head, delighting in his little groans of pleasure. Lather dripped down her arms when she finally bid him to lean forward and rinse.

She came to his side again and dipped her hand in the water. She rubbed the cloth across his chest, lingering on the hard muscles. The darkness of his skin made her hand seem like purest ivory in contrast. The tips of her fingers grazed his breast and heat curled within her. She glanced at him. His eyes were the color of smoke.

“There is more to me than that,” he said in a husky voice.

Gwen swallowed and moved downward, over his ribs, his abdomen. Something touched her and she jerked away. Slowly, she returned.

This time when that part of him touched her, she did not move. Her heart beat wildly. Their eyes met as she closed her hand over solid male flesh.

Richard groaned. “God above, Gwen, I do not have the strength to do it the way you deserve.”

Gwen let him go, ashamed for acting so boldly. “I-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

Her protest was cut off as he grabbed her arm and pulled her down until their mouths touched. She kissed him back, her lips parting, her tongue seeking his. Fire leapt in her breast and flowed to the apex of her thighs.

She whimpered when he pulled away. His eyes searched hers. “I want you so much I can taste it, but trust me when I say the pleasure would be all mine. I promise you once I’ve rested, I’ll devote myself to your pleasure as well as my own.”

Gwen nodded, unable to believe what she was agreeing to.

He smiled. “Now get away from me before I lose control of my lustful desires.”

Gwen stood and went to the window. The snow was falling heavier now. Cattle shuffled through the fields, nosing for shoots of grass buried beneath winter’s first offering.

Her cheeks burned and she pressed her face against the cool glass. He was barely returned and her body throbbed for him. And she had just agreed to let him make love to her.

Gwen shivered. It was going to be an earth-shattering experience, she was certain.

She heard Richard climb from the tub. She waited until she was sure it was safe before she turned around.

He had slipped on a black tunic and was seated at the table, whipping the covers off the dishes. Gwen’s eyes widened as she watched him. He wolfed down the roast pheasant and peas with saffron, two meat pies with onion and garlic, half a loaf of bread, cheese, and a flagon of wine.

When he was finished, he took a deep breath, then stood, stretched, and walked to the bed.

“Wake me in time for supper,” he said, falling onto the mattress.

Gwen’s jaw dropped. Surely he was joking.