Gwen stood in the frigid bailey, waiting for the knights to ride through the gates. It was three days since Richard had ridden out after the Welshmen. Three agonizing days.

Now that he was returning, she was both relieved and terrified. Over and over she replayed those moments when she’d bared her soul to him, and his reaction afterward.

Had he only been playing games with her like Anne said?

What about the cave, and his swearing he’d had no other women since marrying her? Were those lies, calculations to win her heart, another step on his path to revenge?

Oh God, just when she thought she knew him, this happened and she was no longer certain!

Her heart hammered as the knights rode through the inner gates. Her gaze fastened on Richard, and a wave of relief swept over her, so strong it left her weak-kneed.

He slumped a little in the saddle, but that was to be expected after the long hours he’d spent riding through the unforgiving March.

Four horses were riderless, nothing but limp bundles lying across their saddles. Men on foot brought up the rear of the procession.

Gwen offered a silent prayer for the dead mens’ souls. She knew Richard didn’t take the deaths of his men lightly and she yearned to soothe him.

It was then her mind finally registered what her eyes had sought to deny. Black Hawk de Claiborne had captives. Welsh captives.

A sick feeling began in the pit of her stomach and spread outward. They were tethered to the destriers like dogs, their faces bruised and swollen, their clothes torn and bloodied.

Gwen bit her lip so hard she could feel the blood welling. Her inner voice began to chant: Richard was a warrior, he did what his king ordered, he was not cruel, he was not the evil Gwalchddu of legend…

God help her, she was no longer certain! When he’d caught the men who had attacked them at Llanwell cave, he’d taken them to Shrewsbury because they were English. But he brought the Welshmen here. Why, if not to do the things he was reputed for?

She walked toward Richard in a daze. He drew rein when he saw her. “Gwen,” he said, so softly she barely heard.

“My lord,” she replied, fighting her tears. She did not want to believe such terrible things about him!

He drew off his gauntlet and wiped his hand across his brow. Turning in the saddle, he said, “Put the prisoners in the west tower, Andrew.”

Gwen gasped. The tower. Every man, woman, and child in Wales knew that few Welshmen lived to tell of the horrors of Claiborne castle.

Those who did never spoke about the tower.

But the bards told tales. Black Hawk and his men tortured prisoners—ripped off their fingernails, stabbed them in places that did not kill immediately, crushed their bones—until only raw shells of men went to the gallows if they made it that far.

’Twas only a tale! How could the hands that touched her so tenderly, hands that evoked such a sweet response in her body, be capable of such cruel acts?

She fixed her gaze on those hands and shivered. One was naked and beautiful, the other mailclad and anonymous. That one, the one encased in metal, she did not know. That one could do anything and she would believe it possible.

“Is something the matter?”

Gwen’s eyes locked with his. The silver depths were different somehow. Sort of glazed, far away. The look he gave her was oddly frightening.

“N-nay,” she said.

He dismounted, rather clumsily she thought, and handed his reins to a groom.

He took her by the arm and headed for the forebuilding. Once they were in the stairwell, he pulled her into his arms. She ducked away before he could kiss her, afraid she would lose herself in his embrace.

“I missed you,” he said softly, enticingly.

Gwen drew in a shuddering breath. All she could think of was the pleasure his words gave her, not the fact he had prisoners nor what he might do to them. He reached for her again and this time she did not protest.

She was the worst kind of traitor. All she wanted was this man’s touch, even at the expense of her own soul. Her breath broke on a sob and she buried her face against his chest.

“What is it, cariad?”

The Welsh endearment on his lips was her undoing. She pushed away, still fisting his surcoat. “Please,” she whispered, “please do not torture them.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “Torture?” Disbelief lit his features briefly, then his jaw hardened and he wrenched her hands free. “My God, you don’t even know those men! You have no idea what they did, and yet all you can worry about is whether I will torture them.”

Gwen bowed her head. The tears slipped silently down her cheeks. She grasped a girdle chain and toyed with it, not really seeing it, but needing something to occupy her hands. “You are Gwalchddu,” she said quietly in way of defense. She’d not meant it as an accusation, but it was too late to recall it when he took it as such.

“Aye, there is that, is there not? Black Hawk, evil lord of legend, cruel, inhuman.” He laughed bitterly, his hand clutching the railing so hard his knuckle was white. His eyes were bright, glittering. “Why did I ever think you were different? Why—?”

Gwen watched in numb horror as he sank heavily onto the stairs. He shook his head, his body swaying before he pitched forward at her feet.

Gwen screamed.

---

Richard was stretched out on the big bed in the master chamber, his torso bared to reveal a raw, ugly wound. His eyes remained closed and his skin glistened with sweat. Gwen touched him with a shaky hand. Incredible heat scorched her, and her vision shimmered.

She scrubbed her eyes and peered at the wound. Beneath the caked blood his skin was an angry red. She’d seen battle wounds before and she knew it was infected, but her mind couldn’t seem to think of a course of action.

It had taken four knights to carry him up to the lord’s chamber. He was a big man at any time, but when armored he was much heavier than usual.

“Alys,” she whispered. “What can we do, Alys?”

She barely felt the hand on her shoulder. “It needs to be cleaned and stitched. If the fever does not break soon, he will have to be bled.”

Gwen nodded.

“He should be bled now.”

She looked at the man who stood on the other side of Owain. She’d not even realized the castle surgeon was here.

“Nay!” she hissed. The thought of anyone slicing into Richard was too much to bear. “We will wait!”

The surgeon frowned. “Milady, ’tis not sound. Bloodletting is always the prescribed treatment for fever. The humors are out of balance and we must right them again.”

Gwen drew herself up with all the haughtiness of a princess. Once, Rhys had described a boar hunt to her. He’d told her how the boar was pierced, but managed to escape. The hunters pursued the animal, following the trail of blood it left. When they caught up, it had been lying in a pool of its own blood, too weak to fight any longer.

If losing its lifeforce weakened a boar, what would it do to a man?

“I said no! You may leave. I will send for you if I have need of you.”

“Milady,” he said curtly, giving her a short bow.

Alys brought a basin of water and knelt beside the bed. She dipped a cloth in it and wrung it out.

Gwen took it. “Nay, I will do it.”

She washed the wound, then accepted the needle and thread Alys handed her.

“Are you sure, Gwen?”

“Aye,” she replied, not looking up. She had to take care of him. It might be unreasonable, but she had this fear that if anyone else tended him, he would die.

Gwen drew in a shaky breath and inserted the needle. She knew how to do this. She’d sewn men up before, but she’d never known doing it to Richard would make her feel each stitch as though it was her own body she pierced.

When it was done, she wiped away any remaining blood and started to remove the rest of his clothes. She never noticed that Owain helped.

Gwen refused to leave his side, though Owain and Alys both offered to stay with him while she slept. But sleep was impossible.

The fever raged. She covered him and he tossed the blankets off again and again. Sweat trickled down his brow, and she mopped his forehead with a cool cloth. She swept his damp hair aside with trembling fingers, weeping at the heat he gave off.

He remained still for so long that when he began to mutter and thrash, she grew frightened. “Owain, Alys! Help me hold him down before he breaks the stitches!”

She held his shoulders while Owain straddled his midsection and Alys his legs. Richard was strong, much stronger than she’d ever imagined, and it took everything they had to keep him still. She looked up at Owain, hoping to seek some sort of solace in his usually unflappable presence.

Tears slid down the old Welshman’s weathered cheeks. His lips moved, his voice barely a whisper. If she’d not been looking at him, she’d have never known he was speaking, never heard the things he said.

“How many times have I told you, boy? You’re gonna get yourself killed one of these days! ’Twas a long time ago. Your king knows your worth. You don’t have to keep trying to prove it! I promised Catrin I would look after you…”

Gwen’s heart skipped a beat. Who was Catrin?

They held him for a long time, only easing their grip when his struggles weakened. His mutterings were largely unintelligible. Occasionally he said her name, or Elizabeth’s. But he never mentioned Catrin, whoever she was.

Finally, he grew quiet, and Gwen pressed her cheek to his brow. He was still fevered and her heart sank. Mayhap she should let the surgeon bleed him after all.

Alys retired to her pallet. Owain insisted on making his own resting place near the bed. Gwen slipped beneath the blankets, fully clothed, and curled up next to Richard. She stroked her fingers rhythmically up and down his chest.

In a very little while, she would send for the surgeon.

Gwen knew despair stronger than any she’d ever imagined in her life. What if he never opened those striking eyes of his? What if she never got to touch him and taste him and feel him ever, ever again?

What if she never got to tell him she was sorry?

“Do not leave me, Richard. I have been lonely all my life until you. Do not make me go back,” she whispered fiercely.

How would she survive without him? How would the world look without the magnificence and power and vibrancy of the man called Black Hawk?

Empty.

Bleak.

Monotonous.

Gwen buried her face against his throat and cried.