The last of the snow melted away, leaving meadows of rippling green-gold silk. Thrushes chittered in the trees, too busy to notice the bright clusters of fragrant lilies blooming all around.

The journey to Devizes castle in Wessex was not unpleasant. Once in a while, Richard let Sirocco have his head and the stallion raced with the joy of a colt. Springtime was not just pleasurable to humans.

Richard had put off leaving Claiborne as long as possible, giving himself less than a week to make the one-hundred-and-fifty mile trip.

He worried about Gwen, though she swore she was fine. She was four months pregnant now, and he was more in love with her every day. She was often melancholy since they’d returned from Snowdon. He didn’t ask her about it, though it hurt him to see her sad. She hadn’t spoken of Elinor since the day she’d sat in his lap and told him everything about her friend. He didn’t think she even realized some of the things she’d told him.

She’d shared everything with Elinor: the dreams she’d had of him, the first time he’d kissed her, the fear of being his wife. It brought a smile to his lips to know she’d thought of him as much as he’d thought of her.

His party arrived at Devizes on the Friday before Palm Sunday. He wasn’t pleased to learn they still had to await the arrival of a handful of barons. By the time the middle of the following week rolled around, his anger was full-blown.

He and Edward took wine in a bright, spacious solar with the shutters thrown wide to let in the spring air.

Edward sat in the window seat and gazed outside. The breeze ruffled his hair, fluttering the golden strands between sunlight and shadow. He leaned back against the stone. The breeze whipped higher, just for a moment, as though protesting the temporary loss of Christendom’s greatest warrior-king.

He turned to Richard, who sat in full sunlight with his booted feet propped on the table, brooding.

“Gloucester says the Welsh in the south have been unusually quiet all winter long. What of the north?”

Richard stirred. The warm sunshine could put a man to sleep in no time. He lifted his goblet and took a swallow of sweet wine. He stared at the crimson liquid, thinking of a woman garbed in exactly that color.

“Richard?”

“Nay, nothing in the north. Not since the raid before I left for London.”

“What think you it means?”

Richard shrugged. “Mayhap they are finally accepting the new order. Or mayhap they mourn their prince’s loss.”

Edward sighed. “Aye. My poor little cousin. Her life was not what it should have been.”

Richard studied the swirl of liquid in his goblet. “I was there, Ned. Llywelyn was devastated.”

“You were there when she died? Jesú, how?”

“Gwen. She had a feeling something would happen. She insisted I take her.”

Edward chuckled. “Black Hawk de Claiborne is not catering to a woman’s whims, is he?”

Richard laughed. “Aye, I’ve gone soft.”

“Yes, well, being in love will do that to a man. How does she fare with the pregnancy?”

“She is well.” Richard closed his eyes, reveling in the warmth of the sun’s golden rays. He’d not told Edward he was in love. Was it that obvious? “Mayhap a bit spoiled. You would not believe the things she has me do.”

Edward laughed. “Oh yes I would, my friend. The king of England is like any other man when it comes to a pregnant wife. She has no respect for my royal dignity, I can assure you.”

“I am bringing her with me, Ned,” Richard said softly.

“Aye, well Eleanor will enjoy her company,” he replied.

They sat for a while longer, each lost in his own thoughts. Richard put the empty cup on the table and leaned his head back. He must have dozed because the sound of approaching hoofbeats didn’t register until he heard voices raised in alarm.

He was on his feet instantly, as was Edward. Richard started for the door, but Edward motioned him back.

“Nay, Richard. The king does not go to the news, the news comes to the king.”

He smiled wryly, and Richard thought of the impatient prince he used to know. Too many years had passed since the prince became a king; a king who understood the necessity of allowing men their moments of glory.

They didn’t have long to wait. The earls of Gloucester and Pembroke, along with Roger de Mortimer, the lord of Wigmore, burst into the room with a mud-caked man in front of them.

“Majesty,” the man gulped, sinking to his knees. “The Welsh are in rebellion.”

Gloucester, Pembroke, and de Mortimer began talking at once. Edward cut them off with a glare. His blue eyes glittered. “What?” he said, his voice dangerously low.

The man took a deep breath. “They’ve taken Hawarden castle. They’ve torched the town and put several of Your Majesty’s men to death, including the justiciar.”

Apprehension tingled down Richard’s spine. Hawarden was on the northern coast, near Chester, not twenty miles from Claiborne.

Edward was on the edge of a Plantagenet tantrum. His face was mottled, his jaw working furiously. “Christ almighty! When did it happen?”

“Three days past, Majesty.”

“Llywelyn has lost his mind,” Richard said, half to himself.

The messenger’s gaze flew to him. “Nay, milord. ’Twas not Llywelyn.”

“Who?” Edward demanded.

The man swallowed. “Dafydd ap Gruffydd.”

Edward exploded. “Goddamn fucking whoreson! I gave that bastard everything, everything!”

“Dafydd?” Richard asked. “You are sure?”

The man nodded. “Aye, milord. ’Tis Dafydd and he has the backing of a sizable army.”

“What word of Llywelyn?”

“None, milord. He’s not been seen with Dafydd.”

Edward paced back and forth, lightning quick. “Goddamn Welsh bastards! I’m through with them, through!” He whirled to face Richard. “I want them stopped, Richard. I want Dafydd’s head on a pike, and I want those bloody Welsh put in their place once and for all.”

Richard let the cold reality of duty wash over him, cleansing his soul. God would forgive him, though Gwen might not. “The first thing we should do is demand Llywelyn honor his vow of fealty. He must come to the field on the side of England and his liege lord.”

Edward nodded. “Aye, ’twill split Wales in twain.” He turned to Roger de Mortimer. “Get me a scribe and a messenger.”

“What of the crusade, Majesty?” de Mortimer asked.

“To hell with the bloody crusade,” Edward snapped. “’Tis war with Wales, man!”

---

Gwen plucked a rose, careful to avoid the sharp thorns. She lifted it to her nose and inhaled the sweet scent of springtime. She picked up her skirts and kept walking along the water’s edge.

The day was bright and beautiful. She hadn’t been able to stay within the walls of Claiborne for one more minute. Richard had been gone for almost a month and she missed him terribly. Mayhap a walk in the open would take her mind off him for a while.

Her escort sat at the top of the hill, talking. Gwen didn’t have to guess what they discussed.

The whole castle was alive with talk of the Welsh uprising. She was sick of hearing about it. Dafydd was a rebel, nothing more. The Welsh followed her father. Dafydd’s attempt at glory would fail because he wouldn’t have the support to keep going for very long.

The sun was high overhead, bathing the verdant meadow in life-giving warmth. The river roared past, swollen with the melting snows from the mountains beyond. The air chorused with birdsong.

Vaguely, she heard hoofbeats. She spared a glance for her escort and saw they waved at the riders. She couldn’t see who approached, nor did she care. Messengers were always coming and going these days.

Alys came from farther down the bank, her basket brimming over with flowers and herbs. Gwen smiled. Alys was happier than she’d ever seen her. She and Owain still tried to pretend there was nothing between them, but Gwen knew better. How could she not recognize the signs? She knew what it meant to love a man so much it hurt.

At least Alys loved a Welshman.

Gwen was accustomed to the small stab of pain in her heart by now. Rhys’s accusation still hurt, but no doubt it was the truth. Maybe one day he would understand.

Gwen sank into a fragrant patch of clover. Alys sat beside her. “’Tis a lovely day, my lady. It makes the heart light to be alive on such a day.”

“Aye,” Gwen said, lying back against the hill and closing her eyes. “I wish it were always like this.”

“Mmm, well I think I will walk a bit further down,” Alys said, rising.

“Very well, Alys. I’m feeling too lazy to move right now,” Gwen said. She heard Alys shuffle off, singing, and she stretched her arms above her head, arching her back against the soft clover.

She started to yawn, shock stilling her but a moment as a male mouth captured hers. Her eyes flew open at the same instant her knee drove into his groin and her fist connected with his jaw.

“Richard!”

He sat back and rubbed the side of his face. “Thank God for chainmail,” he said. “You might never know marital bliss again otherwise.”

Gwen threw her arms around his neck and tumbled him backwards on the hillside. “Oh Richard, I am sorry,” she said, planting quick kisses on his jaw. “You should not have frightened me like that.”

He rolled her onto her back. “Kiss me, Princess,” he whispered huskily.

Gwen pulled his head down, fusing her mouth to his. Her tongue slipped between his lips, engaging him in a love play that left them both breathless.

“I have missed you, Richard.”

“Mmm, you seek to make me forget I am angry with you, my angel.”

“Angry? But I would not have hit you if you hadn’t snuck up on me.”

“’Tis not what I am talking about. You should not be out here. ’Tis too dangerous with Dafydd so close by.”

Gwen laughed. “Dafydd is harmless. He will not last for long. The Welsh will not follow a traitor.”

His face clouded for an instant, then he reached above her head and picked up the forgotten rose. He smelled it, then trailed the soft petals from her temple to her lips.

“I should like to make love to you on a bed of rose petals,” Richard said. “I would rub the petals over your soft skin and then—”

“Sweet heaven, if you do not take me home now, I will scream!”

Richard laughed. “You have a way of making a man feel very much like a man, my love.” He stood and pulled her up with him. “I believe being pregnant has made you lustier.”

Gwen stamped her foot. “Oh you are an insensitive beast, Richard de Claiborne! You provoke my desire apurpose, then tease me with your prattling.”

“Prattling?” Richard exclaimed with mock indignance. Gwen started marching toward her horse, but he grabbed her and swung her high. She braced her hands on his shoulders, giggling down in his face as her hair fell forward to curtain them. “I will show you prattling, wench,” he growled.

Richard buried his face in the hollow between her breasts, pressing hot kisses through the silk fabric. She threw her head back and laughed. He slid her down his body, kissing her throat, her chin, her lips, the tip of her nose, her forehead.

God how he wanted to take her right here beneath the brilliant turquoise sky!

They rode back to the castle, and she slipped away to their chamber while he saw to his men and the readying of the garrison. The royal host, some twelve-thousand men strong, was gathering in Worcester. Soon, they would march to Chester.

And tomorrow Richard rode north to take command of the men amassing at Rhuddlan.

But this day was for other things.

When he finally managed to get away, Gwen awaited him, dressed only in her chemise. She came to him and began to remove his armor. He helped her, unwilling to allow her to strain herself.

His arousal bulged against the cloth of his undergarments and she shot him a smug smile. “Who is the lusty one now, my lord?” she teased softly.

“You are a wicked wench.”

She only laughed. When he was naked, he tried to pull her in his arms, but she evaded him. “Nay, I must bathe you first.”

“’Tis some new Welsh torture device, is it not?” he grumbled as he sank into the steaming water.

She unstoppered a bottle and dribbled golden oil across the surface. The scent of roses drifted to him on curls of steam.

“Jesú, now you seek to make me smell like a pampered whore!”

Her only answer was a saucy smile.

He tried to remain unaffected as her hands moved over him, but his lust only grew until he thought he would die of it. He sucked in his breath when her hand brushed over his hard shaft.

That was the end of all pretense of patience. She gasped when he stood, then ran when he followed, naked and dripping.

“Richard! You are wet!” she cried, scrambling onto the middle of the bed.

“Aye, and so shall you be,” he said, crawling after her on all fours. She huddled against the headboard, trying not to laugh. When he got too close, she kicked at him playfully. He caught her ankles and pulled her beneath him.

“You are a vicious, teasing wench,” he said, burying his lips against her throat.

“You are soaking me!”

“Certes, I hope so,” he whispered hotly. “It makes the whole business much more pleasant when things slide together.”

“You are insufferable.”

“Aye.”

“Incorrigible.”

“Aye.”

“Insatiable.”

“Aye.” His hand found the edge of her chemise. She grabbed at him when he tried to lift it away.

“Nay,” she said in a rush. “I am fat and you will not wish to look at me.”

“I want to see you,” he said firmly.

Her lip trembled as he pulled the garment up and off. “You are beautiful,” he whispered, dropping down to press fervent kisses to the mound of her belly. “Beautiful.”

He retrieved the rosebud from where he’d left it on his tunic, then returned to tickle her with it while his lips followed the trail he made.

When he slipped it between her legs and rubbed it over the swollen petals of her womanhood, Gwen’s breath caught on a moan of pure pleasure. Never had she experienced anything so erotic.

“Let us see which tastes sweeter,” he murmured, “you or the rose.”

Gwen cried out as his tongue slid within her folds. Her fingers clutched his dark head until he turned her and lifted her astride him.

“Oh, sweet merciful God,” he groaned, his eyes closing as they began to move together.

Much later, when they lay entwined in the sheets and each other, and the late-day sunshine streamed in the windows and cut a swath across the bed, Gwen pressed her lips to his throat and said, “I am so glad you are home.”

She felt him stiffen and she pulled back to gaze at him. “You are going to fight Dafydd,” she stated. She knew even before he answered.

He sighed. “Aye, Gwen.”

“When?”

He tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I must leave on the morrow.”

She forced a smile, but her heart fell in her breast. “It should not take long for you to beat him then. He cannot have half the men they say he does.”

“Gwen…” He drew in a deep breath. “Ah Christ, I wish I didn’t have to tell you this, but I would rather you hear it from me.”

“What?”

He raked a hand through his tousled hair. “Your father is a vassal of the king of England. When he swore his oath of fealty, he agreed to uphold the king’s writ, the king’s law, and to come to the field in defense of the king if necessary.”

“Yes, I know that, but—”

“Dafydd does indeed have a large army, Gwen. I know not how, but he has the support of several of your father’s chieftains. Edward has demanded your father obey his oath and come to the field for England—”

“Nay! ’Twill be Welsh against Welsh! He will not do it!”

“Yes, well, he is trying to remain neutral, but he cannot for much longer. Everywhere, the Welsh rise in sympathy. They’ve torched the king’s castles, stormed towns and killed English citizens. ’Tis war, Gwen. ’Tis not merely a rebellion, ’tis war.”

Gwen pressed her palms to her eyes, willing herself not to cry.

War.

Goddamn Dafydd to hell! She knew her father, knew his pride. He would not fight for England. He would hold out if he could, but if forced he would come to war on the side of Wales. That was the one thing the bloody English never could understand. Welshmen were fiercely loyal and fiercely patriotic. And so were Welshwomen.

“And if he does not obey?”

“Then ’tis war against him as well.”

She dropped her hands to her lap. “You would fight my father?”

“Yes, cariad, I would fight your father,” he said softly. “’Tis my duty.”

He didn’t stop her when she left the bed and shrugged into her robe. She settled into the windowseat and stared at the green valley dotted with sheep.

Richard and her father. They would meet on the field of battle. She knew it with a certainty.

She heard Richard get out of bed and walk to the table to pour wine. She glanced at him, and found she couldn’t look away. He stood in a beam of sunshine, fully naked, his bronze form so hard and magnificent that her breath caught. He was a beautiful, beautiful man.

She pictured him in a cave of glittering lights with the sweet perfume of roses all around. And then a man with golden hair said, “Choose.”

“Gwen?”

She jerked. “Aye?” she said, her heart thudding.

He came to her and sank on one knee. “I know ’tis hard for you. I would spare you if I could, but you have a right to know,” he said, stroking her cheek.

“Yes, thank you for telling me, Richard.”

“We only have tonight. I do not wish it spoiled by any more talk of war.”

She threaded her fingers through his and kissed his palm. “Nay, no more talk of war.”

They didn’t emerge from their chamber at all that night. Alys brought the evening meal up, and they fed each other bits of meat and fruit, then made love by moonlight in the windowseat.

When it was over, Richard carried her to bed and she fell asleep in his arms, not even caring that the only light was provided by the moon. As long as Richard held her close, she was safe from the darkness.

She was awakened by the sounds of chinking metal when the sky was just beginning to pinken. She sat up and saw Richard slipping into his hauberk.

“You were not going to leave without saying goodbye, were you?”

Richard spun around. Jesú, he’d hoped to spare her the pain of departure. He’d intended to be long gone before she awakened. “We said goodbye last night, cariad. Or have you forgotten?” he teased, suddenly wishing he could love her one more time.

On her knees, she came to the end of the bed, clutching the coverlet in front of her. “Nay, ’twas not enough. Kiss me again, Richard. Make it last.”

Richard gave in to the temptation, though he told himself he should not. He pulled her soft body against him. She moaned when his tongue met hers. He kissed her, and kissed her, and kissed her, until she was breathless and clinging to him.

Then he stepped back enough to let the coverlet fall and reveal her naked body.

He kissed the valley between her breasts, then the soft swell of their child. Her fingers threaded in his hair.

“I know not how long I will be gone, Gwen.” He captured her lips once again. “But I promise you I will return when ’tis time for the babe.”

“I love you, Richard. God keep you safe,” she whispered.

He tore himself away. Before he lost his will to leave, he forced his feet to keep moving until he was out of the room and down the stairs.

Owain stopped him as he was crossing the hall. “Be careful, boy.”

Richard clasped the older man’s shoulder. “Take care of her for me.”

“I will indeed, milord.”

Fifty knights and men-at-arms waited in the bailey. Destriers pawed the ground, eager to be off. Richard swung onto Sirocco and surveyed the castle. A garrison stayed behind to defend it if the Welsh attacked. Though Claiborne was designed to be impregnable, he prayed they would not have to find out.

He turned to find Andrew staring at him. “What?” he grumbled, though he had a good idea.

Andrew smiled. “Why I was just thinking how pretty ye smell, milord. Certes, the enemy will appreciate how clean ye are.”

“Perhaps I should leave you behind, Sir Andrew.”

Andrew laughed. “And disappoint my new squire?”

Richard sighed. Tristan of Ashford looked every bit of his nine years as he eagerly awaited the advent of the journey. “Mayhap that is all the more reason.”

“The boy will be fine, milord. You were riding the patrols at his age.”

Richard nodded in resignation. Yes, he’d ridden the patrols at the age of seven. Seen his first battle when he was eight. Killed a man when he was ten.

He’d been killing ever since.

As they started forward, Richard turned around in the saddle. He couldn’t shake a sense of loss, and he knew it must be because he’d only just returned and had to leave her again so soon.

He sought the master chamber. She stood there, watching. Their eyes met across the distance and she blew him a kiss. He touched his hand to his lips before turning and riding out the gates of Claiborne.

Her scent would haunt him all the way to Rhuddlan and beyond.