Worcester, England

October, 1278

The autumn wind whistled through the wooden shutters, sending a bitter chill deep into the heart of the Bishop of Worcester’s castle. Gwen turned on her back and yanked the coverlets up to her chin.

King Edward’s household had been lodged in the drafty old keep for a fortnight, awaiting the wedding of Prince Llywelyn to the King’s cousin, Lady Elinor de Montfort.

Gwen had not seen her father since that day at Rhuddlan. It was Einion—sweet old Einion as usual—who had explained why she was to be a hostage.

She’d been frightened to death at first, wildly recalling the tales of her grandfather’s confinement as a hostage of King John. Though King Edward was well reputed to have fits of the Plantagenet temper, it was not to the extent of mad King John, and she realized that her father would never put her in danger. She would be brave, and she would make the greatest man in all the world proud to claim her as his daughter.

She had preferred to stay in her rooms, away from the court as often as possible. Windsor overflowed with the English. It mattered not at all that she was a princess. In their eyes, she was a savage, a whore, simply because she came from a land they did not understand.

She thought of the knight called Richard. He represented all she despised, but she could not forget him. Night after night, he haunted her dreams, as real to her as he had been almost a year ago in the stable of Rhuddlan castle.

It was annoying really. He was an arrogant English knight, not at all fit for a princess.

But she had felt so awkward beside him, like she was the servant he’d mistook her for and he was a prince. He was so handsome, and when he’d held her close, she’d thought her heart would come out of her chest.

She’d hoped to see him again in the party of knights who escorted her and the other prisoners to England. Then she’d looked for him at court. But he was gone, as though the stolen moments in the stable had been a figment of her imagination.

Her dreams were strange. Always, a fierce hawk perched upon his arm, its plumage unusual, so dark as to be almost black. Crimson jesses bound its feet and two leashes were attached to it. One dangled free while the other was gripped in the powerful jaws of a golden lion.

Gwen sighed. Why did she let herself think of him?

She was going to marry Rhys ap Gawain. They had pledged long ago to marry each other when they grew up. Gwen toyed with the edge of the coverlet. They were grown up now! She was sixteen and Rhys was nineteen.

Would he want to get married as soon as she returned?

The thought was a little unsettling. They’d been friends for as long as Gwen could remember. When she was four and he was seven, he’d carried her around on his back, pretending to be her steed.

They’d spent long hours together; climbing trees, exploring the forest, searching caves for King Arthur’s treasure. They’d swam in crystal streams and raced their ponies along the valley floor, they’d fought mock battles with longbows and swords, and planted frogs in the serving women’s beds. During all the laughter and childish pranks, they had pledged to be friends forever. It was only natural they marry one day so they could stay together.

But, when she turned fifteen and he was seventeen, they’d realized you didn’t marry to be friends.

Rhys had taken her hunting that day. They didn’t catch anything because neither of them seemed to have their attention focused on anything but each other. Finally, Rhys had thrown down his longbow and kissed her.

Gwen touched her lips. It had been brief, just a feather-light touch, but everything between them changed. No longer were they just two friends doing the things they’d always done. They were aware of each other on a new level of being, one that was disturbing and exciting all at once.

Gwen never had a chance to find out where that new feeling would have taken them. The war had come and Rhys had gone to fight. Then she was given as a hostage.

And now her dreams were crowded with the image of a tall dark man with eyes of purest silver, a man whose touch had ignited more in its simplicity than ever Rhys’s kiss did.

The door to her chamber opened to admit a petite woman with long blonde hair and sparkling eyes. “Gwen! How is it that you are still abed at this hour?” Elinor asked, skipping to the bed. She threw off the cloak she wore over her chemise and darted beneath the covers. “Ooh, ’tis cold in this old castle!”

“’Tis too nasty to get up just yet,” Gwen replied, snuggling next to her friend.

“Aye, but I am too excited to sleep any longer! I dared not hope that Edward would ever allow me to marry your father.” Elinor sighed and put an arm around Gwen. “Tell me I am not dreaming.”

“’Tis not a dream. Today you and I are hostages no longer. We will go home to Wales.”

“I would have been there two years ago if Edward had not captured my ship. Jesú, I am too old to be a bride!”

“Five and twenty is not so old. Besides, that is half the age of my father. ’Tis perfect.”

Elinor smiled and kissed her on the forehead. “You are such a practical girl. You should be married by now. I would have been married when I was your age if my father had not rebelled against King Henry. Once Papa was killed, there was naught for us to do but flee to France. Poor Llywelyn had no choice but to break the betrothal contract.

“Thirteen long years I have waited. I know Llywelyn only sent for me to irritate Edward, but I am thankful anyway. My father did what he thought was right and he paid for it. But ’twas unfair that I had to pay too.”

“It seems to be the English way,” Gwen said, twisting a lock of hair around her finger.

Elinor laid her cheek on Gwen’s head. “I am sorry. I forgot. We have both been paying for our fathers’ defiance to the English crown.”

Gwen took a deep breath. “’Tis over now, Elinor. I only want to go home and never leave again.”

“I am afraid, Gwen. What if Llywelyn does not like me? We’ve been exchanging letters for years but—but we have met only once and it was so brief—and supervised by Edward.”

Gwen pushed away and turned to face the other woman. She was about to make a jest but changed her mind when she saw the apprehension painted on Elinor’s pretty face. “Do not worry. He will love you, just as I do. You are kind and fair. He will not be able to do otherwise.”

“But what if he desires someone younger? What if he takes a mistress?”

“He cannot! You will live by our customs and if you object to a mistress, he cannot take one. Welshwomen are not chattel!”

Elinor caught a blonde curl in her hand, examining it carefully. “’Tis lucky you are to be Welsh, Gwen. Mama always told me that I would have little, if any, control over the man I married. I must be ever at my lord’s beck and call, ready to entertain him at a moment’s notice. I would be his chatelaine and woe if I did anything wrong! Of course she was only preparing me for the worst. She did not object when Papa chose Llywelyn. I wonder if he knew Welshmen were different?”

Gwen leaned back and sighed. “Thank God a Welshwoman may choose her own husband. I would not want to be forced to marry someone I did not like.”

“Aye... but come now, let us not be solemn on my wedding day! Get up, lazy bones, and help me prepare!”

Elinor jumped from the bed, giggling. Gwen shot her a look and slowly peeled back the covers.

---

“I told you all would be well,” Edward said, tipping back the cup of wine he held. “Dafydd accepted without complaint the lands I gave him in Cheshire in lieu of a crown, and Llywelyn has been reasonably agreeable.”

Richard swirled the liquid in his goblet, staring at the red whirlpool he created. He stifled a yawn. He’d ridden in late last night and his current mistress, Lady Anne Ashford, had kept him awake well past midnight.

Since Llywelyn’s surrender at Rhuddlan, the Welsh people had quietly settled beneath the English yoke. There were still border raids—there would always be border raids—but all across Wales, Welshmen presented themselves to English bailiffs and castellans to try their cases and lodge their complaints according to English law. They chaffed under the yoke, but they did not complain... yet.

Richard raised his gaze to Edward. “I still do not trust Dafydd. Better to have given him to Llywelyn to hang than treat him like an English lord.”

Edward laughed. “All Dafydd ever wanted was wealth and prestige. He could’ve cared less about actually ruling Wales. Now that he has his land and money—and an English wife—he’ll settle down and plague Llywelyn no more.” Edward took another drink. “Indeed, I invited him to come to this wedding I am throwing for Llywelyn and my cousin, but he begged to be excused.”

Richard hid his surprise. “’Tis just as well. I doubt Llywelyn would want his Judas here.”

“Since when do you care what Llywelyn wants?”

Richard shrugged. “I don’t, but I still cannot figure why you summoned me to attend either.”

“’Tis simple enough. You are my closest advisor, and I need your counsel.” Edward smoothed his hand over the orange velvet of his surcoat. “You know that Llywelyn and our lord of Powys have applied to me to settle a dispute over the ownership of Arwystli?”

Richard nodded. “By the Treaty of Aberconwy, disputes arising over lands in Wales are to be settled according to Welsh law. However,” he said, “it doesn’t benefit England to allow Llywelyn’s judges to rule in his favor since Arwystli borders southern Gwynedd and is strategically important to her defense.”

“Precisely. ’Twould be much better served in Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn’s hands. ’Tis why I am setting up a special commission to rule whether ’twill be tried according to Welsh or English law.”

Richard grinned. “You have no intention of allowing Llywelyn to win. ’Tis merely a stalling tactic.”

“Until I can figure out how to circumvent the treaty, ’tis the only option. I am glad you approve.”

“Aye, ’tis fitting somehow,” Richard said. “But how do you intend to keep Llywelyn in check now that you’re giving back his hostages and finally allowing him to wed Elinor? If you give Arwystli to Gruffydd, ’twill surely cause another war.”

“I’ve not yet decided. Something will avail itself of me ere he returns to Wales, I am certain of it.” He got to his feet. “Now, I believe there is a wedding to prepare for.”

Richard felt a chill run down his spine as he stood. When Ned was in one of his moods, he was capable of anything.

They parted company and Richard returned to his chamber. He lay on the bed and crossed his arms behind his head. He had absolutely no intention of going to the wedding.

He thought of the flame-haired princess and almost changed his mind. She was certain to be there. He’d not seen her since that day in Rhuddlan. When Ned had decided to hold her at Windsor, Richard vowed to avoid going to the royal court unless it was in residence elsewhere.

He knew it was irrational to avoid seeing her. She was only a girl, but she had the promise of great beauty, and Richard was nothing if not appreciative of women’s charms.

How much had she grown up in a year’s time? He closed his eyes. It would not do to lust after her. She may only be Welsh, but she was also a princess and he could never make her his leman.

No, he was definitely not going to the wedding.

---

Richard stood in the shadowed recess of the door, watching the crowd. Disgust washed over him. The mere sight of Llywelyn filled him with impotent rage.

He had not been able to stay away, but he still wasn’t going in there to watch Llywelyn, his new bride at his side, gloating on the dais, no matter what Ned wanted.

Dancers swirled before his eyes, their clothing a whirlpool of dazzling color. Smoke from the dripping tallow candles curled ceiling-ward, sizzling and sputtering as a draft skimmed across them.

Richard searched the milling groups with a purpose he would not admit. When he found her, he ceased to look elsewhere. Torchlight illuminated her red-gold hair as she glided through the hall.

“Gwen,” he whispered, startling himself by speaking aloud. It seemed for a moment that she turned in his direction.

He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

She was a beauty. She’d grown. Even from this distance, he could see how she’d filled out, become soft and womanly. He was too far away, but he recalled those cat-eyes, mysterious and golden-green. They were framed in an oval face with high cheekbones and a full mouth the color of ripe summer berries.

Her gown was of vivid blue silk, clinging to her curves with every movement. A small diadem sat atop her crown of curls, a single sapphire winking from it boldly. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders like a flame, red and gold twisting together until the colors were no longer distinguishable, one from the other.

Richard watched her for some moments, unable to tear his gaze away. Men crowded around her, and she slipped in and out of his vision as she moved between them, smiling seductively.

She was Llywelyn’s daughter, for God’s sake! He should not be surprised that she behaved so wantonly, encouraging the attentions of the men surrounding her. The Prince was completely lacking in morals, ambitious and deceitful. His daughter would be no different.

Richard was not comforted by that thought, though it might make getting her in his bed a bit easier. He frowned. He’d never allowed himself to actually plan on seducing her. Once the idea formed, he knew he would not deviate from it. Besides, it would be a lovely way to anger Llywelyn.

She was accompanied by a blond knight, and they were making their way toward where Richard stood. Slipping back into the shadows of the murky corridor, he waited, unable to leave just yet.

“Is this good, Your Highness?” the man asked when they had walked into the passage.

Gwen stopped and took a deep breath. “Aye. I don’t know what came over me. Thank you, Sir Guy,” she said, clasping his hand.

Richard felt a sudden and inexplicable anger seize him at the intimate gesture.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you all night,” Guy said, pulling her into his arms.

His head dipped toward her and she turned her face abruptly. “Nay!” she cried as his lips found the hollow of her neck. In the next instant, her slippered foot darted out and kicked him in the shin. He grunted, but didn’t let go.

“Unhand the lady, Guy,” Richard said, stepping from the shadows. His hand strayed out of habit to his sword hilt.

Guy’s face registered surprise, then anger. “The princess is with me. I’ll invite you not to interfere if you know what’s good for you.”

Richard took a step toward him.

Guy backed away, his eyes widening in recognition. “Beg your pardon, my lord. No harm done. I only meant to kiss her.”

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get out of my sight. Now,” Richard growled.

Guy bowed. “As you command, my lord.”

When he was gone, Gwen took another deep breath. She had only meant to thank Guy for being kind to her, but not like that. English bastards always tried to take that which did not belong to them.

She swung around to look at her rescuer. His face was shadowed, but there was something familiar about him, even through the veil of too much wine. What sort of a man could frighten away a knight with only a command? He moved into the light, and her heart began to thump.

“Richard?”

He was even more splendid than she remembered. Tall and darkly handsome. Big. His tunic stretched across his broad chest, molding the hard curves. Her breath shortened when she remembered herself pressed against him.

“Don’t you know better than to leave the hall in a man’s company and unescorted?” he demanded.

“I only wanted some air to clear my head,” she replied, bewildered. Did he not remember her? Somehow it hurt to think so after all the nights she had awakened with him on her mind.

But of course she had only been a clumsy girl when they met, and he was a man. Lord, she still felt like a clumsy girl! Where was all that charm and allure she’d been honing this evening? It was gone, deserting her when she needed it most, just like a fairy illusion.

Gwen smoothed a nervous hand over the bodice of her gown. She didn’t notice the way his eyes followed as she caressed the fabric over her breasts, or the tightening of his jaw, or the darkening of his eyes.

No, all she could think was that a man like him would not remember her. She was young and awkward and totally unsuited for one as handsome as he. She’d been a fool to ever think otherwise.

His voice was cool as he spoke. “Or you wanted a tryst and then changed your mind once you got out here. You should not drink so much wine.” Her breath caught, but he didn’t stop. “But then, that is one of the things you Welsh do best, isn’t it?”

“Those are lies spread by you Englishmen! How dare you speak to me that way!” She suddenly longed to prove her worth to him, to see his eyes widen and his words change to ones of respect. She stiffened her spine and fixed him with a regal stare. “Do you know who I am? Princess Gwenllian, daughter to the Prince of Wales, and I will not listen to a mere knight insult me as if I were a chambermaid.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “You are sadly mistaken, your most revered and illustrious Highness. I am well aware you are the daughter of that Welsh murderer.”

Rage kindled in Gwen’s soul. “Murderer? You, an English knight, dare to call my father a murderer? What about all the murders and injustices done to my people in the name of the king?”

“Savages deserve no better than they give,” he said, his voice dangerously low.

Gwen clenched her fists and took a halting step toward him. He was not at all as she had dreamed. The illusion was shattered, but at the same time a small corner of her heart leapt that he remembered. “You are an arrogant, vile, English swine!”

He advanced on her with lightning swiftness. Gwen backed away, coming up short when she hit the wall. Before she could move, she found herself pinned against it by his hard body.

Her heart thudded in her chest, her breath shortened, and she lifted her chin to stare defiantly at him. His arms were braced on either side of her head, and he lifted one to brush his knuckles down her cheek. Gwen trembled.

“Don’t you realize what could happen to you out here, alone with a man like this?”

“I will scream,” Gwen whispered. But her blood surged as his body pressed harder to hers. She felt as if her own body was reshaping itself to mold to his. Every hard angle of him found an answering hollow on her.

Richard smiled. “Nay, I think not, Princess.”

“Wh-what makes you so sure?” She sounded breathless, even to her own ears.

“This,” he said, lowering his mouth to her exposed throat. Gwen sucked in her breath. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes. Her skin was on fire.

“And this,” he continued, running his hand across her breasts so lightly she barely felt it. She shivered. This was wrong and she had to stop it before—before what?

His gaze settled on her mouth when her tongue darted out to wet her lips. She raised her hands to his broad chest, not to push, but to touch.

Slowly, she smoothed them upwards, searching his face as she did so. His eyes glittered strangely, but he didn’t stop her. He wasn’t wearing chainmail as he had been the first time she’d touched him, and Gwen started at the silken ripple of muscle beneath her palms.

She caught herself wondering what his bare chest felt like, and before she knew it her hand strayed beneath the neck of his tunic. His skin was hot and smooth. She slid her hand over him, encountered crisp hair and hard curves.

He made a sound low in his throat that sounded like a growl. “That’s it, Princess. You know what to do, don’t you? I should have known you would.”

Gwen blinked. He sounded angry and she had no idea why. God, what was he doing to her? Why did she feel dizzy and drunker than when she’d left the hall?

His head descended. Gwen’s heart skipped a beat. Right now she wanted this more than anything. When their lips were almost touching, he said, “Kiss me, Princess.”

Gwen closed her eyes. Disobedience was out of the question.