Page 47 of A Knight for Gwenllian

He was giving himself time to think, nothing more. In reality, he could do what he wanted; Master Simon would not care one way or the other. But what did he want? That was the question.

If Gwenllian were here, he would be ill at ease meeting with her in front of all her family. It was exactly what he had tried to avoid the last time she’d been here. Their clandestine meetings had added to the thrill but had left him feeling rather uncomfortable. He hadn’t liked feeling like he was doing something wrong.

But if she hadn’t come, he would have deprived himself of the opportunity to see his friend for nothing. This decided him.

Alexander clenched his jaw, then walked back out, ready to give the messenger his answer.

Chapter Fifteen

The dress was flattering, Gwenllian knew, which was why she had brought it to England. The color matched the green in her eyes, the material was light enough to fall in a clean line and the cut emphasized her trim waist and displayed her modest bosom to advantage. Would Alexander like it? What would he wear tonight? A velvet tunic? A bejeweled scabbard? She had never seen him in all his finery before. He had either been dressed in serviceable traveling clothes or sliding in mud to rescue puppies and imprudent Welsh women looking for adventure. Or naked and in bed.

Naked.

She afforded a smile. Nothing he could wear tonight could suit him better than his own beautiful, golden skin. She should know. The memory of his body haunted her. The perfect mouth that could kiss her and brush her skin with astounding delicacy. The rounded shoulders that tensed to support his weight above her while he plunged inside her with breathtaking urgency. The corded stomach that became even tighter when he prepared to release the pleasure she had coaxed out of him. Yes, every inch of him was perfect naked, but she was looking forward to seeing him in his best clothes. Such finery would make any tryst even more wicked. The contrast between the knight worthy of a visit to court and the hot lover unable to contain himself would be very piquant indeed.

A sudden thought crossed Gwenllian’s mind, shattering the lewd musings. Would she even see him at the banquet? Had he accepted the invitation? She had assumed he had, but perhaps that had been wishful thinking.

Unable to wait another moment, needing to be sure, she ran to Siân. Her sister was in the great hall, giving the servants her last instructions.

“Are you all right, Gwenllian?” she asked in Welsh, alarmed by her sudden irruption into the room. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong. I’m looking forward to the banquet, that’s all. Forgive me, I didn’t realize I was running.” Forcing herself to calm, Gwenllian looked at the table decorated with boughs of greenery and gleaming pewter dishes. It promised to be a lavish occasion, despite the gloomy atmosphere Throckmorton Castle couldn’t seem able to shake off. “Has everyone accepted the invitation then?”

“No, unfortunately. One of Christopher’s friends is not available.”

“Oh? I hope he’s not too disappointed. Which one is it? Lord Hart?” she said at random, remembering the name he’d mentioned the other day.

Please, please, please, let it be him, not Alexander.

“Yes. But apart from that, everyone is going to be here.”

Relief washed over her. Before the day was over, she would see Alexander.

“One of the guests is Sir Alexander Rathbone,” Siân carried on. “I’m glad he’s coming. I’ve wanted to introduce you to the man who pretended to save me from two ruffians all those years ago. Do you remember that story?”

She did remember, not least because by an odd twist of fate, years later, the supposed savior had saved her for real. In the past year, she had many times wished she could find the courage to tell her sisters, if not her parents, about the knight who had burst into her life at the moment she had been looking for adventure. Being the only one who actually knew him, Siân would have been the perfect confidante. But Gwenllian had never been brave enough to tell anyone in Wales about the rescue that day by the river, or that he, and not Osian, had accompanied her to Scotland. Not that she feared judgment, exactly, but talking about him would make the yearning for him, which she constantly tried to suppress, even more unbearable.

Over the last interminable months, she had struggled to remember that their dalliance had been nothing more than an adventure, a taste of freedom, an indulgence she had allowed herself before her reasonable life could begin.

And now here she was, getting light-headed at the idea of seeing him again, planning on resuming their affair, even when she knew it would lead nowhere.

What was she doing? Running headlong into trouble, that was what. But she could not stop herself.

“Yes, I remember you mentioning Sir Alexander,” she mumbled, repositioning a frond of fern in a vase to avoid having to look at her sister.

“You’ll see. I’m sure you’ll like him.”

“I’m sure I will.”

“The roast goose is exceptional.”

Sitting to her right, Iorwerth was licking his fingers in appreciation. Gwenllian smiled distractedly. Her cousin was only a few months younger than her and reminded her of her brother Rhys. For these two reasons, the two of them had always been very close. But today she could barely focus on what he was saying. Neither could she talk normally to her aunt, who was sitting to her left. The food, though of exceptional quality, had barely registered on her palate, the music had barely reached her ears, the conversations had barely stirred her interest.

All she could think of was the tall, dark man at the other end of the table, talking to Christopher with an ease betraying their old acquaintance.

He was wearing a tunic of sapphire blue velvet that hugged his powerful chest, and he looked every bit as dashing as she had imagined he would. But he had barely looked at her, and halfway through the evening, they had yet to exchange more than a polite, impersonal greeting. To the casual observer, he cared no more about her than he did about her young cousin Rhian, who was sitting opposite him.

It grated, undeniably. Because Rhian had not shared his bed, had she? She had not made him pant with exhaustion. She had not welcomed him inside her heat. She had not coaxed his release with her hands or her mouth. She, Gwenllian, had done all this and more. Didn’t she deserve some discreet acknowledgment, if not a public declaration?