Dryden's Bride

by Margo Maguire

  Siân stopped in her tracks, a single bleak wall sconce lighting her angry face. “You cannot bully me so, my lord.”

  “You need a keeper, my lady!” he said, raising his voice for the first time in recent memory.

  Shocked by his insult, Siân’s chin began to quiver. “I do not!”

  “Then behave as if you do not!” Hugh bellowed with irritation. “Get out of those clothes!”

  “No!” Siân crossed her arms and stood toe-to-toe with him.

  “God’s Cross, woman, you try my patience,” Hugh said, exasperated. She’d also wrenched more emotion out of him than he’d allowed in the past two years. Annoyance, aggravation. An idiotic sense of protectiveness. “What could possibly be so difficult about changing into dry things?”

  She dropped her hands to her sides and glanced away self-consciously. Then she spoke truthfully. “I…I have no others.”

  “Surely you…” He let his words fade as he saw the truth in her wary eyes. “Nothing presentable?” he asked gruffly.

  She shook her head.

  Owen had arranged for two acceptable gowns to be made for his sister when she’d arrived in London, but had seen no need for any more since she was to be pledged to St. Ann’s. Siân would soon be wearing the rough, brown woolen tunic of the convent nuns, so any more fine gowns would be a waste of Owen’s rare and precious coin.

  Refusing to be thwarted, Hugh put his hand on Siân’s back and ushered her into his own room, kicking the door shut behind him. Siân, taken by surprise at first, began sputtering protests, but Hugh disregarded her words as he threw a few sticks on the smoldering fire. Then he pulled her over to the hearth where he turned her roughly and began untying the wet laces that fastened up the back of her bodice.

  “My lord!” Siân cried, trying to pull away from his touch—the very touch that sent strange and wild tendrils of heat through her chilled body. “This is un-seemly! You cannot—”

  “I most certainly can,” Hugh said. “I’ve already saved your foolish life once today, I’ll not see you take ill and die of fever and let my efforts of this morn go to waste.”

  “Then I’ll find someone to help me,” she snapped. “Someone more…suitable!”

  “Be still, Siân,” Hugh said, ignoring her. “These wet laces are the very devil to open and I have little time.”

  “I object, my lord!” she cried, his strong hands on her back making her tingle in agony. What kind of magic did the man possess to cause such feelings? Why had she never felt these strange sensations…this odd yearning before?

  It was awful! She had to get away from here, from him, before she was rendered incapable of rational thought, of movement, of escape. His touch was nothing like the soft, unwelcome pawing of the London dandies. The earl of Alldale acted with the potent certainty of a man. His was a bold and commanding touch, with strong hands honed in battle, and Siân could not help but wonder if there was any softness in him at all.

  “Your objection has been duly noted, my lady,” Hugh said as he released the final loop of the lace. The stiff, blue gown fell away from Siân’s skin, dropping in a steaming heap to the floor. She was left wearing her thin, linen under-kirtle, which was also soaked, and not nearly as concealing. With her russet hair curling in a wild tangle down her back, she looked especially fragile, like a piece of vividly colored glass reflecting moonlight.

  Siân lowered her head, puzzled by the strange feelings coursing through her. Did he feel it, too? she wondered. Did he ever long to be touched with care and tenderness?

  Presumably not, she thought, certainly not from her. He’d called her foolish. He’d said she tried his patience. She was naught more than a pest to him.

  Hugh stood rooted to the ground for an eternal moment, transfixed by the vision of Siân’s delicate back, her smooth buttocks nearly exposed through the thin material. Thoughts of her soft lips on his rough skin nearly made him tear off his battle gear.

  Seeing her tremble suddenly, he gave himself a mental shake, then spun on his heel to reach for the thick woolen blanket from his bed. Quickly, he wrapped Siân in it, unable to avoid enclosing her in his arms momentarily.

  With wonder in her deep blue eyes, Siân turned to look at Hugh, a crease of bewilderment marring the perfect skin between her brows. The moment grew thick and heavy as their bodies drew closer to each other. She felt his breath on her face, his heat warming her. Longing to touch him as he’d touched her, she stopped herself, remembering what he thought of her. Siân spoke quietly instead. “I thank you for seeing to my welfare again, my lord. I will try not to bother you again.”

  Then she pulled the blanket tightly around herself and fled the earl’s chamber.

  Chapter Three

  The battle was long and fierce. Every able-bodied man joined in the fray, the untrained townsmen using whatever weapons came to hand: axes, hammers, poles and daggers. As the highest-ranking knight at Clairmont, Hugh decided the strategy of battle and commanded the troops, with archers in ambush on every rooftop. Still, they were outnumbered by the Scots, who were well-supplied, savage fighters.

  It was the archers who finally won the day for Clairmont. A masterful strategy, keeping archers positioned on the rooftops, left the Scots unable to escape their deadly volleys. Arrows rained down whenever the Scots broached the town. Clairmont’s foot soldiers finished the job.

  When it was over, however, the damage to the town was extensive. As he walked through the aftermath, Hugh felt strangely detached from the chaos around him. The burning thatch and smoldering embers…the bodies of the fallen men being gathered for burial…women and children weeping. There were moans of pain that echoed some distant agony of his own, an agony he could not bear to relive.

  He made his way back to the castle, oblivious to the salutes and hails he received from the people within the walls, who now considered him a hero. They gave him credit for discovering the Scots early, forming a plan of attack, leading the soldiers in defense of the town…and emerging victorious from it all.

  After so many lost skirmishes, this victory was sweet to Clairmont.

  Within the walls of the castle, Hugh dismounted and left his horse in the care of a groom, then proceeded to the keep, where he sought the chapel entrance. Finding it on the eastern side, he slipped in quietly and stood with his eyes downcast, shivering in his sweltering metal shell, even as the autumn sunlight shone through the stained glass above the altar.

  And Hugh Dryden then prayed for the souls who’d been dispatched this day.

  Siân distractedly helped two little girls wash their hands in a trough in the outer bailey as she searched the faces of the men returning from Clairmont town. Battle-weary and bruised, bleeding and bandaged, the men had victory in their eyes nonetheless. The women and children welcomed their men back amid hugs and endearments, tears and laughter.

  Hugh’s troubled visage eventually came into Siân’s view, and she started toward him, anxious to see him at close range, to assure herself that he was unscathed. She’d worried about him throughout the night and all day long, even though she knew he would never appreciate such attention from her. Her heart overflowed with relief when she saw him, and with the need to touch him. To feel his solid body near hers again, as she had the night before—only to affirm that he was unharmed. He was covered with the grime of battle mixed with blood, and Siân could only hope it was not his own.

  When he was within an arm’s reach, Siân spoke his name, but he walked on numbly, ignoring her.

  Irrationally hurt by his complete disregard, Siân looked down at herself, in the rough peasant’s dress she’d thrown on in the previous night’s confusion. It was ill-fitting and ugly, exactly the kind of dress a highborn man would abhor. The condition of her hair hadn’t improved much since he’d seen her last night, either. ’Twas no wonder he’d ignored her, though his indifference gave her a peculiar ache in the vicinity of her heart.

  “God’s ears, Siân,” a harsh male voice said. Owen took hold
of her arm and roughly ushered her to the rear of the kitchen. “Must you disgrace yourself at every turn?”

  “Owen, I—”

  “You are pitiful!”

  “You’re hurting me, Owen,” Siân cried, dismayed by the anger flashing in his dark gray eyes. What could she possibly have done wrong? It was nothing but her Christian duty to help these poor people in their time of need. How could Owen construe it otherwise? “Please!”

  He let go of her arm and pushed her through the kitchen door. The cook fires were being tended by maids, and Owen surprised Siân by refraining from giving her the tongue-lashing he obviously felt she needed. He propelled her beyond the kitchen and down a dark passage, till they reached a small, isolated alcove.

  “Is it too much to ask you to comport yourself as becomes your station?” he demanded. “You are not some lowborn varlet, at liberty to dress as you please, to sully our already inglorious name.”

  “Owen, I didn’t mean—”

  “I am doing everything I possibly can,” he said, running a hand through his wavy, golden hair, “to restore honor to our name. To see that our progeny is afforded the respect it deserves! But you!” he cried in frustration.

  Siân felt her heart would burst—not only in shame, but with sorrow. For this talk of progeny had nothing to do with her—not when she took the vows of St. Ann.

  “You thwart my every effort,” Owen continued, pacing in front of her now, in his anger. “You lower yourself to the level of those villein, dressing like them, dirtying your hands with them. Why can you not observe and learn from your betters? Look at the queen, for example. Her Majesty is a woman above all others! She is kind and gracious, beautiful and refined. And Lady Marguerite…”

  Siân bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling. She was powerless to stop the trail of tears coursing down her face, but she somehow managed to refrain from weeping openly. Owen was right, of course. Siân rarely ever thought of dire consequences before she acted, nor did she give much consideration to her clothes or the state of her hair.

  As for dirtying her hands…Siân wasn’t afraid of hard work, nor could she see any dishonor in it. At home in Pwll, there’d been no elegant house or servants to take care of her. There’d been no one to tutor her in the fancy ways of the gentry, though she’d learned more than enough about aristocratic harshness from Edmund Sandborn, the arrogant Earl of Wrexton, whose English estates bordered Welsh lands near Pwll.

  Years ago, Siân had sworn on the graves of two youthful Welsh friends that if she ever met up with Wrexton again, she’d somehow contrive to run a blade through his cruel, black heart.

  Siân wondered what her brother would make of that.

  “The lady’s hands were sullied in good cause, Tudor.”

  Siân whirled, mortified, to see Hugh Dryden approaching from the vicinity of the chapel. Had he heard Owen’s scathing chastisement in its entirety?

  “There is no shame in the help you’ve rendered today,” he added, taking one of Siân’s hands and raising the back of it to his lips. It was bad enough that he now knew what little regard her brother held for her…she could only hope the earl would not notice the quivering of her chin or the excessive moisture in her eyes.

  “Get out of my sight,” Owen growled after Hugh had walked away. “And don’t return until you’ve made yourself presentable.”

  Hugh Dryden sank down into his tub of hot water and sighed. Cupping his hands, he lifted water up and over his shoulders, down his powerful swordsman’s chest. As his tight, brown nipples beaded, droplets of water stuck in the thick dark hair that matted his chest.

  “That’s a nasty-looking slice on your arm,” Nicholas said, making himself at home on Hugh’s bed while Hugh soaked his aching muscles. “Bet it smarted when you got it.”

  “I was too well occupied at the time to notice,” Hugh replied dryly, thinking of how his shoulder piece had become dislodged just before the Scot got in his lucky strike. It was a terrible wound—a deep slice through the muscle below his shoulder that had bled and crusted over, then bled again. He had some salve to put on it, but he wanted to get it clean first. When it healed, if it healed, the scar would be just one more to add to his already well-marked body.

  “That’s your bad shoulder,” Nicholas said. “You should have it sewn.”

  Hugh made hardly more than a grunt in response. He’d had enough needles pass through his skin to last a lifetime. Still, it was a deep, ugly gash, and that shoulder had already undergone punishment enough during his imprisonment.

  “All went exceptionally well today,” Nick said. “You should press your suit to Lady Marguerite now, while your victory is fresh in her mind.”

  Hugh refrained from comment, other than a weary, noncommittal grunt. He’d hardly given Lady Marguerite a passing thought, yet he could not rid himself of the image of Siân Tudor being dressed-down by her brother for helping out in the courtyard. Hugh doubted that she’d slept at all this past night, and looked as if sheer willpower alone kept her from shattering under her brother’s harsh and unnecessary words.

  The man was an ass.

  “There will be more suitors, Hugh,” Nicholas said, forcing Hugh’s thoughts back to the matter at hand. “You must make your proposal now.”

  Wearily, Hugh picked up a thick bar of soap and began to wash, wincing as he worked to cleanse the wound in his arm.

  “The queen said that Marguerite has received missives from two other noblemen.” Nicholas stood and began pacing irritably. “There was one from some southern earl, and another from a London dandy, Viscount Darly.”

  “So? Let one of them take her to wife,” Hugh replied to Nick’s warnings. “Either one would likely suit her better than me.”

  “Damn it, man!” Nicholas said as he stopped his pacing and put his hands on his hips, exasperated. He’d promised Wolf Colston he’d see that Hugh got settled with a wife. Not just any wife, but this one. Marguerite Bradley.

  “Marguerite is perfect, Hugh! She is incomparable! Between Alldale and Clairmont, you could become one of the most powerful peers of the kingdom. You cannot just—”

  Yes, he could, he thought as he slid under the water, submerging his head, blocking out all extraneous sound. Hugh hoped his little maneuver would take enough of the wind out of Nick’s sails so that he could finish his bath in peace.

  Hugh did not know if he could ever marry. He’d come to Clairmont with every intention of offering for the hand of Lady Marguerite, but he was not so certain of it now. Two years ago, something had been damaged inside him. Whether it was his heart or his soul, Hugh could not say. He only knew that he was no longer a whole man, and had not been for a long time.

  He doubted he ever would be again.

  Besides, he thought as he heard the door to his chamber slam shut, he was battle-weary. Time enough on the morrow to consider such things as marriage and estates.

  Siân cuddled the precious infant to her breast as she paced the length of the castle parapet. She had truly planned to find something more suitable to wear, but when she’d come upon the infant’s grieving young mother in the courtyard, she’d had no choice but to offer help.

  Her heart had reached out to the woman, who was newly widowed and overwhelmed by the infant in her arms and the two older children who held on to her skirts, weeping. Siân could also see that she was with child.

  The babe was irritable, cutting teeth, the mother told Siân dully, her voice empty of all emotion. Siân had expected to hear the pain of loss, but the woman was numb with grief, exhausted by her pregnancy. Without thinking, Siân had offered to take the babe, to walk her and care for her until the mother felt more capable.

  As she paced the high parapet, Siân hummed absently to the child, a repetitive, rhythmical, comforting lullaby. If the babe stirred, Siân bounced her gently, lulling her back to sleep. She wrapped the blanket more securely around the child’s head, protecting her from the brisk wind up high on the parapet. She paced aimlessly, relishi
ng the feel of the babe in her arms, the smell of her perfect skin, the whisper of downy hair on her cheek.

  The sky was laden with thick, low-hanging clouds, so the full moon was visible only intermittently as it appeared from behind the clouds. A guard nodded to her as she strolled by, and Siân was struck by the thought that these Saxons were just like her own people. Striving to make their way in the world. Honoring their parents and loving their children. Eating, drinking, sleeping, laughing.

  Fighting to keep what was their own.

  Isn’t that what they’d done in Pwll? Lived, and laughed, and fought against the Saxon Earl of Wrexton, who was determined to take what was theirs?

  Siân shuddered, thinking of her two young companions who, many years ago, had been victims of Wrexton’s terrible cruelty. Beyond the loss of her childhood friends, the most painful part of the memory was knowing that the entire, horrible episode had been no more than a game to Wrexton, a simple exercise in “cat and mouse.”

  The contemptuous bastard.

  Siân swallowed back the bitter tears that never failed to come when she thought of the two youthful friends, gap-toothed Idwal and freckled Dafydd. Never in her life, if she lived for a century or more, would she forget her pain, or her guilt in the deaths of those two young boys. For she had been the one Wrexton was after, not two innocent Welsh boys. She, Siân Tudor…the daughter of the rebel.

  The babe in Siân’s arms began to cry again, and she was diverted from further thoughts of the two boys as she rocked the child and increased the volume of her song. It was a simple little Welsh song, a lullaby, but it seemed to soothe the child nearly as much as it soothed Siân’s own soul.

  “Huna blentyn yn fy mynwes,

  Clyd a chynnes ydyw hon…

  Sleep my baby, at my breast,

  ’Tis a mother’s arms round you…”

  If only she were the little one’s mother, Siân thought wistfully, motherhood being one of many simple pleasures she was to be denied. Owen had decided that marriage was beyond her. As her closest male relative, Owen would not allow Siân to marry any of the young men of Pwll, all of whom were below the high and mighty—but impoverished—Tudors. Which was just as well, as Siân would never again put another Welsh-man at risk of Saxon vengeance.