Dryden's Bride

by Margo Maguire

  “Hugh…” Her voice was a feather on the air, a gossamer plea for him to take her beyond anything she’d ever known. Beyond the realities of her life, her fate. All she knew, everything she was…was here and now.

  Siân wanted to feel him against her, skin to skin. She pulled at his tunic, then he moved away for an instant, wrenching it over his head. When he came back to her, the crisp dark hairs of his chest brushed against her breasts, increasing her shivers of arousal. Siân touched his nipples and found, to her surprise, that they were beaded like hers, and craving her touch.

  He groaned as she put her mouth to one. And pulled away from her. “Siân,” he rasped.

  Loud voices and a pounding at his chamber door brought Hugh to his senses.

  “Dryden!” Nicholas’s voice penetrated his haze. “Beaufort’s arrived! You’re needed in the hall!”

  Beaufort. The power-hungry bishop from London had arrived.

  What of Siân? He could not leave her this way. Bewilderment was clear in her eyes, those beautiful eyes so full of trust, full of…

  He shook his head, trying to clear it. He couldn’t stay. He had to be deranged to have allowed this encounter in the first place. What had she been thinking…coming to his room, undressing before him? He gritted his teeth and struggled for control.

  God’s Cross, he wanted her. Unlike he’d ever wanted anyone before. And she, apparently, wanted him. Flaws and all. She hadn’t shrunk from the touch of his mangled hand, nor was she repulsed by his scars. She was truly a wonder.

  And her intensity, her passion, would burn him to the core.

  “Siân,” he said, taking her hands in his, and drawing her up off the bed. His mouth went dry all over again as he viewed her innocent nakedness. “I must go.”

  A troubled crease appeared between her brows.

  “It’s not just Beaufort…” he began. She stood unmoving as Hugh pulled her thin linen shift down over her, covering her, and tied it in place. Then he picked up her gown and fumbled with it, unsure how to proceed. “We cannot do this. You’re promised to the abbey.”

  “No,” she whispered, her agony in her eyes, her voice. This couldn’t be happening. A lump formed in her throat as reality dawned. He’d been making love to her only moments ago. Now he was turning her over to the nunnery.

  “Siân,” he said as he reached for his tunic. He held it in one hand, and looked at her pensively, remembering how dejected she’d looked before, when Owen had spoken of taking her to the abbey.

  She couldn’t speak. She stepped down from the bed and moved away from him, hastily tying laces and fastening buttons, blinking away the tears that had begun to form. She’d been stupid and foolish again, hadn’t thought before she’d acted.

  “Siân,” Hugh repeated.

  “I apologize, my lor—”

  “What if you were to marry?” he asked impulsively. “If a man offered for your hand, would your brother allow you to wed instead of going to the abbey?”

  “I—I don’t know…” she said dubiously. “My dowry is s-small. No one—”

  “Would Owen allow a change in plans?”

  Siân shrugged, wondering what he was getting at. There wasn’t a man in all of Britain who would offer for her. Unless…A faint glimmer of hope arose in her breast. She turned to look at him. “I—I don’t know,” she finally answered, afraid even to begin to think what he might mean.

  She must have been clumsy with her buttons, because as soon as he pulled his tunic over his head, he brushed her hands away and began buttoning up her bodice as if she were a child. His hands were gentle, and she could feel his piercing gaze, though she kept her own eyes downcast.

  Siân knew her eyes would betray the hope and longing she felt, and she had no wish to embarrass herself any further. When she was put back together, straightened out and fully dressed again, she turned away from Hugh and took a few steps toward the door.

  “Wait.” Hugh was right beside her, preventing her from opening the door.

  She looked expectantly at him.

  “You are…” Hugh hesitated for a moment, then tenderly cupped her chin with one hand. “You are…unique, Siân. Special.” A hint of a smile formed on his lips, touched his eye. “Never forget it.”

  He opened the door, keeping her behind him. When he ascertained that there was no one else in the gallery, he allowed her to pass around him, giving her one last glance as she walked toward her own chamber, and he headed for the steps.

  The portly frame of Henry Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester, was ensconced in a large, comfortable chair before the fire, which had recently been stoked. His normally pale features were slightly flushed, as if he’d recently exerted himself, and the circular wen above his right brow was somewhat more pink than usual. His beady gray eyes were watery and, as usual, they missed nothing.

  A trestle table had been set up near Beaufort, and was laden with food and drink. Several men were arranged around the prelate, some seated at the table, some standing. Nicholas was among them, as was Sir George.

  The ladies were noticeably absent, though Hugh was certain that Marguerite knew not only that Beaufort had arrived but also the names and ranks of each man with him.

  “Alldale,” Beaufort said as he picked up a large chunk of fowl and sank his teeth into it. “Didn’t know you were at Clairmont.”

  Hugh didn’t doubt it. He was certain the bishop had hoped to find Queen Catherine essentially alone. Unprotected from his political intrigues. “Your arrival is late, Your Eminence,” Hugh said. He forewent the usual obeisance, not kneeling to kiss the ecclesiastic’s ring. He’d known the old reprobate too long and too well to indulge in that particular formality.

  Beaufort bristled, but did not remark on Hugh’s breach of courtesy. Instead he merely commented on the coming storm. “Didn’t want to spend another soggy night in tents on the road, so we pushed on. Wrexton!” he called, turning to his right.

  A tall, sandy-haired man pushed himself away from the wall and came to stand next to Beaufort. His demeanor was disinterested but at the same time, his hazel eyes were cagey. A small sneer distorted what might have been a handsome mouth. Hugh had met many who wore that same sardonic look and he knew to be wary of the man. He would put nothing past him.

  “Edmund Sandborn,” the bishop introduced him, “Earl of Wrexton, meet Alldale.”

  Hugh nodded at the man. He’d heard of him, though he’d never met the earl. To Hugh’s knowledge, Wrexton had never given service in the French wars, choosing instead to pass all his time at his estates near the Welsh border or occupied in various amusements in London. Though Wrexton looked as though he’d once been fit enough, there were lines of dissipation at the corners of his eyes, his mouth. To Hugh, he appeared to be a man accustomed to being indulged.

  “I’ve brought Darly, as well, you see.”

  And Hugh did see. He was vaguely surprised Viscount Darly had made it all the way here from London on such an arduous journey. The man was skinny as a post and looked as weak as a hatched chick. His skin was pale and his hair thinning across his shiny pate. Hugh wondered if he’d ridden all the way to Clairmont in the back of a cart.

  He caught Nicholas’s eye as if to ask, “This is my competition?”

  Nick shrugged.

  “Her Majesty is well, I trust?” Beaufort asked.

  Hugh gave a quick nod.

  “And my grand-nephew?”

  “Well enough,” Nicholas answered, saying as little as possible about the child.

  “It is rather dangerous, is it not,” Beaufort began, “for the queen to be so near the border without adequate protection?”

  “Your Eminence, there is more than enough protection here at Clairmont,” Nicholas said. “In fact, it was only a few nights ago when…”

  Hugh was content to let Nicholas spar with Beaufort while he sized up the bishop’s companions. There were several very capable-looking knights-at-arms, as well as the two noblemen. Hugh had to assume that additional m
en had made the journey with Beaufort, as well. They were probably out in the barracks with the other soldiers, finding food and beds away from the wet weather.

  What were Beaufort’s plans? Hugh recalled that Darly had begun to press his suit for Marguerite’s hand, so Wrexton had to be the bishop’s candidate as a husband for the queen. Was the man as malleable as Beaufort must think, or did Wrexton have his own intentions? From the look of the man, Hugh didn’t think Beaufort should trust him any more than he would rely on a defrocked monk.

  A footman entered the hall and spoke to Sir George, who then turned to address the guests. “Rooms have been made ready, Your Eminence, should you care to retire.”

  Beaufort stood and stretched. “I am weary,” he said, wiping his thick lips on a cloth. “A real bed will be a godsend tonight.”

  And as Beaufort and his party made their way up the stairs and to their rooms, Hugh pulled Nicholas aside.

  “I want to talk to you.”

  Chapter Eight

  A gentle, thoroughly saturating rain fell steadily all night. Siân couldn’t sleep. Terrified to let herself hope that Hugh intended to ask for her hand, she was nonetheless unable to keep from doing so. So she sat up half the night, perched on a chair by the long, narrow window. She gazed out over the darkened Clairmont fields, and listened to the light rain as it fell, cleansing the earth, enriching it.

  Siân wrapped a shawl snugly around her shoulders and pulled her knees up to her chin. It had been quite a day, she reflected. The harrowing confrontation with the two Scots had given her a whole new perspective on her life, and the things that were important.

  Siân realized that life was full of alternatives. She didn’t always have to choose the most expedient path, even if that was what Owen demanded.

  She was not going to St. Ann’s. Not now, not ever.

  Nor would she be a burden to anyone ever again. After her parents’ deaths, she’d been shifted around from uncle to uncle, then to her brother. Always just another mouth to feed, another body to clothe.

  No more. Siân was a capable person, intelligent and fit for employment in a noble house. Even if Hugh did not intend to wed her, Siân knew now that she would be able to make her own way in the world. Perhaps she could be a lady’s maid, or a children’s nurse, or even a companion to a wealthy lady. She was a Tudor, after all, descended from the councillors of David and Llewelyn, and the escheator of Angesley. Her own brother was the Keeper of the King’s Wardrobe.

  No one—not even Owen—could rightly scoff at her abilities.

  And the other…though Siân kept trying to push that to the back of her mind, it just wouldn’t rest. She’d never felt so alive, so much a part of someone as when Hugh had held her, kissed her. She would give almost anything to have the right to hold him always, to belong with him.

  Siân knew it was too much to ask.

  She couldn’t remember the last time things had gone well for her. From the time she’d been shipped off to Pwll after her father’s death until now, Siân could not remember a single time when her own wishes had come to fruition. In the past, she had always accepted her lot in life, never expecting anything more. But now that she knew Hugh’s caress…had felt his arms around her, his mouth on hers….

  She sighed. No wonder she couldn’t sleep. At this rate, it would be hours before she found any rest at all.

  “Your pardon, my lady,” the young maid said as she shook Siân early the next morning, “but the queen would like you to attend her—as soon as possible!”

  Siân dragged herself from the bed and dressed quickly. There was nothing she could do about the circles under her eyes. The queen would just have to accept her haggard appearance, she thought as she traversed the gallery that led to Catherine’s chambers. Siân couldn’t imagine what the queen wanted with her so early, especially when Clairmont was host to important guests from London. Not that the guests were stirring yet. It was likely they would sleep several hours more.

  After a quiet knock, Siân was given leave to enter the queen’s chamber.

  “Siân!” the queen exclaimed, her face flushed and pretty. “You are so prompt!”

  Movement from the far side of the room gained Siân’s attention, and she saw that it was Owen, sitting in a chair by the fire.

  “Owen…?”

  “We need your help, Siân,” Owen said as he stood and approached his sister. Siân thought he moved about Catherine’s chamber in a rather proprietary manner, considering that he was a mere servant of the queen. Though his post was an important one, Siân was surprised at what appeared to be a casual familiarity between her brother and the queen. It was odd she hadn’t noticed it before.

  “What can I do?” Siân asked.

  “Our plans are not entirely complete,” Catherine began. “But—”

  “We need you to take Henry away from Clairmont,” Owen said.

  “Away?” Siân asked, confused and taken aback. “Why? Where?”

  “It will only be temporary, Siân,” Catherine said. “The presence of the bishop of Winchester does not portend well for me…or for my son…”

  “He’s brought with him a nobleman,” Owen said, “…a likely husband for Her Majesty. If Beaufort doesn’t succeed in coercing the queen to marry this earl, then he will endeavor to remove Henry from Catherine’s custody, and get the council to appoint a guardian for him.”

  “Either way, His Eminence will gain a great deal of power.”

  Siân exhaled slowly. A thousand questions ran through her brain, but she could put words to only half of them. “Your Majesty…”

  “I know this is a difficult…unusual request, Siân,” Queen Catherine said as she walked to the open window where rain continued to fall upon the garden. The sun was not yet up, but when it finally dawned, Siân doubted there’d be much light.

  The queen twisted her hands in front of her, showing a nervousness that Siân had never seen in Catherine of Valois. The young queen had always struck Siân as completely calm and poised. Circumstances never seemed to ruffle her. “I know that if I am to succeed in thwarting Beaufort, I will need the help of someone as spirited and as…audacious…as you.”

  “Where will I take him?” Siân asked, overwhelmed by Catherine’s confidence in her. “And how…?”

  The queen’s shoulders relaxed as she realized that Siân’s questions indicated her agreement. Catherine embraced Siân lightly. “Thank you, Siân,” the queen said. “You have no idea…”

  “You will take him to Windermere Castle,” Owen said. “But tell no one.”

  “How will I get to Windermere?” Siân asked, even more confounded than ever. She’d heard of the place, knew that Hugh Dryden had come from there. “I know nothing of—”

  “One man will escort you.”

  “Alldale,” Catherine said. “He must be the one to go, even though he is betrothed to Marguerite.”

  Siân’s knees buckled. Hugh was betrothed? To Lady Marguerite?

  “Nicholas Becker will stay here,” Owen added, unaware of his sister’s shock and dismay at the news that Hugh was betrothed. He and Catherine were so fully preoccupied with their own plans and schemes that neither one noticed Siân’s sudden pallor, nor her sharp intake of breath. No human eye could see the shaft that pierced her heart. “Nick is more of a talker than Dryden anyway…We’ll need that skill to keep Beaufort off your trail.”

  “And you’ll need Dryden’s survival skills on the road to Windermere to keep Henri safe.”

  “Your Majesty,” Siân said, somewhat breathlessly. She needed to speak, to ask questions, with a clear voice. She would not succumb to tears, nor would she allow her brother to see the slightest weakness in her. “Would it n-not be better if Henri’s nurse accompanied him? It would be—”

  “Non, Siân,” Catherine said abruptly. “She is becoming…” She looked to Owen to supply the word.

  “Elderly.”

  Catherine nodded. “That is correct. Her age…She will not be able
to withstand a long, hard ride with mon petit Henri.”

  “Henry likes you, Siân,” Owen said. “He is familiar with you and you have a…a facility with children. You are our best choice.”

  “But Lord Hugh…” Siân protested. “If he is to wed Lady Marg—”

  “It is not official yet, Siân,” Owen said, “but it matters little. Dryden is the most qualified to escort Henry to Windermere. You are the best nurse for His Majesty. The two of you will go.”

  “And the earl…Hugh…has agreed to this plan?”

  “Siân,” Owen said with exasperation, “do not belabor the point. Even now, Dryden is preparing for the journey.”

  Siân swallowed and looked away. She didn’t know how far away Windermere was, how many days she and Hugh would have to journey together. Yesterday, she’d have gone anywhere with him. Now, it would be sheer torture to be near him, to know he belonged to another. To know she’d made a fool of herself with him the night before.

  “Just the two of us, then…with little Henry?”

  “Siân, it is the way Alldale functions best,” Catherine said. “‘Travel lightly and quickly,’ he said.”

  What choice did she have? She liked Catherine and adored little Henry. Siân glanced around the room, as if she would be able to somehow find a way out.

  But there was no escape. She would have to go to Windermere with Hugh.

  Siân packed her things in one bag with the help of a talkative little maid. The girl spoke of all the extra work to do in the castle, now that so many more fancy lords had arrived from London. “I’m glad I have the bishop under m’ care,” she said, “and not that awful Wrexton.”

  “Wrexton! The earl?” Siân gasped. “Edmund Sandborn?”

  “Aye, m’lady,” the maid replied. “Handsome fella he is, too, for an older gentleman.”

  Older gentleman? Older? Siân’s senses reeled. Wrexton here at Clairmont? It couldn’t be! But yes, he would be an older man now. Probably close to forty.