Dryden's Bride

by Margo Maguire

  Siân couldn’t possibly leave Clairmont now, not when she had such a clear opportunity to kill the man. He wouldn’t recognize her after all these years, would never dream of an intruder breaching his chamber and putting a knife between his ribs. It would be a quick, clean death, with Wrexton barely aware that it was Siân Tudor herself who wrought her revenge.

  Or should she let him suffer? Make him die slowly and painfully for all the agony he’d caused to the people of Pwll?

  “Where have they put all the new guests, Aggie?” Siân asked, careful to keep her voice even, controlled. “I didn’t think there were any chambers left at all with—”

  “No, no, m’lady,” Aggie replied with a chuckle. “There’s still plenty o’ room. The bishop has the rooms to the north end of the wing. Wrexton is just to his east. He has a lovely view o’ the garden…none of the stink o’ the stables.”

  It was just what Siân needed to know. Now all she had to do was find a suitable weapon, deal with Wrexton, and be off. No one would be the wiser, and she would be well on her way to Windermere before anyone realized the evil earl was…

  Siân swallowed hard. She wondered if she could do it. She’d never killed anyone before. She wasn’t prone to violence, though she knew she could do what she must in order to survive. Siân hated Wrexton with every drop of blood that coursed through her body, but she didn’t know if she’d be able to deal a killing blow to the man, unprovoked. She thought about creeping up on Wrexton whilst he slept, and jamming a knife through his…heart? His neck? His back?

  “I’m about through, Aggie. You can go,” Siân said abruptly, closing the straps on her canvas bag. She had few belongings, so there was not much to pack. She was all nerved up now, thinking about Wrexton, and how she would manage to murder the man.

  And it would be murder. Cold-blooded, too. Just like the murders of Dafydd and Idwal. Perhaps more justified, but murder nonetheless. Oh, heavens. The murder of an earl.

  Siân shuddered as if a chill wind had just blown through the room.

  “Well, I’m sending all m’ prayers wi’ you, Lady Siân,” the maid said, causing Siân’s heart to jump to her throat. “And asking that you offer some up for me when you reach the abbey.”

  Siân bit her lip. The prayers of a murderess? Dear God.

  They’d given out the story that she was off to St. Ann’s with the earl of Alldale instead of her brother. Siân was reluctant to lie to Aggie, especially about prayers from the abbey. But it couldn’t be helped. For Henry’s sake, and for her own, they had to throw any possible pursuers off the trail, if only for a couple of days. “I’ll…always keep you in my prayers, Aggie,” Siân said finally, feeling desperately guilty even before the deed was done.

  The maid left and Siân looked around her room. Everything was packed. The room was clean. There was no indication she’d ever been there at all.

  Just like her life, she thought. Never a sign that she’d been anywhere at all.

  Though he had only the skeleton of a plan, it didn’t bother Hugh. That’s the way he’d always worked, and what had worked best for him. He knew his goal, and he’d use his instincts to get to it. Going back to Windermere was simple.

  Traveling with Siân would not be.

  Hugh supposed he couldn’t avoid it. He couldn’t carry Henry the entire way to Windermere himself, and he didn’t know anything about little children. What did they eat? When did they sleep? And what about their, er, bodily functions? He supposed he should be grateful that a woman was coming along to deal with all that, but still…Siân.

  Siân. Just the thought of her made every fiber and muscle in his body clench.

  For the hundredth time, Hugh shoved thoughts of what had transpired between them to the back of his mind, and continued packing the food and other supplies they’d need into the leather saddle packs. He couldn’t afford to think of her in that way, nor could she continue thinking of him as a would-be lover. He couldn’t be. He would soon be the husband of Marguerite Bradley, stepfather to her son, John. He would not dishonor the vows he would soon make to Lady Marguerite, nor would he sully Siân.

  But thinking of the two women at once made Hugh wonder how the rest of his life would be with Marguerite. Of a certainty, she was beautiful and well versed in the womanly arts. She could keep house and order the servants, present herself and her household well. Those were important things. Those had been the only things Hugh had considered before, when Wolf convinced him to offer for her hand.

  Hugh’s perceptions were rather different now. He’d experienced Siân’s passion, her extraordinary responsiveness to his touch. Was there another woman in all of England who was so free and open with her affections as Siân, yet so faithful and devoted?

  Would Marguerite ever learn to suffer his touch without being repulsed?

  Hugh doubted it, but it was irrelevant now. He had offered for Marguerite and when he returned to Clairmont, she’d be his bride.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of two knights on horseback. Hugh was near the courtyard, behind the stables with his own horse, as well as the gentle mare Siân would ride. Dawn approached and the light was weak. Luckily, the rain had stopped.

  “My lord,” one man said as he dismounted. “Sir George gave us orders to report to you here.”

  “You are prepared to travel for several days?”

  “Aye, my lord,” the other man said. “Just give us our destination and we’ll be off.”

  Hugh told them to hie themselves to St. Ann’s, and to stay in the vicinity of the abbey for a few days before returning to Clairmont. He also suggested that they keep to themselves and avoid towns and other travelers along the way.

  The two knights departed Castle Clairmont as part of a patrol so as not to arouse suspicion if anyone asked about the comings and goings through the gate. Hugh had yet to figure out how he was going to get the little king past the castle walls.

  He secured the horses’ reins to a post, then headed toward the rear of the stone fortress. Siân should be ready by now, he thought as he walked through the great hall and toward the steps of the castle. “Lord Hugh,” came a voice, along with the sound of footsteps behind him.

  It was Sir George.

  “When do you depart?” the steward asked.

  Hugh glanced up at the windows toward the early morning sunlight that was just now creeping up over the horizon. “As soon as possible,” he replied. “I just have to gather Lady Siân and…the, uh—”

  “Your lordship, I will be going to the gatehouse presently. I’ve spent a restless night and did not sleep well,” Sir George said, as if for an audience. “The insomnia…often plagues me and it will surprise no one when I relieve the guard at the gate.”

  Hugh nodded, taking the steward’s meaning. Neither man was about to speak frankly of what Hugh was about to do, for fear that an outsider might inadvertently hear what was afoot. Very few knew of the plan, not even the knights who were, even now, on their way to St. Ann’s.

  It was good news that Sir George Packley would be at the gate. Hugh knew he would still have to conceal Henry, but not to the extent that would have been necessary had the gate been manned by another knight.

  “I bid you farewell, then,” George said, “and God speed you on your journey.”

  Hugh thanked him, then turned and walked up the stairs in order to find Siân and to take Henry from his mother, the queen. He assumed it would be difficult for Catherine to bid adieu to her child, and hoped she managed to have it done before he arrived to take the boy from her.

  When Hugh arrived at Siân’s room, he gave a light tap on the door. Receiving no answer, he went in and found the room empty of her belongings but for a canvas bag on the floor, all packed and ready to go. Momentarily puzzled, he stepped back out of Siân’s room and started toward his own chamber. Perhaps she’d gone there to meet him, he thought, thinking again of their encounter in his room the night before.

  He doubted he’d ever be able
to forget her wild mane of shining hair, or those glistening eyes. The fullness of her breast in his hand, the softness of her lips on his were memories that would be forever burned into his mind. He wondered if Marguerite would give so freely of her body, her soul, as Siân Tudor did.

  An odd glint of light caught Hugh’s attention as he approached his room. There was someone in the corridor near Beaufort’s chambers. Hugh moved closer and saw that it was Siân.

  Mystified by her presence here, and her stealthy movements, Hugh approached her quietly.

  As she put one hand on the door latch to Wrexton’s chamber, Hugh saw that she carried a long, wicked-looking kitchen knife. She lifted the latch and crept silently inside.

  “Siân!” he whispered fiercely as he approached her, but she didn’t hear.

  Hugh knew it was madness, but he followed her into the chamber. The bed curtains were pulled aside to reveal a sleeping, loudly snoring Wrexton. The stale, putrid smell of old ale permeated the room and the earl was quite obviously in a drunken stupor.

  A woman slept alongside Wrexton, but Hugh did not recognize her. She may have been one of the serving maids, or someone from the village…Hugh did not know. Nor did he know which of the pair was Siân’s intended victim.

  As Siân approached the bed, Wrexton snorted and turned, but did not awaken. His movements startled Siân, and gave her a moment’s pause, but then she crept closer, her hand in a death grip around the knife. The sleeping woman moaned and then quieted, and still Siân moved toward them.

  Hugh gained on her. Siân raised the knife, and held it with a shaking hand, poised to strike. She hesitated long enough for Hugh to grab her knife hand. As he did so, Siân gasped and dropped the knife, momentarily awakening Wrexton. The earl opened his groggy eyes, lifted his head slightly, looked at her hazily and dropped his head back down onto the bed.

  Hugh grabbed Siân around her waist and covered her mouth with his hand, then pulled her silently out of the room. He let go long enough to pull the door closed behind him, then half led, half dragged Siân down the gallery until they reached her room.

  “Are you mad?” he demanded in hushed tones.

  Siân shook her head defiantly. Her cheeks were pale, and her lips absolutely colorless.

  “Then what is this about?” he continued fiercely but quietly, pacing the room, raking his hair back with one hand. He was dumbfounded. “Why? Why in kingdom come would you…?”

  “I—”

  “You thought to murder Wrexton in his bed!” he answered for himself, hardly able to believe the vision of his one good eye. He’d never have thought her capable of it, never have believed there was a murderous bone in her body. And Wrexton! Of all people, she’d attempted the murder of an earl!

  Siân nodded. Her chin, though she’d raised it bravely, trembled. One tear spilled over. She looked terrified, yet resolute.

  It seemed a natural thing for him to pull her into his arms, but Hugh held back. He would not be swayed by her tears. He’d resolved to keep his distance from Siân Tudor, and he would satisfy his vow.

  “There is no time for this,” Hugh said more gruffly than he intended as he bent over and picked up Siân’s bag. Whatever her reason for wanting to kill Wrexton, there was no time to dwell on it now. “We must leave right away. Before the guests stir. And before you can get into any more trouble. I don’t think Wrexton saw my face, but we can only hope he didn’t see yours.”

  Chapter Nine

  Henry was a sleepy little boy that morning.

  Not at all did he seem to mind the game he was about to play with Siân and Hugh. He hugged his mother, who remained stoically poised as she said goodbye, then crawled into a blanket-lined basket, put his thumb in his mouth and pretended to sleep. Siân hoped the boy would remain quiet as they carried his little basket out to the courtyard and hoisted him onto the back of her horse.

  Hugh hoped they could get away without Wrexton calling an alarm. With any luck, the earl’s drunken stupor would prevent him from realizing how close he’d come to losing his life that morning.

  All they had to do was get past the gate without Henry being seen. As far as everyone knew, Hugh was taking Siân to St. Ann’s as planned, and the two knights who’d left Clairmont earlier would provide the tracks to substantiate that story.

  Hugh and Siân mounted their horses and rode slowly toward the gate, careful not to rouse anyone’s interest. The rather large basket that hung from one side of Siân’s horse roused no suspicions—it appeared to be just another piece of her baggage.

  It wasn’t until they were outside the gate and well past the edge of town that Siân allowed herself to breathe easily. The morning had been fraught with tension, and their “escape” from Clairmont had been nothing short of miraculous. Besides all else, Siân had had difficulty believing that the toddler in the basket could manage to remain quiet for that entire stretch of time—a stretch that had seemed an eternity to her.

  When they reached the woods on the northern edge of town, Hugh rode abreast of Siân and told her to halt. He reached over and unfastened the basket from her saddle, pulling it onto his lap.

  Inside, Henry slept, his thumb still firmly tucked inside his mouth. Siân might have smiled had her mood been different, but with all that had happened that morning, she could not. She was frustrated and angry with Hugh for thwarting her plan.

  Yet she felt strangely relieved.

  She’d fully intended to kill Wrexton. She had purposely gone down to the kitchen and found a suitable knife, then crept back to his chamber without being seen. At least, she’d thought no one had seen her. She’d had every intention of rendering the fatal wound as Wrexton slept, then slipping away with no one the wiser.

  Siân conceded that seeing the woman in Wrexton’s bed had thrown her off. What if the woman had awakened? Had started screaming?

  And the killing itself…Could she have done it? Siân chewed her lip. She felt shaky and nauseated all over again. Her palms were moist. Could she have taken the life of that horrible man?

  Wrexton truly was evil. He deserved to die for what he had done all those years ago to Siân’s friends. And who knew what other vile crimes he’d committed since then for which he deserved a death sentence? With a man like Wrexton, there had probably been plenty. Never before had Siân been in a position to do anything about him, and now she’d missed her chance.

  And after all was said and done, she didn’t know whether to thank Hugh or curse him for obstructing her in her purpose.

  “Shouldn’t we be going?” Siân asked peevishly. “I thought haste was imperative.”

  Hugh said nothing, just gritted his teeth and fastened Henry’s basket in front of his own saddle. He had no interest in catering to Siân’s mood this morning, as they had quite a number of miles to cover before reaching their destination at the end of the day. He was still baffled and astounded by his discovery of Siân with a knife in Wrexton’s room, but could not afford to get into a discussion about it now. Nor was he inclined to speak with her about what had transpired between them the night before. He wanted that pushed back to the farthest reaches of his memory, never to be thought of again.

  “We’ll continue north for a few miles until we reach the river,” he said.

  Siân silently acknowledged his words. She knew the plan was to make tracks toward St. Ann’s, then ride through a shallow stream that bordered Clairmont land, and double back through the water so their tracks would not easily be found. Then they would be free to head southwest, toward Windermere.

  Beyond that, she didn’t know what to expect. She’d only been told to trust Hugh.

  Luckily, it seemed neither of them was in a mood for talk.

  The little king slept over an hour. They’d gone several miles by the time he was up and asking for his maman.

  They stopped while Siân soothed him and got him food and drink. The little toddler didn’t understand why he could not see his mother, why she had not come with him. Then Hugh
disappeared into the woods and Henry started to cry, so Siân held him. She patted his back and called him “Parry,” the pet Welsh name that used to make him giggle.

  It was a ploy that didn’t work this time.

  Then Hugh reappeared. “Henry,” he said as he squatted down next to Siân and the tearful child. “Look.” He held a small toad in his cupped hands, and showed the boy. Henry’s crying slowed down slightly to a pattern of shaky breathing and hiccups. His tear-filled eyes took interest.

  Siân took an interest, too, but not in the toad. It was Hugh, and his instinct for giving gentle attention to the child. Many a man would have cuffed a two-year-old and been done with it, but not Hugh. He spoke softly to Henry and told him all about toads and how if you weren’t careful, they’d make warts grow on you.

  “Hew don’t have warts,” Henry said, pulling his thumb out of his mouth long enough to speak. “But your finger’s gone.”

  “That’s true,” Hugh replied. “But toads didn’t do that.”

  “What did?” Henry’s big hazel eyes looked innocently up at Hugh. “A snake?”

  Hugh shook his head. “It was a bad accident,” he replied without hesitation. “And it happened a long time ago.”

  “I sorry, Hew,” Henry said, sniffling. “Can I hold him? I don’t get warts, either.”

  Siân wondered how Hugh had lost the finger. In an accident? Not in battle? She couldn’t imagine what kind of accident would cause him to lose an eye, too, and make all the small scars she’d seen. She wouldn’t ask him, though. She didn’t really want to speak to him at all. Not after what he’d done that morning. And especially not after what she’d done the night before.

  She should have been dying of embarrassment. Siân had avoided thinking about her blunder of the night before, her awkwardly attempted seduction. She should have known a man like Hugh Dryden would have no interest in her—even for one night. Betrothed to a woman like Marguerite, Hugh had no need of a—what did Owen always call her?—an ill-kempt minx. A regretful laugh slipped out and Hugh glanced up at her. She turned quickly away, unwilling to let him witness her anguish.