Why hadn’t she guessed? In retrospect, it should have been obvious that Hugh and Lord Nicholas had arrived at Clairmont for some reason. She just hadn’t stopped to think what it was.
Now she knew. All those evenings he’d sat next to Marguerite at the dais…the afternoons spent in her solar…How could she have been such a dunce? Thinking he might care…finding that he was betrothed to the most beautiful, most cultured woman in all England. They were perfectly suited to one another. Both were quiet and reserved. Hugh was the perfect masculine foil to Marguerite’s stunning femininity.
Why hadn’t she realized it before she’d made a fool of herself?
They spent some time fooling with the toad. Henry calmed down enough for Hugh to talk to him, and explain that he was going on an adventure, that he would soon visit a little princess at her castle. The things he said seemed to pacify the child enough to allow them to continue on their journey, which they did. Hugh carried the king on his lap and they increased their pace, hoping to reach the manor house of a friend before nightfall.
Siân felt worse after the short interruption of their journey. She was on edge, having spent too much time thinking. She’d forced the door closed on thoughts of Hugh, but that left her preoccupied with memories of the incident in Pwll, her guilt over the deaths of her young friends.
Siân’s blood boiled anew. How had she allowed herself to be foiled in her purpose? If anyone in the kingdom deserved killing, it was Wrexton, and she’d had the perfect opportunity. Siân knew she could have done it quietly, with no one the wiser. She could have rid the world of that awful man, then sneaked back out of his room and left Clairmont forever.
Why had Hugh interfered? Why couldn’t he have let her complete her anointed task? Now, she would just have to return to Clairmont when she was through at Windermere, and finish Wrexton off as she should have done that morning.
With her return in mind, she kept careful track of the road and all the landmarks. Since she would return to Clairmont alone, Siân would not be able to rely on Hugh’s sense of direction.
The day’s ride was difficult for Siân, who was unaccustomed to riding horseback for such long stretches of time. Naturally, her physical discomfort did not work toward abating her ill temper.
It was not easy for Henry, either, a typical child who needed freedom to play and exercise his little legs. By nightfall, he was squirming and whining so much Siân didn’t think they’d be able to go any farther.
But Hugh cajoled Henry into riding just a little longer, and soon they came upon a large, gracious house with a thatched roof. Lights were burning in the windows and, though it looked warm and welcoming, Siân was leery of approaching. They had to be cautious of who saw them, even if they had to eschew a warm bed indoors.
Not that that would have been the best thing for Henry—or herself, for that matter. It was quite cold now that the sun was setting and Siân knew it would become much colder as the night progressed. A warm and cozy bed was nothing to scorn when she was cold as well as sore.
“What place is this?” she asked Hugh.
“Down!” Henry cried.
“All right,” Hugh said to Henry, “you can get down soon.” He looked at Siân. “This is Morburn Manor. It’s the house of Chester Morburn, an old friend. We’ll be able to stay the night.”
“Shouldn’t we avoid—”
“Chester can be trusted,” Hugh replied. “No one will ever know we’ve been here.”
Siân had her doubts about that, but she followed Hugh into the yard. She’d been told to trust Hugh’s instincts, and at this point, she had little choice. There was no further thought about it, though, when the front door opened and a tall, thin fellow with light hair appeared, carrying a branch of candles. He had the bearing of a soldier and an attitude of wary welcome.
“Morburn!” Hugh called as he urged his horse forward.
“Dryden? Is that you, man?”
“It is,” Hugh replied. He rode up to the front of the house with Siân right behind him. “I’ve brought friends.”
“So I see,” he replied, stepping back in the doorway and setting the candles somewhere inside. “Joan!” he called, then walked down the steps to greet his guests.
Morburn first helped Siân dismount, who immediately went to take Henry from Hugh.
“Where is the princess, Siân?” Henry asked after Siân had let him down.
“Come, little Parry,” Siân said, taking the little boy’s hand, “let’s visit the privy, then we’ll talk about the princess.” She had no idea what princess Henry was talking about, and glanced suspiciously back at Hugh. Had he been telling tales of princesses?
“Never thought to see you outside Windermere’s gates,” Morburn said when Siân had left.
Hugh did not reply. He’d never thought to find himself out in the world again, either, much less caught up in the intrigues of court. Yet here he was, stopping murders in the morning, harboring a runaway child-king in the evening.
“You are well, then?”
Hugh gave a quick nod as Morburn’s wife came out to welcome the guests. Chester introduced his wife to his old friend. “You’re no more talkative than you ever were,” Morburn said.
Hugh shrugged as he pulled saddlebags off the horses and handed them to Chester, who set them inside the house as if it were a common occurrence for old friends to drop by of a night. “We’re on our own here, Hugh,” Morburn said, “no servants yet. So you’ll have to help me with the packs and the horses.”
Siân soon returned with Henry. Hugh took charge of the horses, but before he and Chester led them to the stable to bed them down, he stopped to introduce Siân to their hosts.
“Siân Tudor, this is Baron Chester Morburn and his wife, Lady Joan,” he said. “His Majesty is, without doubt, more interested in food than protocol.”
“His Majesty?” Joan queried, understanding what had been said, but hardly believing it.
“Say hello, Henry,” Siân said to the squirming toddler in her arms.
“No, Siân,” Henry whined. “Down!”
Joan Morburn regained her composure quickly. “Would you care to come in? You’ll pass the night with us, won’t you?”
“Thank you for your kind offer,” Siân replied as she followed Joan inside. “We will stay if it’s no inconvenience.”
It looked as if Joan and her husband had already supped. The table in the big room was clean, but there were tempting aromas emanating from somewhere.
“Eat, Siân!” Henry said, pulling on Siân’s skirts.
“We will, Parry,” Siân responded. She was hungry, too. “Soon.”
“We have plenty,” Joan said as she led the way to the kitchen in the back. She tied on an apron and took several pieces of covered crockery off a shelf, and began pouring the contents into cooking pans. “But we have no servants as yet. Chester and I only recently came to the manor, and there is still much to be done.”
Joan was a pleasant-looking woman with light brown hair and freckles across her nose. Siân noticed a slight rounding of her belly under the apron, and felt a pang of jealousy which she quickly brushed aside. Joan was a friendly sort, and seemed glad for Siân’s company. She said she had little contact with other women since coming to the manor and missed it.
“Especially now that I’m with child,” Joan explained. “We have workmen coming in to make repairs to the house and stable, but Chester hasn’t been able to hire any household help yet. I would dearly love to talk with another woman—someone who has born babies.”
“Well, that would not be me,” Siân said, hating the wistful tone of her words. “Though one of my aunts was midwife in my village. I attended many a birth with her,” she added in a more agreeable manner.
“Oh!” Joan said, placing a hand over her heart. “Mayhap…we could talk some…later on…I have a question or two…”
“Certainly,” Siân said. “I’ll endeavor to answer them, but I’m not nearly as knowledgeable as a true
midwife.”
“Oh, but any talk will help,” Joan pleaded. “I’ve had no one really, but my husband, and he is not inclined to speak of anything but the strong and fierce son he will have once I’ve birthed him.”
Siân smiled. Morburn was like the men in her village, she thought. No care to the nurturing of the babe within, all hopes riding on the birth of a strong and healthy son. She supposed that was how nature intended it to be and wondered how Hugh would behave once Marguerite was with child. Would he be attentive to his wife, or would all his thoughts be directed toward the child once it was born?
These were not easy thoughts to entertain, and Siân was glad of the interruption when Joan spoke. “How do you come to be here? With…with H-Henry?” Joan asked, clearly baffled at how to treat the boy. As her monarch? Or as a tired and cranky toddler?
“It all has to do with politics,” Siân answered, unsure of how much she was at liberty to say. “Very convoluted, very dull.”
“More, Siân!” Henry cried, stuffing the last bit of bread into his mouth.
“Chew what you have, little man,” Siân said.
The stew heated quickly, and while Henry was being fed, Hugh and Chester returned from outside and went upstairs. The two women listened to the footsteps from above, and Joan mentioned that the men were probably making up pallets to sleep on. Siân and Joan chatted amiably together and the little king soon fell asleep on Siân’s shoulder. She finally carried him up the stairs to find him a bed.
Hugh was alone in the first room, building a fire in the grate.
Siân stood at the doorjamb, watching him, admiring the play of muscles across his back and shoulders as he added wood to the fire. The day’s tension rolled out of her as she watched Hugh, replaced by a bone-deep weariness that settled into her.
Hugh turned and saw her caressing the little boy’s head with her lips. He could hear whispered, loving words spoken in Welsh, words that held no meaning for him. Standing abruptly, Hugh stepped over to Siân and gently took the sleeping child from her arms. And without ado, he tucked Henry into bed.
“I think I’ll retire now, as well,” Siân said quietly. “I’m too tired to eat.”
Hugh hesitated. She looked frail in that moment, her skin too pale, and dark circles under her eyes. There was no doubt she needed rest, but she needed nourishment just as badly.
“Is this to be my bed, too?” she asked.
Hugh nodded. “If you don’t mind sharing.”
Siân paused, feeling awkward with the moment. “N-not at all.”
“You should eat something.”
“I’ll wait till morning,” Siân said. Then she grinned sleepily. “By then, I will probably feel like eating one of the horses.”
Chester’s great room was comfortably warm, and Hugh’s stomach was pleasantly satisfied. Joan was an excellent cook. He realized that she was with child, and the familiar, affectionate way the couple treated each other gave Hugh a moment’s pause. For an instant, he wondered how it would be to enjoy the comfortable companionship of his own wife as his child grew within her.
Hugh discarded the thought immediately. Companionship and affection would have no place in his marriage, nor did they constitute good reason to wed. His betrothal to Marguerite would be satisfactory because she was an accomplished woman who would require very little from him, which was well and good since that was all he had to give.
“What do you hear of Nicholas Becker?” Morburn asked as his wife refilled his cup.
Hugh declined any more of the warmed wine. “He’s at Clairmont,” he said, “trying to keep Beaufort from discovering that Henry’s gone.”
“How?”
Hugh shrugged. “You know Nick,” he said. “Gabs like an Irishman.”
“Yes, but—”
“He and the queen will buy us a day or two by telling Beaufort the boy’s ill, or some such,” Hugh said. “It’s doubtful the bishop will insist on seeing him…”
“But possible?”
“Of course,” Hugh replied. “Anything’s possible. But I think we should be able to get to Windermere and have Henry under Wolf’s protection before Beaufort or anyone else can overtake us.”
“Wolf will protect him as his own,” Chester remarked.
“Aye,” Hugh replied. “He will.”
“What about Wrexton?” Morburn asked. “Why was he with Beaufort?”
“Do you know him?”
“A little,” Morburn replied. “His estate is well south of here, beyond Windermere. It borders Wales.” Hugh gave no outward reaction to that news, but his ears perked up. “Joan can tell you. She’s from down Stafford way so she knows more of him.”
Hugh looked to Joan for confirmation. Joan blushed and lowered her eyes. She nodded quickly, nervously, her manner indicating she would prefer not to speak of him.
“Wrexton was…” She frowned a bit and looked to Chester for help, but none was forthcoming, other than the urging in his eyes. “He was…unkind to the nearby Welsh towns. Well, perhaps a bit more than unkind. He was at times, brutal.”
“How so?” Hugh asked.
“Well, after the rebellion, and the Welsh were put down, there were some Englishmen who felt it was their duty to personally persecute the ‘traitors’—meaning all the Welsh.”
“Glendower’s rebellion?”
Joan nodded.
“But that was what? Twenty years ago?” Hugh said, frowning. “Wrexton can’t be much older than me. Mayhap ten years or so.”
“I don’t know, my lord,” Joan said, “I never saw the man. But I know of Englishmen who, to this day, harbor resentment for the Welshmen who rose with Glendower against the king. Wrexton lost his family during the rebellion. It’s why he hates the Welsh. And beyond that…Edmund Sandborn has a reputation for cruelty.”
Hugh’s thoughts returned to the woman he’d left upstairs. Had she experienced Wrexton’s legendary brutality? He frowned. He couldn’t imagine any other reason for Siân to attempt to murder the man.
Still puzzled, Hugh stood. He thanked Joan for the meal and both of them for their hospitality. Then he bid them good-night.
Climbing the stairs, Hugh’s puzzlement changed to a certainty that Wrexton had committed some unforgivable cruelty against Siân or, more likely, against someone she loved. He couldn’t imagine her committing a violent act against any man—unless that man was guilty of a crime committed against an innocent.
He tapped lightly on the door, gently enough not to disturb her if she was asleep. She did not answer, so Hugh pushed the door open and went to the grate. Crouching down, he banked the fire, then stayed a moment, basking in the warmth of the room. He finally allowed himself to look at Siân, sleeping so peacefully with the little boy tucked protectively in her embrace.
One of her fine, delicate shoulders was exposed, with only the soft linen ties of her underclothes to shield her. The silky mane of her russet hair was loose about her face, framing its perfection with tiny, untamable tendrils.
Henry kicked in his sleep, and Siân sighed but slept on, raising one arm to rest above her head. And at the sight of that bared arm, everything inside Hugh urged him to shed his clothes and lie down with her. That vulnerable length of smooth, flawless skin made him think of the rest of Siân’s body as he’d seen it, felt it, the night before—soft and smooth, warm and inviting.
He could spend the night just holding her there, keeping her warm and safe, sharing the intimacy of sleep. Their breaths would intermix once again, and he would relearn the sensations of her legs resting against his, her breasts against his chest.
As she slept, a small frown marred her perfect brow. Hugh reached over and lightly brushed a bit of hair from her face. An impossible tenderness filled him.
Could he lie with her and not want her? Was he just asking for torment in being so near, yet so impossibly far away? Hugh looked at her lips, parted in sleep, and remembered her taste, her passionate sighs.
He stood up quickly. This woul
d never do. He had to get away from here and find his own bed before he made an irrevocable mistake. He walked to the door, then turned to look at her again.
No. He had not the power of will to be so close, and still resist her.
Knowing he must, Hugh left Siân to her slumber.
Chapter Ten
The nightmare woke her. Siâan hadn’t had the dream since her reunion with Owen. Not that Owen had caused the dream, Siân thought. Common sense told her it was all the recent upheaval in her life that had brought the awful dream back.
It was still deep night and Henry was sleeping soundly, each of his breaths audible to Siân’s ears. She got out of bed and shivered with the chill of the room. After adding more fuel to the fire, she ran her hands up and down her arms to warm them.
The unpleasant aura of the dream hung on. Her stomach growled with hunger. Now that she’d taken the edge off her exhaustion with a few hours’ sleep, Siân realized she’d never be able to go back to sleep until she ate something. Intent on finding a slice of bread for herself, or perhaps an apple, Siân wrapped herself in an extra blanket, then lit a taper and quietly left the room.
Joan Morburn’s kitchen was in perfect order. Siân remembered where everything was kept, so she took out the remains of a loaf, found a knife, and sliced a piece of bread. So intent on her purpose, she did not hear anyone behind her until she turned to reach for the butter crock, high on a shelf.
“Siân,” Hugh whispered before she had a chance to be startled and perhaps wake the entire household.
Siân gave a little squeak of surprise anyway, and dropped her blanket. “Hugh!” she gasped. “You scared me!”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
His form was cast in shadows, her flickering taper providing very little light. Siân could not help but notice, however, that he was nearly naked. Somewhere in her rational mind, she realized that her stirring about must have awakened Hugh and he’d come to investigate.
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