Dryden's Bride

by Margo Maguire

  Hugh suggested that Wolf return Henry to Siân as soon as she was mounted and, even through his haze of weakness, he could not help but note how her shoulders sagged with relief to get him back. Hugh hadn’t realized how attached she’d become to the boy, nor how difficult it would be for her to give him up.

  It was a wonder he could think of anything, though, with the pounding going on in his head. Somehow they made it to the castle, and Hugh managed to climb the steps and enter the great hall. Wolf preceded him, heading for the hearth where his duchess, Lady Kit, sat near the fire holding a small bundle. Two of Kit Colston’s ladies stood nearby, looking quite pleased with the world.

  Then the bundle let out a wail that pierced through Hugh’s sensitive skull and understanding dawned. Kit’s babe was born.

  The lady greeted her husband with a flash of the eyes and a radiant smile, and for the first time, Hugh had some notion of what it was that bound Wolf and Kit together. He was able to perceive the love and passion the two shared on a level that he’d never sensed before.

  And all from a look.

  Hugh didn’t know why it suddenly struck him now. After all, he was as close to Wolf as a brother, and Kit had become a sister to him, as well. It had been Kit who’d found him near death in the passage under the castle, and Kit who’d tended his wounds and nursed him back to health after Philip Colston had died. It seemed strange to him that he’d never before realized the strength of their devotion to each other.

  It must have been the bash on his head. If he continued with these foolish notions, he’d soon be seeing the saints stepping out of their stained glass and joining them near the fire.

  Kit turned slightly to greet whomever had arrived with her husband, and realized with surprise that it was Hugh who accompanied Wolf.

  “Hugh!” she said over the noise of the squalling newborn.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Hugh said, faltering slightly as he bowed. “I see you’ve been industrious in my absence.”

  “Hugh, you are not well,” Kit said, frowning, ignoring the man’s uncharacteristic attempt at humor. “What is it?”

  “It’s a long story,” he replied, fading fast. “Too long to tell now. I…I’m afraid I—”

  “Wolf,” Kit said, “help him to his room. Maggie, fetch a footman to help and send a maid on ahead to turn down the bed.”

  “No footman,” Hugh said. “I will manage on my own.”

  “Don’t be surly, Dryden,” Wolf said as he supported Hugh and helped him to the stairs. “You’ll take whatever assistance is offered. Kit, don’t get up,” he added for the benefit of his wife, who’d just been allowed downstairs after bearing his son. “Someone can go for Will Rose as soon as we’ve settled him.”

  Hugh staggered slightly when he saw Siân standing alone in the shadows of the great hall, with Henry in her arms. She’d held herself apart, Hugh realized with dismay, as if she might not be welcome.

  “Wolf…”

  “Kit will see to her,” Wolf said, noting the direction of Hugh’s glance. “She will be made comfortable.”

  “Will you join us, m’lady?” the woman asked Siân. She was as plain as a sparrow, but more friendly than any flitting bird. “Lady Kit bids you to come and sit, and warm yourself.”

  Siân had felt alone many a time. And this was no different from any of those times, she thought, as she tightened up what little backbone she had left. She still had little Parry, and he was a comfort to her, snoozing with his head tucked under her chin, and his thumb firmly planted in his mouth.

  “Thank you,” Siân said as she watched Hugh make his way up the imposing stone stairs of Windermere.

  “Maggie went to fetch the healer. Old William will take care of him,” the woman said as she took Siân’s elbow and led her to the hearth where the duchess sat with another young woman. “And he’s very good at his craft, so you needn’t worry.”

  “I—I’m not worried,” Siân said, wishing she were not quite so transparent. It was impossible not to show her concern, even though she knew it would be unwelcome. “It’s not my place to…”

  “Here we are,” the woman said. “Her Grace, the Duchess of Carlisle—”

  “Thank you, Emma,” the duchess said as she cradled her infant’s head against her breast. She was fair-skinned, with shimmering blond tresses intricately woven to crown her head. Green eyes as clear as glass greeted Siân, along with a charming, friendly smile. “I am Kit Colston. Please do not stand on ceremony,” she said. “Join me.”

  “Your Grace, it is an honor to meet you,” Siân said as she sat across from the duchess, feeling not nearly so alone any more. Lady Kit had a surprising ability to extend warmth and welcome, and a sense of belonging. “I am Siân Tudor,” she said quietly in deference to the child sleeping in her arms.

  “Of Wales?”

  Siân nodded.

  “I met Owen Tudor in London,” Her Grace said. “A relation?”

  “My brother,” Siân said. “He was raised English. I stayed in Wales with my uncles.”

  “I see,” the duchess said. The infant made suckling noises and its mother stroked its cheek. “What ails Lord Hugh? He was well when last we saw him.”

  “Your Grace—”

  “Please call me Kit,” the lovely woman said, “we are not so formal here at Windermere.”

  Siân nodded and shifted Henry slightly. She was unsure how much to say. “Lord Hugh and I…were sent to you from Clairmont.”

  “By whom?”

  “Queen Catherine,” Siân said quietly.

  “Your Grace,” Emma interjected tactfully. She’d been a close friend of Kit Colston’s since Kit’s arrival as a bride at Windermere over two years before, and she knew when the duchess needed privacy. “May I fetch Maggie to attend you? I am needed at home.”

  “Of course, Emma! I’m sorry, I lost all track of the time.”

  “As well you should, Your Grace,” Emma said with a laugh. “’Tis a fine and wondrous thing to suckle your firstborn son.”

  Kit smiled at her companion, and when she was left alone with Siân, she spoke. “You must tell me all. From events at Clairmont to Hugh’s infirmity. Leave out nothing.”

  A hot poultice made the wound in Hugh’s arm throb mercilessly, but the cool compress that lay across the lump on his head was soothing. He was shivering, but it didn’t stop him from recounting the events leading up to his arrival at Windermere.

  Wolf listened quietly, interrupting once or twice to clarify a point, then letting Hugh continue before he dozed off, which he did before very much time elapsed.

  “’Tis a nasty wound,” William Rose said quietly to Wolf, though Hugh could still hear them. “Just startin’ to fester.”

  “Will it heal?”

  Will shrugged. “He’s lived through worse, I daresay, but who ever knows?”

  After Henry awoke from his nap and broke his fast, he’d been pleased to meet little Eleanor Colston—the beautiful, blond princess Hugh had talked about. The little king was happy and very well situated, with Lady Kit doting on him as if he were one of her own children. Siân could see that Henry would be well cared for.

  Hugh was in good hands, as well. The healer knew his business, it seemed, and along with Lady Kit, they decided what concoctions to use to draw out the poison from the wound in Hugh’s arm. He was feverish and groggy, so he wasn’t even aware of Siân when she came into his room to visit.

  She sat with him for hours, making the most of this last opportunity to touch him as often as she could. She offered him sips of water, changed the poultice, freshened the compress for his head, and prayed for the fever to pass. And during the night, as Hugh lay with stuporous fever, Siân whispered all her hopes and dreams to him. She told him of wishes that could never be. She wept a little, too, and told him of her resolve to return to Clairmont and deal with Wrexton. Then she told him she loved him.

  And when there was nothing left to say, she went to find her own bed, satisfied that he hadn’t
understood a single one of the words that she’d uttered in Welsh.

  “Tell me, Siân,” Lady Kit said, “how you came to be entangled in all this court intrigue.” They sat together in Kit’s solar, as Henry played with “Princess El’nor,” and Kit’s five-day-old son, Bartholomew, lay sleeping in his cradle near his mother.

  Siân had been readily accepted as an intimate friend of the family, and honored as the one who’d valiantly saved Hugh’s life. “I suppose I just happened to be available,” she replied.

  “Come now, Siân. I know Catherine would not trust her son to anyone,” Kit said with a smile. “She must hold you in high regard.”

  That statement surprised and puzzled Siân. For most of her life, she’d thought of herself as merely a burden to others. She assumed Catherine had chosen her to accompany Hugh simply because she was available. She had no other responsibilities, nor would she be missed at Clairmont when Bishop Beaufort realized that King Henry was gone.

  “I—I suppose so,” she said as one faint line creased her brow. Her value to the queen was something to think about.

  “You certainly have a way with children,” Kit added. “Henry is very fond of you. He doesn’t like it when you’re out of his sight.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Siân replied. “But he misses his mother.”

  “That may be,” Kit said, smiling, “but Queen Catherine chose a worthy substitute. Even Eleanor is at ease with you, and she does not readily take to strangers.”

  “She is a sweet child,” Siân said wistfully, observing the way the two toddlers played. They played side by side, with Henry busily stacking blocks, and Eleanor rocking her own straw-filled “baby.”

  “And your spirit, Siân. Your courage…You know that Hugh Dryden would certainly have perished had you not intervened with the thieves as you did. He owes you his life.”

  “No,” Siân countered. “Lord Hugh owes me nothing. He has been very…fair…with me,” she said, hoping that the emotions she felt were not readily visible to Kit, who was studying her intently, though not unkindly.

  “Tell me,” Kit finally said at length, “how did Hugh fare with Lady Marguerite? Have the banns been read?”

  “N-no,” Siân replied, keeping her voice as steady as possible, and swallowing the lump in her throat before she spoke, “they have not. But as I have never been privy to the earl’s marital negotiations…”

  “So the betrothal is not yet official and binding?”

  “I…I do not know.”

  “Tell me of Lady Marguerite. Is she as beautiful as they say?”

  “Oh, yes,” Siân promptly replied, though she was unable to keep a slight tinge of bitterness from her voice. “Even more so. She is perfect in every way.”

  “Perfect?” Kit laughed, a pretty sound that fit the warmth and caring atmosphere of the room. “Who of us is truly perfect, Siân?”

  Kit Colston had obviously not met Marguerite Bradley.

  “We all have our imperfections,” Kit explained. “Even when everything appears exactly right, how can you ever know for certain that it truly is?”

  These were thoughts that had never occurred to Siân. Her own shortcomings had always been pointed out to her, with her aunts and uncles, and now Owen, contrasting her with the paragons around her. She had never even been a contender.

  “All any of us can really hope to do, is our best,” Kit continued. “We may fall short in one area, but excel in another.”

  Siân thought of all the areas in which she fell short. The account was overwhelming. From her clothes to her hair, from housekeeping skills to piety, she was sadly lacking.

  “I am fortunate that my husband does not expect perfection from me,” Kit said, “for he would be sorely disappointed.”

  “Oh, but—”

  “By the same token,” Kit proceeded, “perfection can be a difficult thing to live with. What would I do with a husband who never erred? And what’s worse, what need would he have of me?”

  “I’ve never thought…” Siân began, then stopped herself. She knew naught of what men and women expected of marriage. She only knew what she would want—a man who was kind and slow to anger. Someone she could cherish, and who would cherish her, and make her feel whole. Someone who needed her to the roots of his soul.

  But the one man who could have been all of those things was pledged to another.

  “I’ve never considered the question before, Your Grace,” Siân finally said. “But I don’t imagine it will be difficult for Lord Hugh to live at Clairmont with Lady Marguerite.”

  “Will she make him happy?”

  “Happy? …I—I could not say,” Siân replied, hardly trusting her voice not to betray the tumult of emotions going on within her. Whether or not Marguerite Bradley could make Hugh happy had nothing to do with her. He was bound to Marguerite, and he would honor his pledge.

  The baby started to fuss and Kit picked him up, gently bouncing him in her arms. “Can Lady Marguerite…accept Hugh’s imperfections?”

  What imperfections? Siân wanted to shout. A few old injuries? The man was fair and just. He had more goodness and honor in him than most men she knew. He was gentle and kind and he’d rescued her more times than she cared to count. “I am certain Lady Marguerite will accept Lord Hugh in every way,” she finally said.

  Kit seemed to ponder Siân’s words as she attended the baby, and when she spoke again, it was on another subject. “What will you do now, Lady Siân—now that you’ve gotten Henry to safety?”

  “M-my future is uncertain, Your Grace,” Siân replied. “My brother arranged for the Abbey of St. Ann to take me as a postulant,” she said without noticing Kit’s look of surprise. “But…I’ve decided not to go.”

  “I cannot say as I blame you, Siân,” Kit said as she sat down with her son in a comfortable chair by the fire. “You seem wholly unsuited to a nunnery.”

  “But I must find employment of some sort,” she said, “to earn my keep.” How and when that would happen, she did not know. She still felt compelled to return to Clairmont but did not know how she would manage that, either. There were so many details to consider, consequences to prepare for.

  Kit opened her gown and put the baby to breast. “Then you do not care to marry?”

  “No, it’s n-not that…” she stammered, watching Kit perform a loving task that Siân had long since abandoned every hope of doing for her own child one day. “I m-might have considered it once, but…” But after she accomplished the murder of Wrexton, her fate was unsure. She would likely have to return to Wales to find refuge, somewhere far, far away from Clairmont.

  Away from Hugh Dryden and his wife.

  “Surely there is a man somewhere in the kingdom who would make a suitable husband for you,” Kit said, apparently unwilling to let the subject drop. “Wolf and I know several marriageable men—”

  “No!” Siân said.

  Kit looked up at Siân’s sharp rejection of marriage. “Then you are otherwise engaged? You…care for someone? Is he already married…or…betrothed?”

  Siân shook her head and wished she were a better liar. “No,” she replied, her voice sounding too breathless as she stumbled over her words. “It’s just that I…well, I’m not well suited to m-marriage.”

  Kit’s brows knitted together with disbelief. “Why would you think such a thing, Siân?”

  She shook her head helplessly. This was not at all the direction Siân wanted the conversation to go. She did not want to recount all the reprimands her brother had given her since their reunion, nor discuss any of the other deficiencies she recognized in herself.

  “You have a number of valuable qualities, Siân, not the least of which are your faithfulness and loyalty. Yet you seem set on underestimating yourself.”

  “But I’ve never…M-my family always…”

  Kit frowned. “Families are not always best qualified to measure our worth. Each of us must do that for ourselves and by our own standards.”

  Ch
apter Thirteen

  Three days after Hugh’s arrival at Windermere, he got out of bed, dressed, and went in search of the young woman whose face haunted his waking hours, as well as those while he slept.

  “’Tis good to see you up and about, Lord Hugh,” one of the footmen said when he arrived in the great hall.

  Hugh nodded to the man and asked, “Have you any idea where I might find His Grace?”

  “I am not sure, my lord,” the servant replied.

  “What about Lady Siân?” he asked.

  The footman shook his head. “I have not seen her today, my lord.”

  Hugh turned and made a cursory search of the main floor of the castle. No one had seen Siân, so he had to assume she was with Kit in her rooms, probably occupied with Henry.

  Still feeling the effects of the fever and infection, he climbed the stairs again and headed for Kit’s solar. When he finally arrived, he found Kit and Wolf, together with their children and the little king.

  “Hugh!” Kit said when she looked up and saw him in the doorway.

  “Hew!” Henry cried, and went running to him. “Up!”

  Hugh picked up the child and walked into the room.

  “You appear decidedly better, my lord,” Kit said, frankly surprised at his affability and ease with the child. Hugh had always been one to keep to himself, and he’d been utterly taciturn in the last months before his departure for Clairmont. This attachment between the man and boy was wholly unexpected. “I wondered how long I’d be able to keep you down.”

  Hugh shrugged. “I’m looking for Siân.”

  “She’s not here,” Wolf said, “but it’s high time you met my son.”

  Hugh had never seen Wolf looking more proud or noble. Except, perhaps, when his daughter, Eleanor Bridget, had been born.

  The infant was alert, with a shock of black hair, in direct opposition to the towheaded fairness of his sister. But their eyes would be alike, Hugh thought, the bright green they’d inherited from their mother.

  “Bartholomew is rather a large appellation for one so small,” Hugh said as he looked back at the babe’s father.