Dryden's Bride

by Margo Maguire

  “Hugh!” Siân cried. “Behind you!”

  Hugh pushed her away as he turned and pulled the sword from his belt. He stood firm against the earl of Wrexton, a coward who would attack from behind.

  “Alldale,” Wrexton said menacingly. His own sword was drawn, and if it annoyed him to be discovered before he could get in the first blow, he did not show it.

  Siân could see that Wrexton was in better form than Hugh, having been well fed and rested these last few days, while Hugh had not. Her alarm increasing with every moment that passed she knew the fight would be grossly unfair.

  “You would sacrifice your life,” Wrexton said, punctuating the last word with the first strike of his sword, “for this bit of Welsh offal?”

  Hugh met Wrexton’s thrust with surprising strength and struck back, ignoring the inflammatory jab at Siân’s worth.

  One glance toward the hardwood forest told Siân that Marcus was unconscious, incapacitated, and of no help to Hugh. The soldiers were heavily engaged in fighting near the ridge. Siân stood away from Hugh, her body fraught with tension, but as she watched the two earls battle it out, Siân realized that Hugh was holding his own against Wrexton. She took heart as she watched him parry and thrust with the skill of a master swordsman, in spite of his wounds and weakened condition.

  She should have known! Wrexton was not nearly the seasoned soldier that Hugh was, but he seemed to have counted on Hugh’s wounds inhibiting him.

  It was not to be. Hugh defeated Wrexton conclusively, and when he had disarmed the winded and wounded earl, Hugh pushed him toward his men, who were still fighting desperately. “Tell them to halt,” Hugh ordered Wrexton.

  “Nay, Alldale,” Wrexton replied. “You will have to kill me first.”

  “Do not doubt that I will kill you, Wrexton,” Hugh said, “and our men will destroy yours. But you might spare some of their lives if you order them to halt.”

  “I will not.”

  Hugh shoved him to the edge of the battlefield. “Your last chance, Wrexton,” Hugh said. “Say it—”

  But before the earl made his response to Hugh’s demand, one of Wrexton’s knights turned and charged, his deadly sword pointed directly at Hugh’s unprotected chest.

  Siân screamed, but Hugh saw it coming and lunged aside, at the same time shoving Wrexton into the arc of the lethal sword. The blade ran him through, and Wrexton fell heavily to the ground.

  Silence and stillness swept over the men on the ridge until it reached the soldiers engaged at the farthest edge. None spoke as swords were resheathed and men split apart to walk away. The knight who killed Wrexton stood motionless over his lord, in shock over his misdeed.

  Shaken by what had just transpired, Siân went to Hugh’s side and linked her fingers with his.

  “We’ll raise camp here,” Douglas Henley said, directing men to set up tents high on the escarpment overlooking the river in the distance. “You’ll have your own, m’lady,” he added.

  Though she was beyond exhaustion, Siân did not want her own tent. She did not care to spend the remainder of the night alone. Not this night. In the morning, she would return to Pwll, and Hugh would begin his journey back to Clairmont.

  This would be their last night together, Siân thought, girding herself against the moment she would be compelled to part with the man who held her heart.

  She looked around the camp. Hugh had been taken away to have his wounds tended, as had Marcus, and Siân had not seen either man since then. She had wandered aimlessly around the camp, dazed and exhausted, wondering what to do, when finally she found herself retreating into her tent to clean herself up. After the ordeals of the day—especially after that final climb up the escarpment—she was grimy with dirt and sweat.

  Siân was able to stand inside the tent, but the space just barely accommodated her meager height. A mat of furs covered the ground, and a coarse, woolen blanket was folded at one end of it. One lonely bowl of wax with a lighted wick flickered, warding off total darkness. A bowl of water, along with several clean cloths lay on the ground in one corner.

  Siân wasted no time as she removed her clothes and washed. Someone had heated the water, so it helped to combat the chill that had sunk into her bones.

  “Siân.”

  She whirled instinctively at the deep, masculine voice that spoke her name, and tried, inadequately, to cover her nakedness with her hands. “Hugh…” she whispered, her eyes glistening.

  He ducked and took the two steps necessary to close the distance between them. “You are so beautiful,” he said, taking a lock of her hair and letting it run through his fingers. Her hands fell to her sides and he gazed hungrily at her in the glowing candlelight.

  Against all reason, she spoke her wish. “Kiss me, Hugh.”

  His mouth descended on hers and all the days and hours spent apart fell away. They were one again, and Siân intended to savor every moment. She ran her hands through his hair, teased the overlong mane at his nape with her fingers, pressed her bare body against his fully clothed one.

  Hugh groaned and lowered her to the fur-covered ground. His touch was untamed and possessive, and there was nothing reminiscent of the gentle lover who’d taken such care with her in the quiet, secluded chapel at Windermere. His mouth ravaged hers as his hands crushed her to him. She arched against him, her response eager, willing, and just as turbulent as his own.

  He filled his hands with her breasts, then moved his head down to lavish desperate attention on them with his lips, his tongue. Siân reveled in the scrape of his whiskers against her sensitive skin, writhed against his strong, hard body, flexed with tension. A knot of savage pleasure unfurled deep within her, and Siân responded with all the passion and vigor of her being.

  Hugh’s wounds did not impede him. He moved over her, using hands and mouth, teeth and tongue, to brand her as his own. Small fires erupted all through Siân as Hugh made love to her, fires that he stoked with every movement, every intimate touch, brought her ever closer to the pinnacle of sensation.

  He tore away his clothes and met her naked, skin to skin, claiming her with his first deep thrust. Braced above her, she saw fierce possession in his expression, and she cherished it, knowing that for this moment, they belonged only to each other.

  “Yes!” was her whisper.

  “Mmm,” was his moan. “Siân!”

  “Again,” she demanded.

  They were one as she gave him everything, and took all he could give. He moved with an urgency that grew with every second, every nuance of touch, every whispered word. They melded their bodies and souls together, and suddenly flared with impossible heat, until they caught fire and burned wildly over the precipice of ultimate sensation.

  She had never experienced anything so fierce, so profound.

  Hugh pulled her body close to his under the blanket. He wrapped himself around her, his chest and thighs to her back and buttocks, his warm breath stirring the hair near her ear. “Come to Alldale with me,” he said quietly, his voice thick and harsh.

  Siân did not answer. She had already decided to return to Pwll. There could only be heartache for Siân if she went to Alldale with him. She knew she could not bear to be near him after he made Marguerite his wife.

  “Do you hesitate, Siân?” Hugh asked.

  She swallowed loud enough for him to hear.

  “What’s this?” he asked. “Tears?”

  “W-when you wed Marguerite and—”

  “Cease right there, Siân,” he said, turning her so that she faced him. “I will wed no woman but you.”

  “M-me?” she sniffled. “But you and Mar—”

  “You thought I would take you to Alldale as my leman?”

  She gave a slight nod. “You are betrothed, Hugh,” she said quietly. “It will not be easy to—”

  He hugged her to him and kissed her forehead. “Siân, I am not betrothed. The question was merely put to Marguerite, and she was none too anxious to accept. Before I left Windermere to come af
ter you, I sent a missive to Clairmont, withdrawing my proposal. Siân, my love…no banns were to be posted until my return. Nothing’s been done that’s irreversible.”

  Siân still had difficulty accepting that what he said was true. The laws of betrothal were very clear, but yet…if he were not truly pledged…if he were free…Faint inklings of hope began to rise in Siân’s breast.

  “I care deeply for you, Siân,” Hugh said, his mien serious, intense. “No other woman could touch my heart as you have. Come with me to Alldale and be my countess. Bear my children and comfort my soul.”

  “Oh, Hugh!” Siân said, throwing her arms around him. “I’ve loved you for so very long. My heart ached to think of you with Marguerite. Yes, I’ll go to Alldale with you. I’ll be your wife.”

  After returning to Pwll, Hugh’s wounds healed quickly under Nesta’s competent care. Marcus’s took longer, as his injuries were deeper and more severe. He was tended with great care by Nesta and Siân, and as his condition improved, it was learned that Marcus’s father, Eldred, was Wrexton’s only living relative. The elder de Grant was now the earl of Wrexton, and Marcus, his heir.

  The Parliamentary Council was notified of the earl of Wrexton’s death, so that the earldom could be officially and legally conferred to Eldred de Grant. The Wrexton knights who chose to stay would be compelled to swear fealty to Eldred, their new lord. Douglas Henley and some of his knights remained in Pwll to await Marcus’s father, and assist him with the transfer of power to the de Grant family.

  Hugh and Siân were wed by the village priest in Pwll, nearly two weeks after their victory over Wrexton. Siân had been surprised that the reading of the banns had been waived, but did not question the bishop’s decree. She was all too anxious to become Hugh’s wife, to share his life, as well as his bed again, which, of course, had not been possible in her small village.

  The newlywed couple took many days to ride leisurely to Alldale, treasuring this time alone together. Hugh came to learn everything that could make Siân sigh with pleasure, and Siân discovered the things that could make him laugh. And what a wondrous sound it was. Siân wanted nothing more than to fall asleep and awaken to the sound of his happiness and contentment every day.

  She could only hope she would be able to live up to his expectations when they reached Alldale. After all, though she was of gentle birth, she had no experience as a noblewoman. She could never be the grand lady that Marguerite Bradley was. She wanted to be a good wife to Hugh, and make him proud of his countess, but her life in Pwll had never required skills beyond basic housekeeping, tending sheep, and helping her aunt midwife the women in the village. How would she ever learn to become the wife Hugh Dryden needed?

  Siân worked hard to suppress her worries, trying to remember some of the things Kit Colston had said to her, things about her spirit, about…perfection. Though she could not be the same kind of countess that Marguerite Bradley was, Siân hoped that her own talents would surface and she would somehow become an adequate chatelaine of Hugh’s estate.

  Their week-long journey to Alldale was uneventful, and it was a brilliant, golden afternoon when they reached the distant promontory that overlooked their new home. Castle Alldale rose majestically over the low hills that surrounded it, its stone edifice gleaming bright white in the late sunlight as Hugh and Siân approached. They dismounted and stood together, gazing at the beautiful, imposing palace in the distance.

  “Oh, Hugh,” Siân said guardedly, her worries resurfacing. “It’s…magnificent!”

  Hugh nodded once. It was magnificent. King Henry had rewarded him generously. Castle Alldale was much more than Hugh had ever expected from life, but not nearly as significant as the other prize he’d recently won.

  He looked at Siân, his beautiful lady, and his heart was full as it had never been before. The woman he loved had given him back his life, in every way, and he would cherish her forever.

  “I…I had no idea that Alldale was anything quite so grand, my lord,” she said haltingly.

  “Siân,” he said menacingly as he took her in his arms, “this is no time to turn respectful on me now.”

  “But this—”

  “Is nothing but stone and mortar,” Hugh interrupted. “You are my life, Siân.”

  “But I—I can never be as—”

  “As what, Siân?” he asked. “As perfectly controlled and prepared as some other lofty ladies might be?”

  She nodded lamely.

  “I love you, Siân,” Hugh said, enfolding her in his arms. “I love your wild unpredictability, your big, open heart and your loyalty. I love your honesty and generosity. You are my wife, Siân, and my love. We’ll meet Alldale’s challenges together. Never doubt it.”

  29 November, 1423

  Catherine, by the Grace of the Almighty Father, Queen of England, to her dear friends, by the power of God, Hugh, Earl of Alldale and Siân, his lady wife:

  Greetings and tokens of sincere affection.

  I pray my belated missive finds you in good health and in God’s care.

  How gratified I was to learn of your marriage, Alldale. I wish you every happiness and a long and fruitful life together. My dear Siân is a most charming and talented lady. I have no doubt that she will make you very happy, and provide you with many delightful and blessed children in the years to come.

  I must give both of you my deepest, heartfelt thanks for taking care of mon petit Henri, and transporting him to the safety of Windermere. Without your assistance, I fear I would have been placed in an untenable situation, but that is now past, for the moment. Owen and I will return with Henri to London in time for the Christmas celebrations, so we will soon leave Clairmont, before the weather turns any colder.

  It is my pleasure to inform you, Alldale, that Lady Marguerite received the withdrawal of your proposal calmly and without acerbity. Since you saw her last, she has chosen a husband, a man who has captured her heart and her passions. She and Lord Nicholas Becker were wed one week ago, and are remarkably happy. Suffice it to say that when I recently happened upon them in the garden in an outrageous state of dishabille, I knew that Marguerite’s choice was perfect for her. Only our dashing Nicholas could bring out “la petite sauvage” in my dear friend. With great fondness, I say that she deserves such passion in her life.

  If, at any time, you find yourselves in London, I beg you to attend on us, for Henri pines for his own dear Siân, and does not understand why he sees her no more.

  I keep you both in my prayers and ask that you do the same for me and petit Henri, as well as Siân’s brother, Owen.

  Yours in Christ,

  Catherine, Reine

  ISBN: 978-1-4603-5958-7

  DRYDEN’S BRIDE

  Copyright © 2000 by Margo Wider

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