Dryden's Bride (15 page)

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.”

T
hree 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.

“What’s this?” Wolf laughed. “Humor?”

“Don’t tease, Wolf,” Kit interjected, surprised by yet another change in Hugh. She turned to her husband’s closest friend and said, “We call him Bart. Eleanor can’t come close to pronouncing the whole thing.”

“Nor can the rest of us,” Wolf said, chuckling, “but Kit insisted on naming him for my father. I liked ‘Bill’ or ‘Alf’ but my lady wife wouldn’t hear of it.”

Hugh looked from Wolf to Kit, then back to Wolf again. He was unaccustomed to such lighthearted bantering. He supposed they’d always engaged in jesting between them, but for some reason
he
had never taken note of it.

Setting aside his puzzlement for the moment, Hugh let Henry down to go back and play with his princess, and sat with Kit and Wolf. “I have not seen Siân since we arrived three days ago,” he said. “Where is she?”

“Are you saying that Lady Siân is avoiding you?”

Hugh sighed. “What else should I think?” he asked. “She has not graced me with her presence since…” Since the night when she’d sat with him, holding his hand, whispering Welsh words to him. He’d been too ill to ask her to speak English, and besides, her voice was soothing to him no matter what language she used. He’d felt strangely adrift and alone after she left him; feelings that were certainly not foreign to him, though that sense of isolation had been changing of late. “…since the night we arrived.”

“Hugh, what do you know of Siân’s brother settling her in a nunnery?” Kit asked.

Hugh’s demeanor stiffened. “It’s a ridiculous plan,” he said. “There are other alternatives for her.”

“What alternatives?” Kit asked. “She told me she will not marry.”

“What do you mean?” Hugh asked sourly. “Siân was meant to marry, to be surrounded by children. Have you not seen the way she—”

Kit exchanged a glance with Wolf.

“What?” Hugh demanded sharply as he stood up again and began pacing in front of the fire.

“Siân feels she would not be an adequate wife,” Kit explained. “I sense that she has been berated so often
and so severely that she cannot believe she could ever be an asset to a husband.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Hugh snorted. “She is…”

“She is what?” Wolf asked, tipping his head suspiciously.

“She is…” Hugh ran one hand through his hair. “She is
not
going to become a nun!”

Wolf and Kit Colston could only stare in disbelief as he turned and stormed out of the room.

Siân sat on the steps leading to a small stone chapel in the middle of Windermere’s garden. The little building, which consisted of one oblong room, was quite unusual, Siân thought, with stained-glass windows on all four sides. From where she sat, Siân could see the castle itself through the trees, but it seemed distant and remote. She was virtually alone in her own quiet world out there, with no one, not even the gardeners, to disturb her meditations.

Wrapping her cloak tightly against the breeze, which had turned chilly with the dusk, Siân got up and climbed the stairs into the chapel. She lit a few candles against the darkening gloom and sat down on one of the benches.

She felt very much at home at Windermere. Kit and her husband had welcomed her into their home to an extent that was wholly unfamiliar to Siân. She had yet to be criticized for her attire, her untamable hair, or her deportment. No one berated her lack of feminine skills or beauty. Since coming to Windermere, her confidence had grown. She was no longer the clumsy girl she’d been at Clairmont.

But could she stay here at Windermere? Could she
live out her life knowing that Wrexton still lived, still preyed on the innocent?

Could she return to Clairmont and commit murder?

Siân thought again of that morning when she’d stood over the evil earl, knife in hand, ready to plunge. And yet, she’d held back. Held back long enough for Hugh Dryden to stop her.

Hugh wouldn’t be there to stay the knife next time, though. Now that she knew he was nearly recovered, Siân could bring herself to leave Windermere. She would visit his room once more while he slept, and say a last goodbye. Early in the morning, she would leave, with no one the wiser, taking what stores she’d need for the journey and leaving on the mare she’d ridden from Clairmont.

Brushing away a foolish tear, and forcing herself to think of anything
but
leaving Hugh for the last time, she considered the journey ahead of her. It would not be easy. She did not know where she would stay the first night on the road because Dryden Hall was too close to Windermere. She would need to ride a lot farther—

“Siân.”

Without looking up, Siân knew the voice. She recognized the deep, rich timbre of it and knew it belonged to the one man whose presence she had wanted to elude. It had been days since she’d seen him, days of passing the hours trying not to think of him, trying to insulate her heart against the pain of the moment when they parted.

Knowing that he belonged to Marguerite, that he would soon return to that gracious lady, was more than Siân could bear. For her own sanity, she had to keep
away from him. She couldn’t risk becoming any more attached than she already was.

Siân arose as he stepped into the chapel and walked to the opposite side. “Hugh,” she said, her voice hollow and vulnerable in spite of herself.

His stance was tense, movements controlled. He did not seem cold, though he wore no cloak, only a cordovan tunic over dark chausses. When he turned to face her, his features were cast into harsh relief by the flickering light of the candles.

“I’ve…not seen you…these last days,” he finally said.

Siân could only nod.

He took a few steps toward her, the intensity of his gaze causing Siân to take one step back.

“You saved my life, Siân, and likely that of your little
Parry
, yet you cannot rouse enough interest in seeing for yourself how I fare?”

“I—it’s not that, my lord, I—”

“What is it, then?” he asked quietly, coming dangerously close to her. So close, in fact, that Siân could feel his warm breath on her face, smell the leather of his tunic.

She swallowed hard and ignored the pounding of her heart. He was too close. She could hardly breathe without her breasts rising and coming in contact with his hard chest. If he touched her—

“Siân,” he said again, his voice harsh and raw.

She could not move. When his hands cupped her face, she felt as if she’d become a boneless mass. When his lips touched hers, she was certain of it.

Seemingly without volition, and against all that she’d told herself these past days, her hands skimmed up his chest, relishing the solid feel of him. She entangled
the fingers of one hand in the hair at his nape and welcomed his kiss, increasing the contact between them.

Hugh groaned and pulled her to him, running his hands up her back, sending shivers of pleasure through her. Lord, how she’d needed his touch…his strong and fierce presence. He kissed her lips, then her ear, and moved his mouth down her neck, until he reached the barrier of her gown. Siân sighed. Without further hesitation, Hugh untied her cloak and let it fall. Next were buttons and laces, of which he made quick work.

Siân trembled, though she did not feel the chilled air. She soon stood bare before him as he worshiped her with his hands, his lips, his teeth and tongue.

Because of his wound, he had some difficulty removing his own tunic, but Siân reached up to help him pull it off. Then, as she untied the laces of his chausses, his hungry kiss became desperate. Their bodies met, skin to skin, heart to heart.

“You are mine, Siân,” he rasped as he lowered her to the bed of discarded clothes on the stone floor. “Never forget it.”

She reveled in his touch as his hands moved over her, caressing intimately, arousing her, teaching her to please him. She ran her hands down his back, cupping the tight muscles of his hips, savoring the various textures of his body. She learned the hard muscles and planes of his body as he discovered the soft curves of hers, touching, tasting, creating a maelstrom of desire. Sensations flowed through her, foreign yet familiar, satisfying but frustrating.

She needed more.

Sensing her readiness, he moved again, shifting her, and suddenly she was over him, then part of him.

They became one with a sharp plunge that bound their souls together, along with their bodies. They moved in a rhythm born of the ages, in a cadence that propelled them toward completion, with hearts pounding, nerves roaring, and muscles flexing.

“More!” her heart demanded as she gave him all, and wrung from him every dram of passion in his soul. Liquid heat engulfed her. An animal wildness surged through her. The powerful rhythm drove her toward a culmination she could not fathom, but one she desperately sought.

When finally Hugh shifted them so that Siân lay under him, a new, more intense fire rushed through her. She met each thrust as Hugh’s power and strength became her own. She felt his heart pounding against hers, the force of his muscles straining in union with her own. She heard his harsh panting breaths, his groans of fulfillment. And suddenly, in a whirlwind of sensation, something entirely untamed burst within her.

Swept outside of herself, she joined Hugh in an exquisite intensity that made them one being, heart and soul. The oneness spiraled for a seeming eternity, then exploded in a triumphant shattering expression of emotion.

Their return to earth was slow and sweet.

He ran the fingers of one hand over her wondrous features, reveling in the smoothness of her skin, the lightness of her touch. Her eyes glimmered with unreserved emotion.

“You are a dream, Siân,” he said, looking into her sated eyes. “I’ve never…”

Hugh began to think dangerously. They were scattered, disjointed thoughts, about marriage, about Marguerite Bradley. The perfection of Marguerite’s features,
the care with which the lady dressed, her competency in keeping Clairmont running…None of these attributes compared to Siân’s spontaneity, her generosity of spirit, her fire for him.

And Hugh had not realized until now, how important that was to him. He hadn’t understood how abhorrent Marguerite’s cool competence and constant aversion would be to him.

But Hugh was tied to her by his proposal, bound to uphold his offer of marriage.

Siân pulled away and sat up, gathering her clothes as she did so. Her features were soft and beautiful in the flickering candlelight and he wanted her again. Hugh knew he’d want her always.

“Don’t, Siân,” he said, gathering her into his arms again. “I—”

She stopped him with a few of her slender fingers pressed against his lips. “Please, Hugh,” she said, “you are already promised to Lady Marguerite. I would not ask you to break your vow, and I ask you to say nothing now—”

“Siân,” Hugh said, frowning as he took her hand and kissed the palm. Then he drew her to him and pressed his lips to hers. Passion flared again, but Siân wrenched herself away.

Hugh traced her jawline with his thumb and looked into her troubled eyes. She was so beautiful, so wildly passionate. She was more to him than he’d ever thought possible, but he’d had no right to do this, no right to make love to her. She was an innocent and
he
knew better. He could offer her nothing. Not even the protection of his name.

“I—I will remember this night always,” Siân said, her eyes sparkling a little too brightly, her chin trembling
slightly. “When…when you are back at Clairmont and—”

“Siân,” he said, tracing the contour of her ear with gentle fingers, “Clairmont means nothing to me. Marguerite will never be the wife of my heart, nor does she want to be.”

“How can you say such a thing?” Siân protested. A flurry of emotions crossed her face from disbelief to astonishment. “Any woman would be well pleased to have you as her husband. Lady Marguerite is no different than any—”

“Siân,” he said, pressing a kiss to her mouth. “You overpraise me. Could it be that you are unaware of my flaws? My scars? Most women take one look and flee.”

“That is not so, Hugh,” Siân countered. “You may be scarred, but what difference does it make to the goodness of your soul? How does the possession of a few scars alter the honor in your heart?”