Dryden's Bride (7 page)

Hugh felt he’d spent hours walking the parapets, inspecting the gatehouse and barracks, and looking over the armory with Sir George and a few of the Clairmont knights. He made suggestions for improvements and talked about new drills for the knights at the lists, and the men were anxious to implement his changes.

All the while, the lively music continued in the hall, making his skin prickle and all the hair on his body stand on end.

Hugh didn’t know what had come over him. It wasn’t like him to be so distracted, but he was having some difficulty keeping his attention on armaments and ramparts. He imagined the dancers in the hall, and visualized Siân Tudor dancing merrily with some courtly partner.

“If you wouldn’t mind, my lord,” George said, “I would ask that you speak to the men on the morrow. Explain the changes you recommend.”

Hugh nodded once. That was a task he could handle with ease. Unlike putting Siân out of his thoughts.

“Until morning then, my lord,” Sir George said as he walked toward his own quarters, leaving Hugh to climb the steps alone.

Hugh entered the hall and slipped through the crowd,
hoping to climb the stairs and reach his chamber before being stopped and diverted again.

But as he climbed the steps at one end of the hall, a disturbing sight met his eye. Lady Siân was being pulled along toward a far doorway, by the dandified peacock who had been at her table earlier. And Siân did not appear to be going with him willingly.

Hugh didn’t give it a moment’s thought, but acted instantly. Taking the steps with quick agility, he reached the landing and moved toward the arch where he’d last seen Siân. The music and dancing went on, and no one spoke to him as he made his way through the crowd.

With one hand on the hilt of his sword, Hugh exited the hall and stepped into the dim corridor. Five more steps brought him to the place where Siân stood fuming. Her companion suddenly lunged for her and Siân, just as quickly, threw the contents of her drink at the fellow.

“
Jésu
bloody
Christi
, Siân!” he bellowed. Then he took a swing at her.

Siân ducked, missing the blow, and started to make a run straight toward Hugh, who braced himself for their collision.

“Ogh!” she gasped as she crashed into him. Looking up at him, she quickly whispered,
“Mae’n chwith gen i,”
then darted behind him, holding on to his doublet and using him for a shield, muttering to herself all the while. Though none of Siân’s thoughts seemed pieced together intelligibly, Hugh was able to hear a few disjointed words, a mix of English and Welsh.

There were tears in her voice, and anger, too. Hugh might even have found some humor in Siân’s talent for trouble, but for the steaming young buck standing before
him, the young scoundrel who’d have knocked Siân flat with his fist had she not reacted so quickly.

Siân pressed herself up against Hugh’s back, wrapped her trembling arms around him from behind, and said in a quiet, meek voice, “Don’t leave me,” she whispered, the desperate plea penetrating Hugh’s tough shell. “
Os gwelwch yn dda!
Don’t leave me.”

Hugh was immobilized for an instant by the impression of Siân’s soft, womanly form pressing against his back, her arms grasping his belly and chest. His breath caught at once and he reined in a savage need to throw her over one shoulder and carry her away.

Shocked by his fiercely physical response to her, and damning himself for a fool, as a man who had risen beyond such primitive needs and desires, Hugh braced himself for the next threat against Siân’s safety. He would see to her defense, as would any knight worth his armor, then remove himself from her presence.

The peacock stalked toward them, dripping of wine and vengeance, until he saw that it was the earl of Alldale whom he faced. Suddenly the courtier straightened up and smoothed out his ruined, multicolored doublet as if there were nothing more than a speck of dust on it. He began to speak, then apparently thought better of it.

Hugh knew that even though Siân had the upper hand now, by morning her reputation would be in shreds. The fellow, clearly a man of very little honor, would tell his cronies whatever suited him, in order to assuage his pride. There had to be a way to keep the brute from destroying her reputation.

Making the only decision possible, one that he did not particularly relish, Hugh took hold of one of Siân’s trembling hands, placed it atop his own, then turned
and walked away from the man, escorting her back to the hall.

Siân glanced back over her shoulder to see Dwayne Morton’s face contorted in rage. Frightened by his look, she quickly turned to face forward again, squared her shoulders and straightened her backbone. She had nothing to fear, after all, with Hugh Dryden to protect her.

Still, that didn’t keep her knees from knocking or her eyes from welling with unshed tears. She’d been such an idiot again! Allowing Dwayne to ruin this special night—the last party she would ever attend! She blinked away the tears and proceeded through the dark corridor as she tried to compose herself. Siân knew she had no choice but to retire to her chamber for the night to avoid a scandal that would not only raise her brother’s ire, but also make her an unacceptable candidate for St. Ann’s.

With a heavily burdened heart, Siân followed Lord Hugh back to the music, to the dancing. She would have to walk through the hall to reach the stairs that led to her room but she was determined to hold her head high, to smile as though nothing untoward had happened.

When they reached the archway near the entrance to the hall, Hugh stopped her from going in. “Tame your hair, Siân,” he said. “Else everyone will think I…that you and I…”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, surprised by his words. Her hair must be an awful sight for the earl to mention it, though it was terribly flattering that he believed anyone would mistake his interest in her. Scoundrels like
Dwayne Morton were the only ones who ever vied for her favors.

Siân turned away from Hugh and fumbled with the hairpins that held the unruly mass in place, then tried to draw it into some semblance of order. However, still shaken by the confrontation with Dwayne, her efforts were clumsy and of little avail.

“I—I don’t think I can…It will not matter if I let it be…”

There was an impatient sigh behind her, and Siân suddenly felt Hugh’s hands at her nape. Silently, he took over, and Siân let her own hands drop to her sides. His touch brought a sigh to Siân’s lips, but she suppressed it, though she was unable to quiet the shiver that started in her scalp and radiated down her neck and across her shoulders.

His touch was gentle, and he took care not to pull any strands to cause her discomfort. Siân allowed herself, for the moment, to imagine that Hugh’s kind touch meant more to him than a simple correction of her appearance. She wanted to believe that she was of some consequence to him…even while she knew that was a foolish fancy.

Hugh quickly realized that trying to repair Siân’s coif was a mistake. As wild and untamed as it always seemed to be, he had never touched any silk as finely spun as the texture of her hair. Her loose curls smelled like wildflowers as they wrapped around his fingers, making him clumsy as he tried to pin them back in place, along with the little tufts of flowers that had shaken loose.

What did he know of women’s hair, anyway? And what use would he ever have with the knowledge? His
own lady wife would certainly have maids to attend her. Marguerite would never have any need of his assistance.

Exasperated, Hugh swallowed hard and tried to finish his task, even though he’d never felt so inept. Then Siân tipped her head in an unconsciously sensuous manner. Her elegant neck and a beguiling décolletage were now exposed to him from where he stood behind her, and Hugh bit back a groan.

He suddenly turned and pulled her into the hall. “Dance the farandole with me,” he said, his voice gruff and abrupt.

Siân had no opportunity to refuse him, nor did she have any desire to do so. Dancing the steps, looking at the strong features of his face, basking in the touch of his hand…all these were things she had only dreamed of since she’d met him. But she was well past dreams now. Hugh had rescued her, and now he was making her the most important lady in the hall.

Hugh remained with Siân since Owen still had not returned to the hall. As Hugh watched Siân follow the intricate steps of the farandole, he thought her color improved. She was no longer quite so pale, and she’d finally stopped trembling. He sensed that she was beginning to enjoy the dance, even though
he
was exceedingly ill at ease.

At least none of the ladies cringed outwardly at his touch. No one gaped at his eye patch or his scars. The brute who’d accosted Siân was nowhere in sight, and if the man returned to the hall, Hugh doubted he’d attempt to try anything untoward again.

All was well for the moment.

Hugh only planned to stay a few minutes more. Owen would certainly return soon to keep track of his
sister, then Hugh could reasonably leave. They might have a glass of wine together…perhaps another dance, but then he was going. There was no point in staying any longer. He didn’t particularly
want
to stay any longer. After a long and trying day, he was weary, and he intended to seek his bed as soon as possible.

The only question was whether or not he’d be able to sleep once he got there. Hugh suspected that the fleeting scent of wildflowers might plague him throughout the night.

A
ll this excessive bathing would be the death of him, Hugh thought as he climbed the spiral stone stairs to Marguerite’s solar. After a long, hard morning at the lists, he’d finally given in to Nicholas’s coaxing. He would put some effort into wooing Marguerite.

Courtship. It was not a particularly appealing prospect, but Nicholas had nagged him about it like such an old woman that Hugh had finally resigned himself to getting on with it. He knew it would take some time for Marguerite to learn to be at ease with him, or at the very least, accustomed to him, so he resolved to spend more time in her company.

As Nicholas had very aptly pointed out—Hugh was not going to win Marguerite by avoiding her.

“Oh! Lord Alldale!” Marguerite gasped, dropping her needle as Hugh strode into the solar.

The minstrel stopped playing and the other ladies in the room looked up abruptly from the unfinished tapestry. Queen Catherine sat on a cushioned seat near the window, watching
petit Henri
as he played. She alone seemed unaffected by his arrival in the solar.

What was it? Hugh wondered as he looked at all the
startled feminine faces around him. Had he grown another nose? Or perhaps forgotten his eye patch? Was this always to be the reaction to his entrance into Marguerite’s presence?

An awkward silence ensued until the queen spoke. “Lord Alldale,” Catherine addressed him. “Come and join me.”

Hugh approached the queen, and after bowing as courtesy demanded, sat down nearby on the rich, brocade cushion she indicated. The other ladies in the solar resumed their work and the minstrel began playing again. Serenity and order were restored. All was as it had been.

“Clairmont’s soldiers are becoming much better disciplined,” the queen said, “more agile, more…
raffiné
…euuh, refined in their skills. They needed a leader to give them direction.”

Hugh shrugged in response. Plenty of men could lead Clairmont’s troops. There was nothing particularly special about his own methods.

“Clairmont is quite pleasant, no?” she asked.

“Very…nice,” Hugh replied with a shrug. He’d never been a great conversationalist, never having needed the skill before. He’d ridden with men all his life, lived with them, eaten and drunk with them. Fought with them. None had been excessive talkers.

Now, though, it seemed he had some adjustments to make. He was going to have to learn to deal with female company. Make conversation. Listen to chatter about needlework and fashion. Cooking. Babies.

Hugh didn’t know if he was up to it.

“Lady Marguerite is a chatelaine whom any man would be proud to call wife.”

“I am certain you are correct, Your Majesty.” What
man in his right mind wouldn’t want Marguerite? Beautiful, intelligent, charming. He supposed he should say something to that effect to the queen, but couldn’t find the words that would express the thought correctly. Besides, Catherine already knew Marguerite’s attributes. There was no need for Hugh to reiterate them.

“She always strove to be a good daughter and sister,” Catherine said, “and, of course, a model wife to Richard Bradley. Now, though, Marguerite is in a position she has never enjoyed in her life.”

Hugh raised an eyebrow. What in kingdom come was Catherine talking about now? He hadn’t thought about Marguerite in any way other than as the chatelaine of a very wealthy estate. As an eligible widow in dire need of a husband with strong military skills.

“My friend has
freedom
now,” the queen said, her voice soft and even. The French lilt was pleasing. “She is free—for the first time in her life—to make her own decisions. Free from the dictates and demands of a father or brother…or husband.”

“Dictates?” Hugh asked, puzzled.

“You are a man,” Catherine explained, “so it is difficult for you to understand, yes?”

Hugh frowned. What was there to understand? Men made decisions, ruled their families. Certainly a considerate and generous man would take into consideration the wishes of his wife and daughters when he made decisions affecting the family.

“You must be patient with Marguerite…” the queen said, interrupting Hugh’s musings. “I do not doubt she will come ’round,” Catherine added. “But it may take time.”

Henry ran to his mother just then, and she picked him up.
“Il n’a qu’un oeil, maman,”
he said, pointing
to Hugh’s covered eye. Then he put two fingers into his mouth and gnawed toothlessly at them, drooling profusely all the while.

“
Oui
, little one,” Catherine said. “But you must speak English. It is your duty to speak the language of our people.” The queen looked up at Hugh. “Marguerite will also, no doubt, do her duty for
her
people.”

Hugh thought about his discussion with the queen as he spent the next hour in Marguerite’s solar, watching the ladies as they worked on the tapestry, exchanging stilted conversation with Marguerite and the rest of them.

He hated this. Hugh had no idea how to court his intended wife, or what to say to gain her interest. He supposed they could go over the account books of the demesne, but that would not really be appropriate until they were actually betrothed. They could speak of military matters, but Hugh didn’t think Marguerite was more than superficially interested. As long as the knights were capable of defending Clairmont, that was all she wanted or needed to know. Management of the castle? On that subject, it was Hugh who cared little.

It made for a strained and awkward afternoon.

The days passed as Hugh awaited Marguerite’s decision and he practiced tirelessly with sword and lance. Nicholas parried with him, as well as with Clairmont’s other knights, as they all drilled and trained to be prepared to protect the town and castle from the next Scottish onslaught.

Men now regularly patrolled the perimeter of the demesne, and reported seeing ominous signs of intruders. Charred wood indicated small campfires. There were
horse droppings. Matted grass. Hugh ordered an increase in the patrols.

Though the interlopers evaded being seen, Hugh warned the townspeople to be on their guard. It was hardly likely that a couple of stray men could do much damage, but caution never hurt.

Everyone in the castle knew of Siân Tudor’s visits to town, and many marveled at her ability to engage the children in games, to keep them occupied while the adults made repairs, sorted foodstuffs, grieved. She helped many a young mother with her brood during those trying times, taking the little ones out to play in the late autumn sunshine. Many of Clairmont’s aristocratic guests ridiculed her folly, criticizing her for engaging in such coarse and inferior activities.

The knights, however, seemed to enjoy seeing Siân with her group of little troopers on the hill, and the men whistled and waved to her whenever they were out in the countryside. Siân made sure to stay close to town, and the knights felt that she and the children were safe as long as they didn’t wander too far afield.

While Hugh worked out with the other knights in the lists, his attention was repeatedly drawn to the hillside where Siân Tudor frolicked with the children. He forced himself to avoid thinking about the young woman, but unbidden thoughts of her entered his mind during unguarded moments.

He’d stayed away from her since the night of the celebration, the night he’d danced and drunk wine, and forgotten for a short time that he was a scarred man, an unworthy man, one whose only value lay in his ability to protect the Clairmont border.

Hugh wondered how long the queen’s party, including Siân, would continue staying on at Clairmont. He
hadn’t heard of any plans for their departure, but considered that Castle Clairmont would become a rather dull place without the saucy Welsh redhead about.

The sound of her voice traveled fleetingly over the distance, catching his ear with her lively accent, and her expression of complete and utter abandon. Hugh couldn’t remember how it felt to know such innocent joy. His own young life had been punctuated by a series of violent endings, then a continuum of drills, practice and military training, until he reached his majority and was knighted by Wolf Colston’s German grandfather. He then joined Wolf and Nicholas to fight with King Henry in France, making his way by his sword and his wits. He’d returned to England some years later to help Wolf regain Windermere.

And lost all pride and honor in the process.

Turning away from the hillside with Siân and all the children, Hugh ran his hand across the whisker-roughened part of his face. He didn’t have time for such foolishness. He gave orders to the men to pack up their equipment, and he returned to the castle with them for the midday meal.

The children were getting hungry. Siân had seen the signs of it, but she wanted to keep them away from town and out from underfoot for just a little while longer. As soon as the hammering and sawing stopped, she would take them back for their midday meal. For now, keeping them out of trouble seemed the least Siân could do while the townspeople rebuilt the structures destroyed by the Scots.

Besides, she enjoyed being with the children. She never felt isolated or alone when she was with them. They liked her, liked listening to her stories, and playing
her games, laughing with her when she was silly, squealing when she startled them. She could be herself with them, and not have to put on the airs Owen wanted her to assume when she was with the high-and-mighty ladies of the castle.

“That’s the way!” Siân called out to the children, laughing, clapping her hands with enthusiasm. “Catch those pesky butterflies in your hoods!”

“I’ve got one, Lady Siân!” little Meg cried.

“Is it really a faerie in disguise, Lady Siân?” another little girl asked.

“It’s just all stories, muttonhead. There aren’t no faeries,” one of the older boys taunted the younger girl.

“Are, too!”

“See? They’re all white, and shimmery!” Meg said. “They
must
be faeries!”

Sudden screams from the children behind Siân made her whirl around in dismay. A strange man—a warrior in plaid—had come out of the woods and sneaked up on them, only to grab one of the children and trot back to the woods with the boy.

Siân picked up a stick and ran after him, shouting for him to let the child go.

She was ignored by the Scotsman, who kept up his ungainly run toward the cover of the trees as he carried the kicking, screeching child.

Siân didn’t think about any consequences, nor did she take note of the sudden, wild pealing of the church bell. She just continued her frantic pursuit of the man, whom she assumed had been one of the Scots involved in the skirmish of the previous week.

By the time the Scot got to the woods, Siân was practically upon him, and when he was finally within reach, she took the long stick she carried and used it
to thwack him on the back of the legs. The Scotsman dropped the child. The man was not seriously hurt by her blow, merely taken aback, and he reached again for the boy, his dark eyes flashing dangerously.

“Run Davey,” Siân cried, never taking her eyes from the massive warrior in front of her. “Run!”

The child scooted away and did as he was told, flying past Siân as fast as his short legs would carry him. Siân backed away from the Scotsman, but as she turned to run, she caught her foot in a mole hole and fell, giving the warrior the opportunity to grab her.

Instead, she rolled to the side and thrust the branch up again, swiping him brutally across the face. He reared back with a howl while Siân scrambled quickly to her feet.

The man recovered and made a grab for her, but Siân was too fast. She eluded him once again and darted in the direction of the town, but the big Scot blocked her way.

Clairmont’s knights responded quickly to the alarm. When Hugh and the soldiers reached town, there was no need to stop for an explanation of the frantically clanging steeple bell. Tearful women hugged their children, and townsmen shouted and pointed to the woods. No further accounting was necessary.

Hugh led the men across the hillside, toward the dense forest, certain they would find the culprits who had been lurking in the area since the previous week’s battle. They were unquestionably a threat to the towns-people, and it was up to Hugh and the rest of the knights to rout the interlopers from their hiding places and deal with them.

The ground showed recent signs of the intruders,
along with indications of a struggle. Assuming that one of the townspeople had gotten himself caught by the Scots, Hugh motioned the knights to spread out and blanket the area as they moved forward.

Deeper into the woods, a human cry pierced the silence. Hugh rode forward past a bramble thicket, and halted. He dropped from his horse, horrified to find Siân Tudor sitting crumpled on the ground, her skirts tangled in her legs, her knuckles scraped and nails torn.

“Siân!” he said, going to her.

She stifled a whimper with one bruised and scraped hand at her mouth.

“Siân, are you all right?” he asked, crouching next to her.

She nodded her reply, and added tremulously, “There are two m-men, my lord. One is on horseback, the other on foot.”

“Sir John,” Hugh said, turning to speak to the knight, “take the lead. Run them to ground.”

“’Twill be a pleasure, my lord,” the knight responded as he led the rest of the men deep into the forest.

“Siân, you are certain you are unharmed?” The color was gone from her face, even from her lips, and Hugh could not face the thought that she suffered from some unseen wound.

She shook her head again, denying any injury. “One of them c-came out of the woods. He grabbed little Davey Blue and I—I chased them.”

“Siân—”

“He would have harmed the child, Hugh,” she continued shakily, explaining her actions as though she expected a rebuke for helping the boy. “There was no one else nearby. So I h-had to help him get a-away.”

Relief and tenderness flooded Hugh as he picked a dried leaf out of her disheveled hair. “Of course.”

“Davey ran, but the S-Scotsman tried to get him again,” she continued, a little confused by his apparent endorsement of her actions. “So I hit him. W-with a piece of oak.”