“Get out of those clothes!”

“My lord!” Siân cried, trying to pull away from Hugh’s touch—the very touch that sent strange and wild tendrils of heat through her chilled body. “This is unseemly! You cannot—”

“I most certainly can,” Hugh said. “I’ve already saved your foolish life once today. I’ll not see you take ill and die of fever and let my efforts of this morn go to waste. Now be still. These wet laces are the devil to open and I have little time.”

“I object, my lord!” she cried, his strong hands on her back making her tingle in agony. What kind of magic did the man possess to cause such feelings? Why had she never felt these sensations…this odd yearning before?

“Your objection has been duly noted, my lady,” Hugh said, as he released the final loop of the lace….

Dear Reader,

For all our Medieval readers, Dryden’s Bride by Margo Maguire features a lively noblewoman en route to a convent who defies her family and takes a detour when she falls in love with a noble knight. This stirring tale is Maguire’s second book, a follow-up story to The Bride of Windermere, which was one of our featured titles in the March Madness promotion for 1999.

If you’re a Western reader, Liz Ireland’s Trouble in Paradise, with a pregnant heroine and a bachelor hero, is a heartwarming story you won’t want to miss. In keeping with the season, look for Halloween Knight, complete with a bewitching heroine, a haunted castle and an inspired cat, by Maggie Award-winning author Tori Phillips. It’s a delightful tale of rescue that culminates with a Halloween banquet full of surprises! And USA Today bestselling author Margaret Moore returns with her new Regency, The Duke’s Desire—a story of reunited lovers who must suppress the flames of passion that threaten to destroy both their reputations.

Whatever your taste in historicals, look for all four Harlequin Historicals at your nearby book outlet.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Dryden’s Bride

Margo Maguire

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

Available from Harlequin Historicals and MARGO MAGUIRE

The Bride of Windermere #453

Dryden’s Bride #529

As always, this book is for Mike and our gang.

It is also fondly dedicated to the women in my life—

for Julia, Justine and Fran; for my mother-in-law,

sisters-in-law and nieces; and for my remarkable friends,

in cyberspace and in person.

Heroines, every one!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter One

Northern England

Autumn 1423

Casting a grudging glance up at Castle Clairmont with his one good eye, Hugh Dryden stalked toward the huge stone fortress and again cursed the day he was born. He reviled the fates that intervened in his life, still refusing to let him be.

His depth perception had never improved after losing the eye, so he had difficulty judging how far away the castle was, though his companion, Nicholas Becker, said they were a mere mile from Clairmont’s portcullis. They’d stayed one last night in the woods, planning to broach the castle at a civilized time of day—in the morning, after they’d had the opportunity to bathe and ready themselves.

For Hugh’s bride.

A pox on her, Hugh thought, muttering other more serious oaths under his breath. He had no interest in marrying. He cared not a whit about adding land to his estates, nor a woman to his life. He would never understand why his friend, Wolf Colston, the Duke of Carlisle, believed Hugh was the man to carry out the council’s wishes. Wolf and his wife could not be unaware of Hugh’s preference for solitude. It had taken many long months for him to recover from the injuries sustained during his imprisonment at Windermere, and in those months, Hugh had done nothing, said nothing, to indicate a need or an interest in a woman. If anything, he’d shown a decided lack of interest.

He was a solitary man now. The agony he’d suffered alone and in the dark caverns under Windermere Castle, helpless to defend himself, powerless against the pain of mutilation, of near death…He shuddered with the unwelcome memory. Nightmare images plagued his daylight hours and tortured him as he lay tossing and turning every night.

It was better to keep to himself now. He had nothing to offer the world of light. No strength or determination for his country. Certainly nothing left for a woman.

Besides, Lady Marguerite Bradley would likely turn tail and run for cover when she saw his shattered visage, as all others did, save his closest friends.

Hugh adjusted the patch that covered what was once his left eye, and walked on. It was a fool’s errand, he thought again. To Hugh’s recollection, widows were not usually overanxious to remarry…unless there was some good reason. He doubted he could provide reason enough for the widow of the Earl of Clairmont to remarry. In fact, if truth be told, the only one who benefited—

A woman’s scream pierced the early morning silence. Acting on sheer reflex—reflex he hadn’t known he still possessed—Hugh turned toward the sound and ran through the thick wood toward the source of the panicked voice. Covering territory quickly, he moved determinedly, with the agility of a trained knight, a formidable knight, in possession of all his considerable skills. Heart pounding, nerves on edge, Hugh’s well-muscled legs ran swiftly but stealthily.

Simply dressed in hose and hauberk, he was without armor, but carried his longbow and a quiver of arrows, in earlier hopes of shooting a brace of hares to present to the Clairmont kitchens. Now, it seemed, his one-eyed skill might truly be tested in a matter of life and death. It was not something he cared to think about, having only practiced with the bow at Windermere, and not once shooting to his satisfaction.

Siân Tudor clutched the tree branch desperately, swinging her legs up in an attempt to gain purchase on the branch—away from the charging pig. The huge boar had surprised her only moments before as she’d ambled carelessly through Clairmont’s forest. Unskilled in the wielding of weaponry, Siân was forced to flee the fearsome boar, and flee she did, though the great beast’s tusks had nearly been upon her as she’d jumped for her life onto the low oaken branch.

Terror made Siân’s hands strong as she held on for dear life, but her cumbersome woolen kirtle prevented her from throwing a leg over the saving branch. She glanced down at the enraged boar snorting fiercely under her, his sharp and gleaming tusks in the air, his snout flaring. She knew it would be certain death to let go, but her hands were weakening, her nails tearing! She began to slip.

By the Holy Cross, the lass was falling!

Hugh notched his arrow and let one fly, then another one followed in rapid succession, all the while, his stomach churned with the agony of self-doubt. How could he be certain his arrow would meet its mark and not kill the woman? How could he know the arrow would reach anywhere near its mark?

The sudden screech of the huge creature was testament to the wound.

Hugh didn’t stop to relish his victory. He scrambled down the ridge as the beast squealed in fury and pain. Dry leaves and dust flew, and Hugh could feel the heaving of the boar against the earth itself. Bright yellow wool fluttered and fell. Blood, dark and red, flowed. Then all at once, all movement ceased.

Hugh approached cautiously through the hazy rays of morning sunlight, with silent steps, an arrow at the ready.

Then he thought he heard something. A groan. A slight, feminine groan. A rustle in the leaves. The bright yellow wool moved.

Siân looked up at the man who’d rescued her, and squinted against the bright morning sunlight. Though she’d banged her head and was more than a little dazed, she could see that he was tall, and well made. His physique was strong and wiry, ’twas that of a knight-at-arms, well-honed and able. As Siân pushed herself awkwardly away from the monstrous boar, the knight shot another arrow directly between the eyes of his prey.

Apparently satisfied now that it was dead, the soldier turned to Siân, showing his entire face for the first time.

She was surprised by the black patch over his eye, but not by the strength of his other features. Strong bones, jutting jaw and high cheekbones suited him. Full lips and straight nose; forehead scarred, but high and bright; brows thick and dark. His uncovered eye was an uncommon, light blue color, strangely remote and guarded. His dark hair was overlong and untamed, with a few silver strands shining in the morning sunlight like the steel of a lethal blade.

A dangerous-looking man, Siân thought hazily. Different from anyone she’d ever encountered before. His powerful presence sent a chill of awareness through her and she was unable to call forth the caution required of her situation. She should not be alone with any man, especially a lone knight who might be a rogue. But her head ached and her vision was oddly blurred. Under the circumstances, the ability to muster the necessary wariness was beyond her.

Hugh knelt beside the young woman in the deep pile of leaves. She was moving again now, and he wanted to be sure she was uninjured before she attempted to stand.

“Hold, woman,” he commanded.

She ignored him and sat up. He could see the pulse pounding in her throat, above the tear in her gown where the boar’s tusk had gone through. An ugly bruise had already begun to darken near the joining of her shoulder and arm, and the flesh was torn by an ugly diagonal rent in her perfect ivory skin.

She should have been killed.

Hugh could not tear his one-eyed gaze away from her as she swept her red-gold hair back from her face. Saucy eyes, the deep blue of the evening sky, were thickly framed by gold-tipped lashes. Delicate bones, cleft chin, impish mouth…Even now, she had the look of a mischievous child about her, although it was clear that she was no child. She was lovely. Hugh forced his gaze away from her beguiling face and looked back at her injury.

The wound was not a deep one, would not even leave a scar above her perfectly formed breasts, he thought. He looked away from her barely concealed attributes, then silently took one of her injured hands in his own and raised it, palm up, examining it. The act was a strangely sensuous one, with her pulsating heat flowing through to his own hand from hers.

The woman drew her hand back quickly, as if burned. Hugh furrowed his brow, unsettled by the strange effect this slight physical contact had on him. Not since before his captivity had he been so stirred by a woman’s touch.

It was not a welcome sensation.

“Diolch,” she said in her native Welsh. “I th-thank you, sir knight,” she stammered, returning to English, “for your assistance this morn. Without your intervention—”

“You could have been killed,” the knight said gravely, his rich voice somehow wending its way into a secret place deep within her being. She couldn’t be sure whether her sudden tremor was due to her misadventure or the knight’s proximity. “Why do you wander these woods alone?” he asked. “Where is your escort?”

Siân swallowed and glanced away from his penetrating gaze. She knew she’d been foolish to go so far beyond Clairmont’s walls alone, but could not resist the lure of freedom. In one short week she would be banished to the convent of St. Ann, and all such small freedoms would end. In truth, she would become little more than a slave to the abbess when she arrived at St. Ann’s, for the dowry her brother Owen had been able to raise was a poor one, indeed.

“I walked here from Clairmont, sir,” Siân said. “It is not far, nor—”

“What lunacy…” he muttered harshly. Contrary to his tone, with his scarred brow furrowed with concern rather than anger, he ran his hands with the utmost gentility across her ankles and feet, assessing, she supposed, for an injury that would prevent her from walking.

Ignoring the unsettling feelings caused by those competent, Saxon hands, Siân pulled away and raised a hand to her breast, only to wince with discomfort when she touched the long scrape. “I am no lunatic, sir,” she said with indignation, “merely unfamiliar with the terrain and the—”

“Spare me such lame explanations,” the knight said curtly. “Can you stand?”

“No. Yes! I think so…” she said, confused by his sudden hostility, though she should never have expected less of one of these Saxons.

Before she could protest, the knight gave an exasperated look, scooped her up as if she weighed nothing, then turned to glance quickly at the dead hog. Without another word, he began to make his way through the forest whence he came.

“Put me down, sir!” she cried, confused by this contradictory man. His tone was gruff, yet he handled her as if she were precious goods. “You cannot intend to carry me all the way to Clairmont!”

“True enough,” he answered sourly as he continued on.

Siân was caught between her gratitude and her prejudice. For several weeks she had been in the company of her brother’s Saxon friends and found most of them to be arrogant, heartless snobs. They were rude, and perhaps a bit cruel to the little Welsh bumpkin in their midst.

Yet this Saxon man had come to her rescue without question. It was puzzling. “What is your name, sir knight?” she asked in spite of herself, “that I might thank you properly for helping me.”

“Hugh Dryden…” he said, and after a pause he added, “Earl of Alldale.”

He’d received the title and lands from Henry V, for his long and faithful service in France. But Henry had been dead over a year, his son now less than two years of age. Queen Catherine currently resided in London with little King Henry, by the grace of the council, while Bishop Henry Beaufort and the dukes of Gloucester and Bedford waged a silent but deadly war against one another. It was a battle Hugh Dryden had every intention of avoiding. Perhaps that was why Wolf Colston had managed to convince him to come to distant Clairmont and woo the widow. Clairmont was far in the north country, safely removed from London.

“Then I thank you again, Lord Alldale,” Siân said. She leaned toward him and lightly kissed his cheek. Hugh nearly dropped her. Her lips were soft and cool on his skin. The scent of wildflowers invaded his senses. Though her kiss was innocent and guileless, Hugh found himself responding in a manner that was not altogether respectable. He could not determine whether the sudden pounding of his heart was due to the exertion of carrying her, or her kiss.

“I am Siân verch Marudedd,” she said, slowing Hugh’s runaway reaction.

“Far from Wales, are you not?” he forced himself to ask as they went on through the thick woods. He recognized her softly accented “Shahn” as a Welsh name, as well as the reference to her father, Marudedd. Well dressed in her finely woven, brightly colored kirtle, Siân verch Marudedd was clearly a Welsh noble-woman.

She was as dignified as the situation would allow, yet there was a fascinating vulnerability about her. Lady Siân raised his interest as no one else had in many a month, though Hugh did not particularly welcome it.

“London is where I’ve been of late, My Lord…” Siân said quietly, careful not to offend the nobleman, whose manner was unfathomable. “I’ve just recently come to Clairmont with my brother.”

Hugh let her statement drop in silence while he tramped back in the direction where his horse was hobbled and Nicholas was likely still sleeping. The sooner he returned her to Clairmont and got her out of his hands, the better.

“You may put me down, my lord,” Siân said. “I’m certain I can walk.”

By now more than willing to put distance between them, Hugh let her down.

Apparently still slightly dizzy from her fall, Lady Siân took one step, then staggered a little. Hugh quickly wound an arm around her waist and, with an impatient sigh, guided her carefully along the rugged terrain.

Siân was unaccustomed to this kind of gallant, masculine attention, and her reaction startled her. She’d never thought herself capable of the emotions churning through her now. To think that one strong, male—Saxon—arm around her could cause such an upheaval! It was ridiculous.

She may as well have spent the last few years in St. Ann’s cloister for all she knew of men and their habits; how hard and powerful a male body could feel against her own. After all, no man had ever shown the least interest in her before, and Siân had had little use for them in all her nineteen years.

At least until now.

“Satan’s heels, Hugh,” a voice called out as they moved through the woods, “where have you been?”

“On a fool’s errand,” he muttered.

“I resent that!” Siân whispered back.

In the small clearing, Hugh and Siân came upon a man saddling his horse. With a thick mane of light blond hair and pleasing features, Hugh Dryden’s companion was easily the most comely man Siân had ever seen. And she had seen many, in Wales as well as in England, though none of the preening, conceited louts had roused her interest in the least.

Nor had she particularly roused theirs, unless she counted a few unsuitable advances made by some of her brother’s highborn Saxon friends.

“Nicholas Becker at your service, my lady,” the man said, smiling, showing his perfect white teeth. He bowed courteously.

Hugh grunted and introduced her grudgingly. “Lady Siân verch Marudedd.” He didn’t miss Siân’s open and guileless appreciation of Nick’s pleasing countenance. Nor did he begrudge Nicholas his golden good looks. Hugh had never been able to compete with Nick’s success with the ladies, even before he’d been scarred and maimed. And they’d been friends too long to let a mere woman come between them. “From Castle Clairmont.”

Nicholas turned a wry expression on Siân. “Conditions are a trifle rough at Clairmont?” he asked with humor, indicating the condition of Siân’s clothes and hair.

“Surely not,” she said, a little breathlessly. For a Saxon, Nicholas Becker was well endowed with charm. “This did not happen at Clairmont. A boar chased me through the woods and his lordship rescued me.”

Nick raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“He shot the beast through the heart,” Siân said, “and again betwixt the eyes.”

Nick turned to look at Hugh. “I thought your sight was still damaged.”

“’Twas a lucky shot.”

“Two lucky shots?” Nicholas queried.

“Aye, well…” Hugh cleared his throat and bent to pick up his saddle. He lifted it and threw it over the broad back of his destrier. “We’ll break our fast on pork at Clairmont today.”

Two horses and three riders. ’Twas awkward, but Nicholas was able to convince the lady to take her seat ahead of him on his mount. Hugh found himself fuming quietly as Nicholas and Siân bantered easily with each other, but he did not speak out.

Lady Siân verch Marudedd was nothing to him.

Breaching the castle gate a short time later, they found Clairmont a hub of activity. The setting reminded Hugh of Windermere Castle, the now-prosperous family seat of his friend, Wolf Colston. Perhaps marriage and stewardship of Clairmont would not be such an onerous thing, Hugh told himself. After all, Wolf and his lady wife seemed content. With their lively little daughter, Eleanor, and another babe expected within the month, Wolf and Kit were more than content. They were delighted with life.

It was quite beyond Hugh.

Reaching the great hall, Hugh dismounted and watched as Nicholas assisted Lady Siân from his horse and guided her up the stone steps. As if that were necessary, Hugh thought as he regarded the lady’s sprightly step. Any evidence of her prior mishap was absent now. Deliberately turning his back on his two companions, Hugh spoke to the page who had arrived to take charge of the horses and instructed the lad to have someone fetch the great boar in the woods.

Ignoring the familiar hollowness inside him, Hugh began his own climb up the steps to meet his intended bride.

Chapter Two

Fresh rushes coated the floor of Clairmont’s great hall, and all the trestle tables were covered with clean cloths. No one lazed about, not even the dogs that were commonly seen in the great halls of the kingdom. Sunlight filtered in through lofty, narrow windows, and colorful banners hung from high oaken beams.

An elegantly dressed, efficient, silver-haired man approached them. “Lady Siân!” he exclaimed, noting her disheveled appearance. “Your brother—”

“—need not hear of my mishap, Sir George,” she said, a little too brightly as she gathered her skirts in hand and moved away from the newcomers to the castle. “All is well…No need for concern…I shall see to my little scrapes and bruises….”

Then she turned and was off, flitting like a candle into the dark stone depths of Castle Clairmont.

And Hugh wondered why the analogy of the candle came to mind.

“Lord Thornton, Lord Alldale,” the man said, still taken aback by Siân’s disheveled appearance. “I—I greet you on behalf of the lady Marguerite, and her son, Lord John. I am Sir George Packley, steward of Clairmont.”

“Thank you,” Nicholas replied, his German accent causing his speech to be distinctly different from that of his peers. An illegitimate grandson of the Margrave of Bremen, Nick had grown up in his grandfather’s court, along with his cousin, Wolf Colston, and Wolf’s young squire, Hugh Dryden. They’d gone to France together to serve King Henry in his pursuit of French possessions, and all three had been rewarded handsomely with English lands and titles.

Hugh, however, was the only one to never have laid claim to his estates. A trusted steward administered Alldale, but Hugh had not yet seen it. Two years before, he’d been ambushed and taken prisoner by the earl of Windermere, a cruel and perverse relative of Wolf Colston’s. Hugh had been kept chained to a wall in one of the damp, dark caverns under the castle, and tortured by the corrupt and wicked earl. With him in that terrible donjon had been the earl’s mad stepmother, whom Windermere had personally tortured and killed before Hugh’s eyes.

Though he’d never spoken of his ordeal under the castle, the atrocities committed were etched all over his body. One eye gouged out…a finger dismembered. Burns and lacerations covered him. Dehydration, filth…It was a wonder he’d survived.

But that’s all he’d done. Survived. Hugh had recovered to become a mere shell of his former self. He was a man alone, without purpose or intensity.

It was Wolf Colston’s wife, Kit, who was especially determined to see Hugh’s soul restored to him. A fair and compassionate woman, Kit wanted to see her husband’s closest friend healed in every way. The start of negotiations for Hugh’s marriage to Marguerite of Clairmont had been, in good measure, Kit’s doing.

Not that Lady Kit believed marriage would be the answer to Hugh’s indifference, but Clairmont was of strategic importance to the crown. Near the Scottish border, Clairmont lands provided the buffer between the northern warlords and England. A strong leader, a man with military experience, was essential to maintaining the integrity of the northern border.

Kit Colston hoped that if Hugh married Marguerite, he would take seriously his duty to defend the border for England, and protect Clairmont holdings for Marguerite’s infant son, John. She was confident that this challenge would rouse Hugh as nothing else had in the last two years.

And if his marriage should become a happy, fruitful one, then all the better.

Sir George escorted Hugh and Nicholas to a pair of chambers where they were to spend the night, and were informed that Lady Marguerite would see them at midday meal, as she had other matters to attend at present. Though they were both somewhat taken aback that Lady Marguerite did not deign to greet her guests immediately, they were even more surprised by the steward’s next words.

“The queen, however,” Sir George said, “is most anxious to see you.”

“The queen?” Nicholas asked. “Catherine is here?”

“She is,” the steward replied as he pulled open the heavy curtains covering the windows. “The royal entourage is here at Clairmont for the remainder of the month…Lady Siân Tudor is part of the queen’s party.”

“Tudor!”

“Squire Owen’s sister,” Sir George explained.

Both men knew Owen Tudor from his presence in the court of Henry V. Neither of them had known, however, that he had a sister—a sister who’d chosen to identify herself in the old Welsh way rather than call herself Tudor. Hugh wondered if there was some reason she hadn’t wanted to be associated with Owen.

Hugh and Nicholas remembered Tudor as a competent young man in King Henry’s court, a man with winning ways. He was exceptionally handsome, ambitious yet careful, and absolutely loyal to the crown. Hugh could not imagine any reason for Siân’s reticence to be associated with her brother’s name, but he let the irrelevant matter drop from his mind, and went along with Nicholas and Sir George to a spacious solar high in the castle tower.

“Your Majesty!” Nick said as he and Hugh knelt before their queen. She was a young woman, as lovely and elegant as ever, tall and slender, with intelligent, light-brown eyes sparkling in welcome. Neither Hugh nor Nick had seen her in over two years. Their last meeting had, in fact, been at the marriage of Kathryn and Wolf Colston in London.

“Your Majesty, it is an unexpected pleasure to see you here,” Nicholas said.

Catherine smiled sadly. “Ah, but London is tiresome this time of year,” she said.

“London?” Nicholas asked.

“Oui. London.” The queen’s eyes sparkled. “And…my brother-in-law and his uncle.”

“So, Gloucester and Beaufort are at it again?” Hugh asked.

Catherine bit her lip and looked away. “I will not become a pawn in their despicable power struggle.”

“What is it this time?” Nicholas queried.

“A hideous little plot to get me wed.”

“Wed? To whom?” Nicholas demanded. Only the council could approve the queen’s marriage, and neither he nor Hugh had heard of any such consent. But the Duke of Gloucester and Bishop Beaufort wielded a great deal of power among the lords of parliament. If either one were to choose a suitable husband for Catherine, and a guardian for her small son, the lords could be persuaded to approve a marriage.

And the “winner” of the power struggle could then control the king through the boy’s stepfather.

“It is of no matter, my lords,” Catherine said with a sigh. “Mon petit Henri and I are not in London. We are beyond the sway of any of his uncles.”

“For now, at least,” Hugh muttered under his breath as he wandered to a far window seat while Nick and Catherine continued to speak quietly together. A little boy, dressed in rich clothing, toddled about the solar, throwing a leather ball at some standing pins, then running to retrieve it and replace the pins, only to throw it again. Before he knew it, Hugh was caught up in watching little King Henry, reluctantly admiring the two-year-old’s patience and ability.

It was unfortunate that his father hadn’t lived to see the boy grow up, hadn’t lived to give him brothers, and to keep the predatory powermongers at bay.

But that was the way of things, Hugh thought. Death claimed them all. And sometimes it was better if death came sooner rather than later.

Outside the window, the sky was blue and a flock of common brown sparrows swooped together, enjoying the play. Mirthful noises drew Hugh’s attention down to the bailey, where a game of camp-ball was in progress. Goals were set up on either end of the lawn, perhaps sixty yards apart. Several young boys with sticks were riding squealing pigs, and trying to hit a large ball into the opposing goal. This was a variation on the game that Hugh had never seen and he gazed down with curiosity. Crowds of people had gathered ’round to watch the play and were laughing at the antics of the players.

And in the midst of it all was Siân Tudor.

She had changed clothes since he’d last seen her, and was now wearing a gown of vibrant blue…the same shade as her eyes. Hugh willed himself to look away, but the sunlight caught the golden strands in her russet hair and he was struck by the radiance of her person. Had he seen any such brightness of color these last few years?

Hugh doubted it. He’d seen only the colors of war in France, then the dismal darkness of Windermere’s torture chamber.

Shaking off the thought, he watched Siân Tudor as she moved among the players, her lucent voice occasionally floating to his open window, her lithe movements drawing his eye, her joyful enthusiasm bewildering him. What reason, he wondered, had she to be so jubilant?

Likely no reason at all. She was obviously an empty-headed, frivolous child.

Siân clapped her hands and stopped the play, unaware of her audience up high in the tower above her. “Not legal!” she cried, trying to contain her laughter at the silliness of the game. It was unlike any form of camp-ball she’d ever played, but the pigs had been herded into the bailey, and the thought of riding them had been just too comical to resist. “You must guide your sows back to the line of pumpkins and begin again!”

“Aw, m’lady,” one boy cried as his teammates clamored with him, “you are ever changing the rules! We were so close—”

“Nay, Jacob Johnson!” Siân yelled, laughing out loud now, “you may not argue with the judge, or you’ll be further penalized!”

“But—”

“No exceptions,” Siân interrupted his plea. “Now! Go on!”

The game resumed as Siân ran alongside the field of play, turning one wayward pig back into the fray and helping another boy back onto his “mount.” She enjoyed sporting with the children, organizing games and outings. It was what she had done at Westminster to while away the dull days as her brother worked out plans for her future. Never had it occurred to her that he would buy her into a nunnery.

She was trapped. Without a proper dowry, with no property to speak of at all, and a somewhat tarnished family reputation, marriage into a reputable English family was highly unlikely, not that it was especially desirable to Siân. Though Owen had managed to insinuate himself into the king’s house, and had even engendered a high degree of trust among the English elite, Siân knew that she, herself, was a lost cause. Because she got into trouble more often than not, there wasn’t a man in the kingdom who was willing to take her to wife.

Even in Wales, she’d been something of a pariah. Living at the house of one uncle or the other, Siân never felt she really belonged anywhere. Even in Pwll.

That was all she ever really cared about—belonging somewhere. For years she’d dreamed of Owen coming to take her away from Pwll. But it was not to be, not now, not ever. She could only hope that at St. Ann’s she would finally find her place. In the environment of the cloister, mayhap she would be alone no longer.

“Siân!”

She turned to look, only to see her brother’s stormy face as he approached the playing field. She hardly knew him, but she was quite familiar with this face. Owen had left Wales years before, leaving Siân to be raised by their mother’s brothers while he went to live with a noble family near London. How different things would have been, Siân thought, had he grown up with her in Wales. Perhaps he would not be the tiresome, humorless gentleman she now saw before her.

Owen grabbed her by the arm and hauled her off to a small enclosure near the kitchen. Then, in angry hushed tones, he lambasted her again for her indecorous behavior.

“Is it not possible for you to join the other ladies in their work?” Owen asked, frustrated with his sister’s lack of womanly accomplishments.

So tall and handsome, Owen kept himself impeccably attired. He was very determined to overcome the sins of their father, who had taken a prominent part in a Welsh uprising against King Henry IV. Siân, with her unsophisticated ways and lack of feminine charms, could never further Owen’s cause, as well they both knew it.

The ladies of court shunned her, not wishing to associate themselves with one so common, so unschooled in courtly ways. To make matters worse, various young courtiers had attempted to seduce Siân soon after her arrival at Westminster, thinking that because of her naive, ingenuous manner, she would willingly provide a convenient outlet for their lust. Her repeated refusals had not won her their admiration.

“I am sorry, Owen,” Siân said contritely, her gaze flitting back toward the game. “I am a poor weaver, as you know, and my stitchery is cursed by the very—”

“Do not say it, Siân!” Owen admonished, slapping his thigh in fury, his fair complexion darkening. “Your language is appalling, as is your dress…Look at your hair…where is your veil? By the Holy Cross, sister, do not disgrace me here!”

“I shall try not to, Owen,” Siân said, truly sorry to have caused him such distress. She would try harder. She surely would. If only he would care for her half as much as he cared for his position in the queen’s court. Siân cast her eyes downward and noticed a smattering of dirt and dust across the hem of her bright blue silk kirtle.

And wondered how she would get it clean by mealtime.

“Nervous?” Nicholas asked. They were to meet Lady Marguerite in the castle garden just before the noon meal.

Hugh snorted with disdain.

“I merely asked,” Nicholas said. “Were I meeting my intended bride, I’m certain I’d be…”

Seated on a wooden bench near some stone statuary, was the lady in question, along with an infant in her arms.

“…dumbfounded.” Nicholas concluded his sentence as the two men laid eyes on Marguerite Bradley. She was a beautiful woman, with shining black hair arranged intricately and becomingly around her head. Her violet eyes were sparkling and lovely, framed by thick, black lashes. The lady’s demeanor was gracious and serene, her movements elegant and graceful as she received Hugh and Nicholas.

“Welcome to Castle Clairmont,” she said, her voice a pleasing melody to the ear, laced with undertones of her native French. “I am Marguerite Bradley, and this is my son, John.”

Servants brought chairs for the gentlemen, and a nurse took the infant from his mother. When they had completed their greetings and were seated, an awkward silence ensued. Even Nicholas, who seemed always to have something to say, was rendered speechless by the lady’s poise and exceptional beauty.

“I trust your journey was a pleasant one?” Marguerite asked. Her gaze flitted uncomfortably from Hugh’s scarred appearance to Nicholas’s more comely one.

“Yes, quite,” Nicholas said, and they spent a goodly portion of time discussing the best kind of weather for travel and the incident in the wood that morning with Lady Siân and the boar.

Hugh was quiet, his usual state, leaving most of the conversation to Nick. He’d become accustomed to ladies’ reactions to his eye patch, and the scars that emanated from beneath it, and it had no effect on him anymore. Oddly enough, Lady Marguerite also had little effect on him.

He realized, of course, that she was breathtakingly beautiful, but he could not muster much enthusiasm for taking a wife. He tried to appreciate the delicate arch of her black brows, and her flashing violet eyes, the aristocratically straight nose, and voluptuously full lips. But it was useless. Whether or not he wed this woman, Hugh knew he was destined to a life of lonely isolation. For no one would ever come to understand the blackness of his soul.

The music that Queen Catherine brought to Clairmont delighted Siân. Naturally, the queen had her own musicians and minstrels, and they provided an enchanting accompaniment to every evening meal.

As Siân sat in her assigned seat at supper, she wished for some of Lady Marguerite’s elegance and competence. Not only did the countess’s beautiful and saintly appearance do her credit, but as chatelaine of Clairmont, Marguerite kept everything in splendid order. All of Lady Marguerite’s domain was neat and organized. Guests and servants alike were simply perfect.

Siân picked at the food in the trencher she shared with her tablemates as she watched all the noble gentlemen at the dais vie for Marguerite’s attention.

All but Hugh Dryden, Earl of Alldale. He was different from the other Saxons. He alone seemed indifferent to Marguerite’s abundant and obvious charms, and held himself apart from the excessive adulation. Though he kept his face carefully expressionless, Siân noted the familiar spark of intelligence in his eye.

Alldale was truly a man alone, Siân thought. She’d sensed that about him in the woods that morning and had been wondering about him ever since. He was not a handsome man, exactly…. Still, there was something about him: a depth of fortitude and endurance that had surely served him in the past. A man wouldn’t survive the kind of injuries that had damaged and scarred Hugh Dryden without a well of inner strength from which to draw.

Of all the ladies on the dais, only Queen Catherine seemed unaffected by Hugh Dryden’s appearance. The scars that were barely concealed by the leather patch…the ravages to his hand…Siân knew Hugh must be aware of the aversion he aroused, and her heart went out to the quiet and solitary man. She, at least, knew what it was to be alone in the world. Siân doubted that anyone else on the dais knew what that was like.

Alldale joined in the conversation only when addressed, and Siân considered that he might be ill at ease among the highborn folk at his table. He was like one of the hawks she’d seen out in the woods. With craggy features and a taut, sleek power, hawks prized freedom above all else. Flying high above the land, circling, riding the wind, they were masters of their domain, subject to no one.

Hugh Dryden was as well made as any hawk, Siân thought, with powerful arms and chest, and strength enough to carry her without effort through the forest that morning. She doubted there was anything that could ruffle the feathers of this man, outside of being caged here in polite company, listening to the idle chatter of the queen’s ladies and gentlemen.

Her Majesty eventually took her leave of the company, along with several of her ladies and gentlemen. The minstrels stayed in the hall, continuing to entertain those who remained. Siân forced herself to ignore the thinly veiled, lewd remarks made by the young London courtiers with whom she was seated, and cast several furtive glances toward the main table, hoping to catch a few more glimpses of Hugh Dryden. It did her heart good to see that he remained indifferent to the glorious Marguerite. It was gratifying to know that at least one man in England was unaffected by her perfection.

Soon after the queen’s departure, Hugh excused himself and Siân watched as the earl made his way through the hall and out the main doors. She couldn’t help but wonder how and where this solitary man would choose to spend his time.

And as she daydreamed girlishly about the way his powerful arms had lifted her and carried her so chivalrously through the woods, Siân knocked over her goblet and spilled ale all over her blue gown.

It was the only decent one she had left.

Stone walls began to close in as darkness approached and Hugh often sought solace outside, where the open sky was immense and he could breathe easily. He walked through the town of Clairmont and followed a path up a hill, then down into a clearing to a small lake with a rugged, rocky bank.

Hugh sat on a large, flat rock near the water’s edge and threw a stone into the black depths, where it sank with a plunk! Then he threw another.

He breathed deeply.

It had been a strange day. He’d killed a boar with an arrow. Found his target and dispatched the arrow to its mark. Without hesitation, without fail. A quick, clean kill.

He nearly smiled.

Plunk!

The darkness that dwelled inside him day after day refused to be assuaged by that puny success. He was still half blind, still a maimed man. Tonight, as usual, he would be unable to sleep without images of red-hot tongs and sharp little knives plaguing him. He would see his enemy’s leering face and feel the tongs burning his eye; the cruel mallet breaking fingers and toes….

Plunk!

In the two years since his ordeal, it had been the same. He’d been stripped of his honor, of his potency as a man. Held prisoner like a child, he’d suffered every depravity with as much dignity as he could rouse. Though his dignity had been sufficient, his faith and endurance had not. He’d reached a point where he’d closed himself off from consciousness intentionally, rather than suffer the agonies planned by the twisted earl of Windermere. He’d have bargained away his soul for his freedom.

He had given in to a knight’s ultimate disgrace. Despair.

How could he possibly offer himself as husband to the chatelaine of Clairmont? How could he tie himself to that beautiful, accomplished lady? Hugh was a man with nothing more than a title, an estate…a past. There was nothing for him to offer Marguerite of Clairmont. There was no future for Hugh Dryden.

A light drizzle began to fall and a thin mist gathered across the surface of the lake. Hugh wondered if it would thicken much, for he’d lost his appreciation of the beauty of the mist. Where once it had leant an unearthly, magical appeal to his world, it now made him feel trapped, suffocated.

That was something he could not bear. He’d spent days—he could never be sure how many—chained in the darkness. Unsure what his fate was to be. Waiting…always waiting.

From nowhere came the sound of running feet along the packed earth of the path, disrupting his dismal thoughts. Partially hidden by the rocks where he sat, Hugh turned to see if the intruder was visible in the near darkness. Dark clothing concealed the figure as it ran down toward the lake, but the sound of weeping was clearly a woman’s.

Something about the voice was familiar. Untamed, bronzed hair and a dusty blue kirtle came to mind, along with flashing eyes and soft, delicate skin.

Hugh sat still, hoping she would go away. Instead he saw her drop to the ground near some large stone boulders a short distance away, and commence to weeping in earnest.

He did not care to have his peace shattered by this gauche display of emotion. But if he moved off his perch on the rock, he’d surely disturb the young woman, and have to deal with her—a choice he was not pleased to make.

He could end up waiting forever for her to be done with her foolish tantrum, and leave. He saw no choice but to approach her.

How could life be so cruel? Siân wondered as she stifled her sobs. She sat up with her back to a cold, standing stone, and wrapped her arms around her knees, wiping her eyes. She’d never been much of a one for tears, knowing they couldn’t change anything, but the past few weeks had shown her how utterly useless she was—how entirely inept and clumsy. ’Twas no wonder she was to be consigned to a nunnery. What man in his right mind would have her?

Owen was lucky St. Ann’s had taken her so cheaply.

She could not go home—for there was no home anymore, now that her uncles were dead; her aunts and cousins barely eking a living for themselves as it was. Not that Pwll had ever been any great haven for her, but at least she’d understood her place. She’d always known what was expected of her.

The unpretentious people of Pwll were accustomed to seeing her in mended and dusty kirtles. They had come to expect her to instigate frolicking games and pageants, and caroles, and rhyming contests. Siân didn’t understand what was so wrong with merriment; of sharing mirth and joy with others.

She had firsthand knowledge that there was more than enough sorrow in the world, without having to look for it. Her life in Wales had not been an easy one, especially as the daughter of Marudedd Tudor, cohort of Owen Glendower, the Welsh rebel. The Saxon lords—one hateful earl in particular—had been especially severe with her people after the uprising, and Siân had suffered as much as any of the other villagers. Perhaps even more, because she’d been doomed to a life apart—tolerated, but kept separate from the people she considered her own.

Siân and the people of Pwll learned early that closeness to a Tudor only brought tragedy.

Oblivious to the mist in the air, Siân hugged her knees, resting one cheek against them. Sniffling once. Hiccuping.

She had been reluctant to leave Pwll along with everything and everyone familiar. In the weeks since being summoned by Owen to this foreign, Saxon land, Siân was constantly making mistakes. She didn’t understand the ways of the courtiers in London—neither the men and their improper, unwanted advances, nor the women and their vicious taunts and gossip.

Without understanding what she did that was so wrong, Siân disgraced herself time and time again, invoking Owen’s wrath with every mistake.

Owen had made a fine place for himself as Keeper of the King’s Wardrobe. Now, with King Henry dead, Queen Catherine relied heavily upon Owen for his support and counsel. He could not have a stupid and clumsy sister about. Her incompetence would naturally cast aspersions on him.

Siân leaned back, pulled the sticky cloth of her ale-soaked bodice away from her breast and let the misty rain fall, cleansing her skin of the spilled drink, and her heart of the oppressive thoughts that plagued her. The air was chill, and Siân knew she should return to the castle, but she could not bring herself to confront the ridiculing faces of those who had witnessed yet another ignominious episode in the life of Siân verch Marudedd.

But then, why not?

She would hold her head proudly erect as she walked through the great hall, as she always did, and ignore the sly looks and rude whisperings behind finely manicured, aristocratic hands. She’d lived through enough true horrors in Wales that this, her most recent mishap and Owen’s embarrassingly public censure, hardly rated her notice. So what if she’d spilled her cup of ale? Was everyone in England so infernally perfect, with nary a spill or a speck of dirt anywhere that they could not understand and accept a few small imperfections?

Wiping her tears, Siân got herself to her feet, only to be startled by the earl of Alldale, who’d come upon her without making a sound.

He said nothing, but stood formidably, with his arms crossed over his chest, as if awaiting her explanation for being there.

Siân, having already worked herself up into a defiant, peevish mood, raised her chin. “If you’ve come to laugh at my lack of grace, my lord—” she started to push past him “—rest assured that I am well aware of my shortcomings. I’ve—”

“Look!” Hugh grabbed her elbow and gently guided her back against the rock where she’d sat moments ago, crying. Their presence was concealed as he turned her to look toward the movement he’d noticed in the distance behind her. “Men are gathering in the mist.”

Siân peered down the shoreline, and forgot her own small troubles instantly. Directly north of them, were men leading their horses to the water. They did not appear to be Clairmont people. “They’re wearing plaid,” she said in hushed tones. “We’ve heard that Scottish raiders have been attacking the town and stealing livestock!”

Hugh knew that Richard Bradley had met his death leading Clairmont’s defense against just such Scottish marauders. “Would you estimate…” he asked “…about thirty of them over there?”

Siân peered into the mist. “Yes,” she said, realizing that he didn’t trust his own sight. “But there are more, with wagons—still making way down the hillside.”

Hugh shot his gaze abruptly to the northward hills and realized Siân was correct about the others. He hadn’t noticed them before. She had a keen eye, even with her sight obscured by tears. Looking down into her guileless face, Hugh gave a fleeting thought as to what had made her weep, and resisted the urge to touch her face, to wipe the tears from her flushed skin.

His spine stiffened with the odd notion. She could find her comfort from her brother, or from one of the courtly ladies back at the castle. Siân Tudor certainly had no need of his kind words, even if he knew any. “We’ll need to get back to Clairmont and alert the men,” Hugh said as he took Siân’s elbow and drew her back to the footpath.

“They seem very well equipped, My Lord,” Siân said. “This will be devastating to Clairmont.”

“Not if we’re prepared,” Hugh replied gravely.

They hurried through the light rain, running through the town and up to the castle. Both Siân and Hugh were soaked through when they reached Clairmont’s outer bailey. “Go and get those wet clothes off,” Hugh ordered her.

“I’m coming with you,” she said defiantly.

Unwilling to waste time arguing, Hugh proceeded to the great hall, where Lady Marguerite and many of her noble guests were gathered around talking, laughing and watching a pair of jugglers, while the queen’s musicians continued to play their festive music.

Hugh spotted Nicholas Becker, standing with Lady Marguerite, and he made his way toward the handsome pair, thinking that Nick was a much more suitable swain than he was.

“Hugh!” Nicholas exclaimed. He glanced at Siân, who stood a little behind Hugh. “You’re soaked!”

Ignoring his friend’s words, Hugh spoke urgently. “There are Scotsmen gathering at the lakeshore beneath the northern hills, preparing for attack,” he said. “The knights need to ready themselves for battle.”

Marguerite blanched white and started to sway. Nicholas was closest, and caught her before she fell, then swept her up off her feet, causing a stir among the guests in the hall. “Sir George will know the chain of command,” he said, “best consult him.” Then he turned and carried the lady out of the hall and up the main stairs.

Hugh’s appearance with Siân in the hall had caused more than a minor disturbance, so they did not have to go looking for Lady Marguerite’s steward. Sir George quickly found Hugh amid the revelers who had stopped their amusements and were already questioning him. Hugh spoke of the developing threat near the lake, and the crowd in the hall quickly dispersed—the noble-women fled to areas of safety, the knights headed for the barracks to arm themselves.

Hugh and Sir George went down to rouse the troops, then headed for the armory where Hugh began issuing orders as he put on his armor.

“Send runners into town to rouse the people,” he said as a young squire helped him to fit his jack over his hauberk. Sleeves and pauncer were added, then sword and dagger.

“But, my lord—”

“Have all able-bodied men remain in the town, but send everyone else up here,” Hugh ordered. “Have the people round up their livestock and herd their animals inside the castle walls. Stress the importance of speed and stealth.”

“But, my lord,” Sir George protested, “we must have a plan. We cannot just—”

“This is the plan, Sir George,” Hugh said. “What did Lord Richard do when faced with an enemy attack?”

“We were never forewarned before, so the earl always met the enemy face-to-face,” the old squire said, “head-to-head on the field of battle.”

“It’s time for a new tack,” Hugh said with authority. He had assumed leadership for lack of another to do so. “We’ll protect the townspeople as best we can by removing them to the castle. Ah, Nicholas,” he said, taking note of his friend’s appearance in the barracks.

Nicholas was stunned by the sight that greeted him. Hugh had shown little interest in anything, his lengthy malaise certainly due to the tortures he’d withstood at Windermere Castle. Yet here he stood now, as formidable as he’d ever been, arming himself for battle and issuing orders as if he’d never lost an eye, a finger, a toe…Never been chained to a wall and forced to witness the atrocities committed against a defenseless old crone.

“Don’t gape, Nick,” Hugh said as he picked up his quiver of arrows. “Arm yourself.”

And as Nicholas began putting on his armor, it crossed his mind that it was unfortunate they hadn’t found a war in which to involve themselves before this.

“Is it possible the Scots know that Queen Catherine is here with young Henry?” Hugh asked Sir George, his astute mind quickly calculating all possibilities, and surprising Nicholas yet again.

“It is doubtful, my lord,” the aging knight replied pensively. “Her Majesty has been here less than a week—not nearly enough time for the Scots to muster a force of fighters such as you have described.”

Hugh let the matter rest, although he was far from satisfied that Sir George was correct. Whether or not the Scots knew Catherine was here, it was up to Clairmont to see that King Henry’s heir and his mother were kept safe. “How many archers have you?”

“Twenty-two, my lord,” George said, answering Hugh’s question.

“And foot soldiers?”

“Thirty-five…give or take,” George replied.

The attack would likely come at midnight, since that had been the Scots’ most common strategy, though Hugh learned that the Scottish raiders were an unpredictable lot. Nothing was certain, other than the fact that haste was essential.

As the men made ready for battle, activity within the castle walls increased. Siân had disappeared some time before, and Hugh assumed she’d gone to find dry clothes. Instead he found her standing in the rain in the inner bailey, amid wheelbarrows and small coops, wagons and livestock, directing the newly arriving towns-people to shelter, along with their children and animals.

Vexation possessed him as he observed her dripping, wet hair, the sopping blue gown that fit her like a second skin, the shivers she couldn’t conceal. She looked small and vulnerable. “Fool woman,” he muttered, coming up behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders. He turned her toward the stone steps of the castle and gently guided her up, ignoring her objections all the way.

“There is work to be done, my lord,” Siân protested as they moved through the hall to the castle stairs. “The people do not know where to go. Children are frightened and—”

“You are going to catch your death,” Hugh interrupted, escorting her down the gallery where his own sleeping room was located. “Which of these is your chamber?”

Siân stopped in her tracks, a single bleak wall sconce lighting her angry face. “You cannot bully me so, my lord.”

“You need a keeper, my lady!” he said, raising his voice for the first time in recent memory.

Shocked by his insult, Siân’s chin began to quiver. “I do not!”

“Then behave as if you do not!” Hugh bellowed with irritation. “Get out of those clothes!”

“No!” Siân crossed her arms and stood toe-to-toe with him.

“God’s Cross, woman, you try my patience,” Hugh said, exasperated. She’d also wrenched more emotion out of him than he’d allowed in the past two years. Annoyance, aggravation. An idiotic sense of protectiveness. “What could possibly be so difficult about changing into dry things?”

She dropped her hands to her sides and glanced away self-consciously. Then she spoke truthfully. “I…I have no others.”

“Surely you…” He let his words fade as he saw the truth in her wary eyes. “Nothing presentable?” he asked gruffly.

She shook her head.

Owen had arranged for two acceptable gowns to be made for his sister when she’d arrived in London, but had seen no need for any more since she was to be pledged to St. Ann’s. Siân would soon be wearing the rough, brown woolen tunic of the convent nuns, so any more fine gowns would be a waste of Owen’s rare and precious coin.

Refusing to be thwarted, Hugh put his hand on Siân’s back and ushered her into his own room, kicking the door shut behind him. Siân, taken by surprise at first, began sputtering protests, but Hugh disregarded her words as he threw a few sticks on the smoldering fire. Then he pulled her over to the hearth where he turned her roughly and began untying the wet laces that fastened up the back of her bodice.

“My lord!” Siân cried, trying to pull away from his touch—the very touch that sent strange and wild tendrils of heat through her chilled body. “This is un-seemly! You cannot—”

“I most certainly can,” Hugh said. “I’ve already saved your foolish life once today, I’ll not see you take ill and die of fever and let my efforts of this morn go to waste.”

“Then I’ll find someone to help me,” she snapped. “Someone more…suitable!”

“Be still, Siân,” Hugh said, ignoring her. “These wet laces are the very devil to open and I have little time.”

“I object, my lord!” she cried, his strong hands on her back making her tingle in agony. What kind of magic did the man possess to cause such feelings? Why had she never felt these strange sensations…this odd yearning before?

It was awful! She had to get away from here, from him, before she was rendered incapable of rational thought, of movement, of escape. His touch was nothing like the soft, unwelcome pawing of the London dandies. The earl of Alldale acted with the potent certainty of a man. His was a bold and commanding touch, with strong hands honed in battle, and Siân could not help but wonder if there was any softness in him at all.

“Your objection has been duly noted, my lady,” Hugh said as he released the final loop of the lace. The stiff, blue gown fell away from Siân’s skin, dropping in a steaming heap to the floor. She was left wearing her thin, linen under-kirtle, which was also soaked, and not nearly as concealing. With her russet hair curling in a wild tangle down her back, she looked especially fragile, like a piece of vividly colored glass reflecting moonlight.

Siân lowered her head, puzzled by the strange feelings coursing through her. Did he feel it, too? she wondered. Did he ever long to be touched with care and tenderness?

Presumably not, she thought, certainly not from her. He’d called her foolish. He’d said she tried his patience. She was naught more than a pest to him.

Hugh stood rooted to the ground for an eternal moment, transfixed by the vision of Siân’s delicate back, her smooth buttocks nearly exposed through the thin material. Thoughts of her soft lips on his rough skin nearly made him tear off his battle gear.

Seeing her tremble suddenly, he gave himself a mental shake, then spun on his heel to reach for the thick woolen blanket from his bed. Quickly, he wrapped Siân in it, unable to avoid enclosing her in his arms momentarily.

With wonder in her deep blue eyes, Siân turned to look at Hugh, a crease of bewilderment marring the perfect skin between her brows. The moment grew thick and heavy as their bodies drew closer to each other. She felt his breath on her face, his heat warming her. Longing to touch him as he’d touched her, she stopped herself, remembering what he thought of her. Siân spoke quietly instead. “I thank you for seeing to my welfare again, my lord. I will try not to bother you again.”

Then she pulled the blanket tightly around herself and fled the earl’s chamber.

Chapter Three

The battle was long and fierce. Every able-bodied man joined in the fray, the untrained townsmen using whatever weapons came to hand: axes, hammers, poles and daggers. As the highest-ranking knight at Clairmont, Hugh decided the strategy of battle and commanded the troops, with archers in ambush on every rooftop. Still, they were outnumbered by the Scots, who were well-supplied, savage fighters.

It was the archers who finally won the day for Clairmont. A masterful strategy, keeping archers positioned on the rooftops, left the Scots unable to escape their deadly volleys. Arrows rained down whenever the Scots broached the town. Clairmont’s foot soldiers finished the job.

When it was over, however, the damage to the town was extensive. As he walked through the aftermath, Hugh felt strangely detached from the chaos around him. The burning thatch and smoldering embers…the bodies of the fallen men being gathered for burial…women and children weeping. There were moans of pain that echoed some distant agony of his own, an agony he could not bear to relive.

He made his way back to the castle, oblivious to the salutes and hails he received from the people within the walls, who now considered him a hero. They gave him credit for discovering the Scots early, forming a plan of attack, leading the soldiers in defense of the town…and emerging victorious from it all.

After so many lost skirmishes, this victory was sweet to Clairmont.

Within the walls of the castle, Hugh dismounted and left his horse in the care of a groom, then proceeded to the keep, where he sought the chapel entrance. Finding it on the eastern side, he slipped in quietly and stood with his eyes downcast, shivering in his sweltering metal shell, even as the autumn sunlight shone through the stained glass above the altar.

And Hugh Dryden then prayed for the souls who’d been dispatched this day.

Siân distractedly helped two little girls wash their hands in a trough in the outer bailey as she searched the faces of the men returning from Clairmont town. Battle-weary and bruised, bleeding and bandaged, the men had victory in their eyes nonetheless. The women and children welcomed their men back amid hugs and endearments, tears and laughter.

Hugh’s troubled visage eventually came into Siân’s view, and she started toward him, anxious to see him at close range, to assure herself that he was unscathed. She’d worried about him throughout the night and all day long, even though she knew he would never appreciate such attention from her. Her heart overflowed with relief when she saw him, and with the need to touch him. To feel his solid body near hers again, as she had the night before—only to affirm that he was unharmed. He was covered with the grime of battle mixed with blood, and Siân could only hope it was not his own.

When he was within an arm’s reach, Siân spoke his name, but he walked on numbly, ignoring her.

Irrationally hurt by his complete disregard, Siân looked down at herself, in the rough peasant’s dress she’d thrown on in the previous night’s confusion. It was ill-fitting and ugly, exactly the kind of dress a highborn man would abhor. The condition of her hair hadn’t improved much since he’d seen her last night, either. ’Twas no wonder he’d ignored her, though his indifference gave her a peculiar ache in the vicinity of her heart.

“God’s ears, Siân,” a harsh male voice said. Owen took hold of her arm and roughly ushered her to the rear of the kitchen. “Must you disgrace yourself at every turn?”

“Owen, I—”

“You are pitiful!”

“You’re hurting me, Owen,” Siân cried, dismayed by the anger flashing in his dark gray eyes. What could she possibly have done wrong? It was nothing but her Christian duty to help these poor people in their time of need. How could Owen construe it otherwise? “Please!”

He let go of her arm and pushed her through the kitchen door. The cook fires were being tended by maids, and Owen surprised Siân by refraining from giving her the tongue-lashing he obviously felt she needed. He propelled her beyond the kitchen and down a dark passage, till they reached a small, isolated alcove.

“Is it too much to ask you to comport yourself as becomes your station?” he demanded. “You are not some lowborn varlet, at liberty to dress as you please, to sully our already inglorious name.”

“Owen, I didn’t mean—”

“I am doing everything I possibly can,” he said, running a hand through his wavy, golden hair, “to restore honor to our name. To see that our progeny is afforded the respect it deserves! But you!” he cried in frustration.

Siân felt her heart would burst—not only in shame, but with sorrow. For this talk of progeny had nothing to do with her—not when she took the vows of St. Ann.

“You thwart my every effort,” Owen continued, pacing in front of her now, in his anger. “You lower yourself to the level of those villein, dressing like them, dirtying your hands with them. Why can you not observe and learn from your betters? Look at the queen, for example. Her Majesty is a woman above all others! She is kind and gracious, beautiful and refined. And Lady Marguerite…”

Siân bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling. She was powerless to stop the trail of tears coursing down her face, but she somehow managed to refrain from weeping openly. Owen was right, of course. Siân rarely ever thought of dire consequences before she acted, nor did she give much consideration to her clothes or the state of her hair.

As for dirtying her hands…Siân wasn’t afraid of hard work, nor could she see any dishonor in it. At home in Pwll, there’d been no elegant house or servants to take care of her. There’d been no one to tutor her in the fancy ways of the gentry, though she’d learned more than enough about aristocratic harshness from Edmund Sandborn, the arrogant Earl of Wrexton, whose English estates bordered Welsh lands near Pwll.

Years ago, Siân had sworn on the graves of two youthful Welsh friends that if she ever met up with Wrexton again, she’d somehow contrive to run a blade through his cruel, black heart.

Siân wondered what her brother would make of that.

“The lady’s hands were sullied in good cause, Tudor.”

Siân whirled, mortified, to see Hugh Dryden approaching from the vicinity of the chapel. Had he heard Owen’s scathing chastisement in its entirety?

“There is no shame in the help you’ve rendered today,” he added, taking one of Siân’s hands and raising the back of it to his lips. It was bad enough that he now knew what little regard her brother held for her…she could only hope the earl would not notice the quivering of her chin or the excessive moisture in her eyes.

“Get out of my sight,” Owen growled after Hugh had walked away. “And don’t return until you’ve made yourself presentable.”

Hugh Dryden sank down into his tub of hot water and sighed. Cupping his hands, he lifted water up and over his shoulders, down his powerful swordsman’s chest. As his tight, brown nipples beaded, droplets of water stuck in the thick dark hair that matted his chest.

“That’s a nasty-looking slice on your arm,” Nicholas said, making himself at home on Hugh’s bed while Hugh soaked his aching muscles. “Bet it smarted when you got it.”

“I was too well occupied at the time to notice,” Hugh replied dryly, thinking of how his shoulder piece had become dislodged just before the Scot got in his lucky strike. It was a terrible wound—a deep slice through the muscle below his shoulder that had bled and crusted over, then bled again. He had some salve to put on it, but he wanted to get it clean first. When it healed, if it healed, the scar would be just one more to add to his already well-marked body.

“That’s your bad shoulder,” Nicholas said. “You should have it sewn.”

Hugh made hardly more than a grunt in response. He’d had enough needles pass through his skin to last a lifetime. Still, it was a deep, ugly gash, and that shoulder had already undergone punishment enough during his imprisonment.

“All went exceptionally well today,” Nick said. “You should press your suit to Lady Marguerite now, while your victory is fresh in her mind.”

Hugh refrained from comment, other than a weary, noncommittal grunt. He’d hardly given Lady Marguerite a passing thought, yet he could not rid himself of the image of Siân Tudor being dressed-down by her brother for helping out in the courtyard. Hugh doubted that she’d slept at all this past night, and looked as if sheer willpower alone kept her from shattering under her brother’s harsh and unnecessary words.

The man was an ass.

“There will be more suitors, Hugh,” Nicholas said, forcing Hugh’s thoughts back to the matter at hand. “You must make your proposal now.”

Wearily, Hugh picked up a thick bar of soap and began to wash, wincing as he worked to cleanse the wound in his arm.

“The queen said that Marguerite has received missives from two other noblemen.” Nicholas stood and began pacing irritably. “There was one from some southern earl, and another from a London dandy, Viscount Darly.”

“So? Let one of them take her to wife,” Hugh replied to Nick’s warnings. “Either one would likely suit her better than me.”

“Damn it, man!” Nicholas said as he stopped his pacing and put his hands on his hips, exasperated. He’d promised Wolf Colston he’d see that Hugh got settled with a wife. Not just any wife, but this one. Marguerite Bradley.

“Marguerite is perfect, Hugh! She is incomparable! Between Alldale and Clairmont, you could become one of the most powerful peers of the kingdom. You cannot just—”

Yes, he could, he thought as he slid under the water, submerging his head, blocking out all extraneous sound. Hugh hoped his little maneuver would take enough of the wind out of Nick’s sails so that he could finish his bath in peace.

Hugh did not know if he could ever marry. He’d come to Clairmont with every intention of offering for the hand of Lady Marguerite, but he was not so certain of it now. Two years ago, something had been damaged inside him. Whether it was his heart or his soul, Hugh could not say. He only knew that he was no longer a whole man, and had not been for a long time.

He doubted he ever would be again.

Besides, he thought as he heard the door to his chamber slam shut, he was battle-weary. Time enough on the morrow to consider such things as marriage and estates.

Siân cuddled the precious infant to her breast as she paced the length of the castle parapet. She had truly planned to find something more suitable to wear, but when she’d come upon the infant’s grieving young mother in the courtyard, she’d had no choice but to offer help.

Her heart had reached out to the woman, who was newly widowed and overwhelmed by the infant in her arms and the two older children who held on to her skirts, weeping. Siân could also see that she was with child.

The babe was irritable, cutting teeth, the mother told Siân dully, her voice empty of all emotion. Siân had expected to hear the pain of loss, but the woman was numb with grief, exhausted by her pregnancy. Without thinking, Siân had offered to take the babe, to walk her and care for her until the mother felt more capable.

As she paced the high parapet, Siân hummed absently to the child, a repetitive, rhythmical, comforting lullaby. If the babe stirred, Siân bounced her gently, lulling her back to sleep. She wrapped the blanket more securely around the child’s head, protecting her from the brisk wind up high on the parapet. She paced aimlessly, relishing the feel of the babe in her arms, the smell of her perfect skin, the whisper of downy hair on her cheek.

The sky was laden with thick, low-hanging clouds, so the full moon was visible only intermittently as it appeared from behind the clouds. A guard nodded to her as she strolled by, and Siân was struck by the thought that these Saxons were just like her own people. Striving to make their way in the world. Honoring their parents and loving their children. Eating, drinking, sleeping, laughing.

Fighting to keep what was their own.

Isn’t that what they’d done in Pwll? Lived, and laughed, and fought against the Saxon Earl of Wrexton, who was determined to take what was theirs?

Siân shuddered, thinking of her two young companions who, many years ago, had been victims of Wrexton’s terrible cruelty. Beyond the loss of her childhood friends, the most painful part of the memory was knowing that the entire, horrible episode had been no more than a game to Wrexton, a simple exercise in “cat and mouse.”

The contemptuous bastard.

Siân swallowed back the bitter tears that never failed to come when she thought of the two youthful friends, gap-toothed Idwal and freckled Dafydd. Never in her life, if she lived for a century or more, would she forget her pain, or her guilt in the deaths of those two young boys. For she had been the one Wrexton was after, not two innocent Welsh boys. She, Siân Tudor…the daughter of the rebel.

The babe in Siân’s arms began to cry again, and she was diverted from further thoughts of the two boys as she rocked the child and increased the volume of her song. It was a simple little Welsh song, a lullaby, but it seemed to soothe the child nearly as much as it soothed Siân’s own soul.

“Huna blentyn yn fy mynwes,

Clyd a chynnes ydyw hon…

Sleep my baby, at my breast,

’Tis a mother’s arms round you…”

If only she were the little one’s mother, Siân thought wistfully, motherhood being one of many simple pleasures she was to be denied. Owen had decided that marriage was beyond her. As her closest male relative, Owen would not allow Siân to marry any of the young men of Pwll, all of whom were below the high and mighty—but impoverished—Tudors. Which was just as well, as Siân would never again put another Welsh-man at risk of Saxon vengeance.

There certainly weren’t any Saxon noblemen of Owen’s acquaintance who would offer for her, even if she would deign to have one. She was too Welsh, too unsophisticated, and entirely too lacking in dowry.

Siân had considered running away from Owen and the life he’d chosen for her, but she did not know where she could go or how she would manage to live. A woman alone had little chance of survival. On more than one occasion, Owen had told Siân that she was not the kind of woman to attract a man for anything more than a lighthearted tryst. She was too headstrong, too impertinent, and just too unsuitable.

As a result, she was to be consigned to the nunnery.

And Siân was afraid that would prove a difficult burden for one who had never been particularly pious.

Hugh stretched his tired muscles and leaned back against the stone corner of the parapet. He heard the sweet tones of Lady Siân’s singing as she paced the length of the stone walk, and he felt his own soul quiet within him. He did not understand her words, but the sounds of comfort were clear, and the infant in her arms was soothed by the song.

An unfamiliar contentment filled him as he listened to her. Siân was a fey child, not nearly as beautiful as Lady Marguerite, but she was interesting. Perhaps more than interesting, he decided, she was even compelling at times. He thought of the incident the previous night, when her saturated gown had dropped and she’d stood nearly naked before him. Hugh could not remember ever wanting a woman as powerfully as he had at that moment, and had she not run from his chamber, he was not sure what he’d have done.

Even now, hearing her pleasing voice in the distance, Hugh could envision her eyes, deep blue as they’d been with arousal; her lips, moist and full. Curling tendrils of her fiery hair had framed the pure white skin of her delicate cheeks and gently shaped chin. Her lush body against his own was a torture he could not have imagined, a torture he had wanted to continue at any cost.

His groin tightened even now with the thought of her, and he knew it was a mistake ever to have thought of her as a “fey child.”

Hugh quickly turned his thoughts to the festivities presently going on in the great hall. He had declined to participate. Not only was he too weary, but he felt like no one’s hero, and didn’t care to be feted by anyone in any way. He had yet to make his proposal of marriage to Lady Marguerite and still wasn’t convinced it was the right thing to do, in spite of Nicholas Becker’s arguments.

Hugh had no stomach for warfare anymore. His entire life had been spent either in training for war, or in actual battle. Here at Clairmont, there were no signs of the Scots giving up. Hugh knew that if he wed Marguerite, he’d have to withstand ever more of these border skirmishes until the Scots were defeated once and for all.

Perhaps, though, with an able leader at Clairmont and more victories against them, the Scots could be induced to stop their raids all the sooner. It was something to consider. Clearly, this had been the goal of the Parliamentary Council when they’d suggested the marriage.

Hugh was dressed in a most unassuming manner, but the dark patch that covered one eye was not easily hidden. The parapet guards spotted him quickly and saluted him as their recognized leader—the man who’d led them to victory. Hugh acknowledged them, but turned away to find a dark and quiet perch near a turret, where he could watch the turbulent sky without being seen. He sat back against the stone wall and stretched his legs out before him.

Hugh had surprised himself by rising to the challenge of battle last night and all through the day. It had been gratifying to discover that he was still a fully capable soldier, archer, swordsman, commander; that men still followed his confident lead.

The question was whether or not Hugh cared to acquiesce to the council’s wishes and provide Clairmont with the leader that was so desperately needed here. He had his own estate to the south, nearer to Windermere, and though he did not believe that Castle Alldale was as prestigious as Clairmont, Alldale’s lands were prosperous. No reasonable man could be dissatisfied with the holding. And there was peace in Alldale. No borders to protect, no marauders to overcome.

No killing to carry out.

The clouds thickened and obscured the moonlight, and night intensified around Hugh. Deep in shadow, he sat still, preoccupied with his ruminations, hardly aware of the gathering storm or anything else going on around him.

When Siân inadvertently tripped over Hugh’s feet, it was only because of his quick reflexes that she did not drop the babe she carried and fall on her face.

“Och!” she cried as the infant took up howling again. “I am sorry, my lord! I did not see you there in the dark.” She felt like a fool. Always awkward, forever clumsy—especially around Alldale. He must think her an absolute dolt. As did Owen. As did everyone she met.

“It is nothing, Siân,” he said darkly, holding her arms to steady her, “do not fret so.”

“You are kind, my lo—” But before Siân completed her thought, the infant belched loudly and spit a goodly amount of mother’s milk onto the shoulder of her bodice and down one sleeve. Siân wanted to crawl into a cave and hide.

Hugh’s brows rose.

Siân stifled a groan. Truly he did think her an idiot, and with good reason. She had plenty of experience with babies, yet she had wandered away unprepared, without so much as a cloth to clean the babe if necessary.

Siân shook her head in dismay just as fat droplets of rain began to shower them. Hugh quickly pulled her and the child into the shelter of the nearby turret and watched as the clouds opened up. There was soon a curtain of rain all around them, with ominous rumbles of thunder and shimmering bolts of lightning in the distance. The infant settled down, and drowsed on Siân’s shoulder.

Siân looked around the dark and empty turret. She knew she should not be alone with the earl, for there were proprieties to observe, her innocence to preserve. She was pledged to St. Ann’s, but looking at him now…the breadth of his chest, the strength of his hands, the power in his thighs…Siân suppressed a shiver that had nothing to do with the chill in the air, and everything to do with the way he’d touched her the night before, how he’d stood up for her to Owen, and kissed her hand.

“Perhaps, genethig,” Siân said to the babe, turning her attention from the kind and competent man standing next to her, “it was not a new tooth at all, but rather a sour stomach that caused your troubles.”

Hugh Dryden wreaked havoc on her equilibrium. Working to regain her composure, she spoke softly to the babe in Welsh. Siân knew she looked awful, as Owen had told her so not long ago, and now she smelled like sour milk, too. Very impressive.

“I—I had no time to change…” she offered lamely. She knew she must look like a troll.

“Clearly, there was further need of your skills amongst the villagers,” Hugh said offhandedly as he peered out the narrow window of the turret.

This Saxon earl cut an imposing figure, Siân thought wistfully. Wearing a light tunic and dark chausses, he stood tall and quiet in the faint light of the turret. He truly was the hero of Clairmont, Siân thought, just as the people were saying.

Lightning flashed again, and thunder rumbled in the distance, giving Siân a new reason to be uneasy. Her brow creased in concern. “Will we be safe up here?”

Hugh nodded in reply, and Siân realized that she could see him better now. The low rumbles and faraway flashes of light had become almost constant; their faces were illuminated often, as if by an unearthly, flickering fire. She tried to make herself relax, but the fierceness of the storm was beginning to frighten her.

“The worst of it is still in the distance,” he said.

“Will it get worse here?” Siân asked, gazing worriedly through the narrow window at the driving rain outside. Violent storms always frightened her, and this one seemed to carry the wrath of God with it. “Lightning? Floods?”

“Could be,” Hugh said absently. “But it could blow over. Or change direction.”

Siân was not reassured. She shivered suddenly, violently, and backed away from the open window, holding the infant more closely. “We should go down,” she said.

“Not yet,” Hugh replied, just now realizing Siân’s fear. “This will let up in a few minutes, then I’ll escort you down,” he said to reassure her.

Siân glanced out the doorway, and Hugh could see that the fool woman was considering whether to make a run for it through the rain to get to lower ground. Haste would likely make her slip on the wet stone and injure herself, perhaps even drop the child. He could not let her go.

“Lady Siân,” he said, attempting to mask his exasperation, “the storm is in the distant hills. You need not be concerned for your safety.”

Siân wasn’t so sure. Lightning had struck the church tower in Pwll many years before, and that was a memory she would never lose. She did not care to be high up in the castle turret when the worst of this storm struck, although a run through the cold rain was not appealing, either. She knew the earl was right—that there was time before the storm worsened—but still, it was difficult to remain calm.

Stiffening her backbone, Siân strove to rein in her anxiety. She was a grown woman, not some child to be ruled by her fears. “I’ve seen storms,” she said, “that—Och!”

A fierce arc of lightning lit up the near sky, then instantly a bone-rattling thunderclap sounded. Siân jumped. At the same time, Hugh turned to reassure her, but somehow drew her into his arms, surprising them both, and waking the babe Siân held. The wound in Hugh’s upper arm began to bleed, which Siân noticed as they broke apart.

Over the infant’s crying, Siân exclaimed, “You’re hurt!”

“’Tis naught,” he replied. “I’ll tend it when we go down.”

“But it’s bleeding badly,” she told him. Hugh’s need momentarily surpassed Siân’s fear. She looked around to see if there was a cloth to be used to stanch the flow of blood, but there was nothing. Her mind off the storm for the moment, Siân went to the doorway and looked for a guard.

They must all have taken cover from the rain.

“Here,” she said, handing the infant to him to hold with his unhurt arm. “Take her for a moment.”

Hugh felt an instant of shock when she shoved the child at him. He held the babe awkwardly with his uninjured arm, and watched as Siân turned around, then bent over and pulled up the hem of the ugly, dark over-kirtle she wore, to expose the fine, white linen gown underneath. A smooth, elegant length of leg was exposed, as well, and Hugh’s mouth went dry as he turned quickly away from her inadvertent display.

He heard the tearing of cloth, then suddenly she was there, taking the babe from him, pressing the clean linen to the wound near his shoulder, stanching the flow of blood.

“You should have this attended to, my lord,” Siân admonished severely. She could not see the wound through his light tunic, but by the volume of blood staining the cloth, she knew it was long and deep. “You might well lose your arm with a wound this severe.”

“And what would you know of lost limbs?” Hugh answered with derision.

Siân froze. His tone of voice had changed. Now he sounded just like all the other haughty Saxons she’d recently met. For all she knew, he could have been one of the Saxon soldiers who’d repeatedly harassed Pwll and the other Welsh border villages in retribution after the Glendower revolt. She should have known better than to allow herself any warm feelings for a Saxon aristocrat.

They were all the same.

What did she know of lost limbs, this earl wanted to know? Siân didn’t care to recount the terrible price of those bloody raids on her people—the lost lives, as well as lost limbs. Nor did she want to recall the atrocities committed by some of the Saxon pigs, when their victories had already been secured.

With lips pressed tightly together, Siân plopped the makeshift bandage into Hugh’s free hand. She wrapped the child securely in her little wool blanket and ran from the turret, moving quickly down the open stone steps in the pouring rain.

Hugh slapped the bloody dressing back on his wound and cursed himself for a fool.

The lady had only tried to be kind, but he’d insulted her intelligence, speaking to her as if she were a simpleton. He hadn’t really meant to offend her, but any talk of lost body parts always set him to boiling. How could anyone know how it was to lose a limb…an eye? Certainly not Siân Tudor, the softhearted, stormy young sister of Squire Owen.

She’d been angry with him—there was no doubt of it in Hugh’s mind. Her mouth had been pressed so tight that her lips were nearly white in the unnatural light of the storm. Her eyes, too, Hugh thought…deep blue, and flashing with fury.

And as Hugh leaned back to watch nature’s tumultuous display outside, he knew a moment’s regret for the few sharp words he’d thoughtlessly thrown at her. She received enough harsh treatment from her own brother. She certainly did not need more from him.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.