Dryden's Bride. Margo Maguire
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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