Dryden's Bride. Margo Maguire
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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