Dryden's Bride. Margo Maguire
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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,