Dryden's Bride. Margo Maguire

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

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