Dryden's Bride (12 page)

“Just over that rise, Siân,” Hugh said, chagrined at having to keep her going. He knew she was uncomfortable, he’d seen her grimace the last time she’d climbed onto the mare, but there hadn’t been any remedy for it. Tonight, at least, they would get a long night’s rest, and tomorrow their journey would be shorter. Windermere was not far.

They veered onto a side path that led to a large manor house that was deserted, and horribly neglected. Hugh picked his way along the overgrown path, and rode up to the stable yard. Siân glanced over at Hugh, who was carefully dismounting with Henry.
“Maman?”
the boy said as he awoke.

“No, Henry,” Hugh said, sheltering him from the rain as he went to help Siân down.

Her legs would hardly hold her when she stood. “Are you all right?” Hugh asked, frowning. It was unlike Siân to show any weakness at all and Hugh realized she must be more “leather worn” than she wanted to admit.

She nodded. “Just weary. What place is this?” she asked, stretching, shaking out her legs.

“Dryden Hall,” Hugh replied, glancing warily up at the great, rundown house that was his boyhood home. “Come with me to the stable. I don’t want to risk you going into the house without me.”

“Why, Hugh? What do you—”

“It’s been empty for a long time,” he said as he led the horses away. Siân’s legs felt marginally better now, and she was able to walk, so she caught up to him. “I just prefer to be cautious.”

Siân asked no further questions, but followed him as he carried a whining Henry and led the horses to the stable. It felt good to get out of the rain, and the roof of the stable was intact. The old building felt positively cozy after so many hours in the cold and wet weather. She took Henry from Hugh, then walked back to the entranceway of the stable door to look across the yard at the house.

She realized this must be Hugh’s family seat. Once a beautiful home, it was now a wreck and Siân wondered whatever had happened to the rest of the Drydens. Where were Hugh’s parents, his siblings? Why had such an impressive home been left to ruin?

“Look,
Parry
,” she said, pointing to the house. “There is no light at the house.”

“Where the people gone?” Henry said as he lay his head on Siân’s shoulder and stuck his thumb back in his mouth.

“Mayhap there are none,” Siân replied quietly. “Mayhap we are alone here,” she added as she repressed a wave of anticipation that she knew she should not even acknowledge. This would be her last night alone with Hugh, for he said they would reach Windermere
on the morrow. But Siân could not afford to think of intimacies with Hugh, of comfort and affection between them. Hugh was a man betrothed to another. He would never betray Marguerite, nor would Siân want him to.

“Where’s
Maman?
”

“
Maman
is at Clairmont,” Siân said, then she changed the subject to divert his attention as well as her own. “Soon we’ll have supper,
Parry
, and we can play in the house. I’ve got your wooden blocks. And mayhap Hugh will let us explore the house.”

After their arrival at Windermere, Siân did not know what would happen. She assumed Hugh would travel back to Clairmont right away to be with Marguerite. That thought gave her pause, but she did not allow herself to dwell upon it. Hugh’s future was laid out.

As Siân saw it, her own choices were limited. She could either beg a place at Windermere, taking a servile position in the duke’s household, or she could return to Clairmont herself, and do what she’d intended on the previous morning. Kill Wrexton. She wondered if Hugh would escort her back if he knew what she planned.

She doubted he would allow her to go through with it, even though he said he understood her hatred of the man, her need for vengeance.

Hugh stepped up behind her. “Stay here while I go into the house,” he said.

“But—”

“It looks vacant, but I want to be sure,” he said. “Siân, if anything should happen to me, there’s a village a short distance down this path. Keep follo—”

“No, Hugh!” She startled him by reaching up and hugging him to her tightly, with Henry squeezed between
them. The child protested loudly, and Siân merely said in a quiet voice, “Just be careful…and there will be no need for us to go to the village.”

Unable to keep himself from touching her, Hugh smoothed a wisp of hair from her forehead. “I will,” he said, and then he was gone.

Hugh wasted no time in getting a fire going.

The house smelled of must and disuse, but it was empty for the most part—save for a few lucky mice who’d found a safe haven in the walls and under the floorboards. Hugh assumed there were bats upstairs, as well, but he was not inclined to go looking for them in the dark. It was enough to know there were no other, more dangerous, intruders about.

Hugh took no pleasure in meandering through the dark, cavernous hall where he’d spent his early childhood. He’d had his fill of dark, decaying places when he was taken prisoner by Philip Colston, and had avoided all dank and dismal places since then. But it couldn’t be avoided now. He had to provide some kind of shelter for Siân and the boy, and Dryden Hall was the most likely choice. It was their best refuge, where they could stay the night and no one would be the wiser after they left on the morrow.

Henry started sneezing as soon as he came inside, but his reaction to the dust and mildew subsided after a few minutes. Hugh went back to the stable to get their packs, and as soon as he dropped them off, he disappeared again to take care of the horses.

From the look and smell of Dryden Hall, Siân knew it had been left empty for quite some time. It was doubtful that any of the rooms would be habitable, but at least the building seemed a good, sturdy shelter from
the rain. Siân was grateful they wouldn’t have to spend the night out of doors.

There were several tallow candles in pots, and Siân lit a few. She knew it would be some time before she could sit comfortably again on her sore bottom, and Henry needed to exercise his little legs. So, as she limped with discomfort, Siân took the little boy by the hand, and together, they went exploring.

By the time Hugh returned, Siân had changed Henry’s and her own clothes, and had set the wet things out to dry. The great hall looked fairly cheery, with candles flickering all around, and Siân sitting by the fire with Henry in her lap, already eating.

Hugh paused for an instant, taking in the scene before him, curbing the powerful sense he had of coming home. It was absurd, of course. He hadn’t been to Dryden Hall since his seventh year, not since he’d gone to Windermere to foster with the Colstons. Any sense of homecoming he felt would have been—should have been—for Windermere.

“I didn’t think there’d be any suitable beds,” Siân said, “so I just—”

“This is fine, Siân,” Hugh replied, indicating the furs she’d laid out near the fire. “The beds are likely moldy. The house has been closed up since my father died, years ago.”

He joined Siân by the fire and sat down nearby, partaking of the food she’d unwrapped. Very sensibly, she hadn’t disturbed anything, not even the dust. Had she started sweeping, the place would have become uninhabitable.

“You’ll have to get out of those wet clothes,” Siân said, unable to avoid thinking of his naked, muscular chest, the mat of dark hair sprinkled across that broad
expanse, and how it felt against her own bare skin. “It f-feels much better to be dry. And warm,” she added, cuddling Henry closer.

The little boy chafed at being held so tightly and he protested. Siân sighed, letting him loose to resume his meal.

“What’s ’at noise, Hew?” Henry asked, standing up.

“Just a little thunder, Henry,” Hugh replied. “Nothing to worry about.”

“How far do we travel tomorrow?” Siân asked, feeling uneasy with the thunder. She knew she should feel secure within the shelter of Dryden Hall, but violent storms always unnerved her. A little thunder in the distance was nothing, she told herself. She was perfectly safe here. And she needed to rest and relax. She couldn’t allow this storm to keep her from sleeping.

“Windermere’s not far,” Hugh replied. “Less than a day’s ride.”

Siân cringed with the thought of mounting a horse anytime soon. Her legs and bottom throbbed as if she’d been beaten with a wooden plank. Even now, she had difficulty finding a comfortable position in which to arrange herself. She eased onto one hip and asked, “Is Dryden Hall your family seat?”

He nodded. “Built a hundred years ago by the first baron.”

“And your family?”

“Gone,” he said. “Long dead.”

Thunder rolled in the distance and Siân looked toward the high windows, thankfully noting that they were intact. Shivering, she reminded herself that it was warm and safe inside, that she would have
hours
of rest before having to mount up on her mare again.

She didn’t want to think about that just yet.

Henry played for a short while before fatigue overcame him and he fell asleep among the furs and blankets Siân had spread out for him. It wasn’t long before Siân and Hugh followed suit.

Hugh slept soundly for several hours before the dream woke him. Or was it the storm? For it was blowing wildly around them now, with rain blasting in horizontal torrents against the house. Cracks of thunder sounded closer now, and flashes of lightning illuminated the great hall intermittently, as if it were suddenly lit by a thousand candles.

His shoulder was sore. It had been dislocated at some point during his imprisonment at Windermere, and the cold, wet weather often brought about an inflammation of the joint. He reached into his pack and drew out a glass bottle of liniment that Kit Colston had made for him, then drew off his tunic and rubbed the ointment into the joint. Relief was almost immediate as soothing heat and comfort permeated his shoulder.

Siân stirred in her sleep, moaning. Hugh knew her muscles ached from riding, but he wondered if it was also the storm that was keeping her from resting well. He remembered her reaction to the thunder the night they’d been on the parapet together. She’d been terrified.

Hugh slipped the liniment back into his pack and went over to her. Lying prone, her kirtle had ridden up and she’d kicked the blanket off one leg, which now lay bare and exposed on her pallet. He tried not to look at that smooth expanse as he reached over and pulled the woolen cover back over her.

She muttered something.
Hugh?

Was that what he heard? Or had it been the wind that made her soft murmur sound like his name.

Then her eyes opened. “Hugh,” she whispered again, groaning in discomfort as she moved. Thunder roared at that instant, sounding as if it were right outside the hall, startling Siân and making her cry out in dismay. Even Hugh was taken aback by the sound. He got up quickly and went to the door, unbarring it, pulling it open a few inches to look outside.

It was an unusually violent thunderstorm, and Hugh could barely believe they’d been fortunate enough to have made it to the hall before the worst of it hit. Trees were dipping and swaying in the wind and more than one hefty branch littered the ground. Small hail pellets battered the ground, and when the thunder sounded again, it seemed that the tempest was right in the stable yard.

There was nothing Hugh could do. The horses were sheltered, as were the humans, and Hugh hoped to God they would not have to take refuge in the cellars of the old house. Just the thought of going down into that dark and clammy place made him shudder.

He barred the door and returned to where Siân lay, tense and frightened, near the fire.

“It’s only a storm,” he said, gazing over at Henry, who remained sound asleep and perfectly content, with his thumb firmly planted in his mouth.

“You are a master of understatement,” Siân replied with a groan. “It sounds like lightning hit something nearby.”

Hugh shook his head. “Not that I could see from the door. Was it the thunder that woke you?”

“No,” she answered irritably, trying to make herself
comfortable. “It’s these cursed muscles that don’t like being curled over the back of a horse all day.”

Hugh leaned over and reached for the bottle of liniment from his pack. If she was so sore she couldn’t sleep, then she certainly wouldn’t be able to ride on the morrow. That would mean another day at Dryden Hall, another day for Beaufort to catch up with them.

“What have you?” Siân asked, tipping her head toward the bottle in his hand.

“An ointment I’m going to rub on your legs,” he said, ignoring the storm raging around them. He took the stopper out of the vial as thunder crashed nearby. “Turn over and lie down.”

S
iân eyed him warily and gave a little shake of her head. She had her pride even though her modesty was not exactly intact. There was no way in heaven she was going to give him leave to stroke her, to tantalize her with his touch when she knew that his thoughts, his heart, lay with another. She couldn’t bear it.

Besides, she’d always taken care of herself, and she would continue to do so now. It would not do to become dependent on anyone…especially Hugh Dryden. “I’ll be all right,” she said, “once this storm passes. They always make me nervous. Then I’ll be able to sleep and all will be well.”

A muscle in Hugh’s jaw flexed and he poured some of the liniment into one hand. “Siân,” he said. “You will have to ride tomorrow. But the look of you now, you’ll be too tender and I’ll have to go on without you.”

“No!” she cried, despising the sound of panic in her voice.

“Then lie down and turn over.”

“No, I—I can do it myself,” she said, reaching for the bottle.

Hugh gave a derisive snort. “Siân, just lie down. Nothing untoward will happen.”

She didn’t know how he could say that. Untoward things happened each time he touched her. His very proximity wrought havoc on her senses.

Hesitantly, she did as she was told, then Hugh moved to kneel at her side. There was a long pause as she waited for him to touch her, but she soon felt his hand at the back of her knee. He reached under her gown, and, keeping her properly covered, began to rub, his hand slowly rising to massage the back of her thigh.

Before long, his other hand joined in and he worked the muscles of both legs. Siân’s entire body turned to gruel as his hands kneaded her limbs. Heat permeated the muscles and relaxation followed as he worked, and Siân began to feel a measure of relief.

His hands were amazingly strong. He compressed and released with exquisite care, massaging, soothing, inching gradually upward to where she felt the most discomfort. It was also the place where she was most sensitive to his touch.

Siân hid her face in her folded arms as he worked her buttocks, first one side, then the other. His hands always moving, kneading, they created sensations akin to those she’d felt on that last night at Clairmont. She felt cool air on her legs, so she knew she was lying fully exposed to him, but she didn’t care. She was well beyond caring about propriety with Hugh.

She bit her lip to keep from moaning out loud, but a small whimper of pleasure managed to escape from the back of her throat. How could he go on, not knowing, not understanding, what his touch was doing to her? Did she affect him so little? Was the touch of her intimate parts of no consequence to him?

Arousal churned in the pit of her stomach and she yearned for more. More touching, more closeness, a deeper intimacy. She wanted to feel the touch of his lips on hers, his hands on her breasts. She couldn’t lie still any longer.

Hugh’s movements slowed. His hands no longer massaged, but caressed, as if seeking to learn every inch of Siân’s naked flesh. His fingertips traced her curves, grazed her exposed skin, teased her to a crest of agitation. She swallowed hard and surprised them both by turning around suddenly, her skirts bunching up around her.

“Hugh.” His name was a whisper uttered on the peak of her desire. Thunder roared in the distance, and somewhere in the back of Siân’s mind, she realized that the storm was moving away. She reached for him and he did not resist.

Hugh’s hand continued caressing Siân’s hip as his head moved toward hers, his lips warm and seeking. One of his legs slipped between hers as their mouths met. He kissed her with a slow heat that matched the sensuous movements of his leg.

“You are so beautiful, Siân,” he said, his kisses tantalizing her ear, then her jaw, her vulnerable throat.

Siân was awash in a river of sensations. The pressure of his thigh, the hard intensity of his touch, made every muscle contract and quiver with pleasure. The only time she’d experienced such closeness, such intimacy, had been with Hugh. She felt as if she were part of him, part of a whole, never to be left alone or isolated again.

She loved him, though she knew how impossible it was. A wayward tear slid into the hair at her temple and Siân hoped Hugh wouldn’t notice. She did not
want his pity, she wanted his love even though she knew perfectly well that he was not free to give it. Even though she should not be seeking it.

And she refused to acknowledge the guilt that niggled at the edge of her awareness. Her heart clenched, knowing with a certainty that the memories of what happened between them tonight would have to last a lifetime, though it was wrong. Though he was not free to pledge his faith to her forever.

In desperation, Siân arched against his hard length and demanded more. They would be one in truth this time, even if he did belong to Marguerite Bradley and this one night would be all that she could ever have of him.

“Siân,” he rasped, turning his head so that it lay quiet on her breast. An eternity of silence passed before he spoke, and Siân knew what he would say before he even uttered the words. “We…cannot. This is not—”

She stifled a whimper, her guilt refusing to stay suppressed. “Oh, Hugh,” she said, with tears clogging her throat. She closed her eyes and turned her face away. “I—I know it. I know you have M-Marguerite to think of and you cannot break your troth to her. I should never have—”

“No,” he countered. “’Twas was my fault. I should not have touched you….”

When it seemed that he would have said more, he stopped himself. Siân sat up and pulled away from him, straightening her clothes, making herself decent. She would fight the tears that threatened, never allowing him to know how deeply she needed him. How alone she was without him. Biting her lip, struggling to regain her composure, Siân drew her skirts down around her legs, covering her naked flesh, drawing herself into
a compact, self-contained package of confidence and self-assurance.

She would never let him know how it hurt her to give him up to Marguerite.

“Siân, I—” He paused, listening. Then they both heard it. Voices, noises outside.

“The horses!”

Hugh was up in an instant. He grabbed his sword and bow, and threw his quiver of arrows over his shoulder. “Stay here and bar the door!” he ordered as he left the hall, slamming the door behind him.

The bastards were stealing the horses—their only means of traveling to Windermere! Hugh ran through the rain toward the sound of the agitated animals.

Luckily, the thieves were not competent horsemen. The horses reared and protested their rough handling. In a quick flash of lightning, Hugh saw that there were three men, likely the vagrants they’d passed on the road, and they were all trying to mount the two horses.

Without hesitation, Hugh nocked an arrow to his bow and let one fly, accurately striking his target. The man made no sound, but fell to the mud, leaving the other two for Hugh to deal with. But at least the odds had improved.

A lot of muttering and cursing followed the downing of one comrade, and the two remaining men split up, leaving the horses untended in the pouring rain. Hugh drew his sword and, seeing no choice, went after the larger man.

The thief was also armed with a sword, and they clashed as soon as Hugh was in striking distance. They parried for a few moments, but Hugh was the better swordsman. He would have finished the man off
quickly but for his accomplice, who came up on Hugh’s blind side and struck him with a broken tree branch.

Hugh was thrown off balance, but not off his feet. He turned and thrust quickly at the newcomer, who defended himself with the wooden bough. Hugh turned slightly to make a jab at the bigger man, but the rogue slogged through the mud and awkwardly dodged Hugh’s sword, while the other fellow with the branch struck again.

The thieves continued attacking from both sides while Hugh successfully fended them off, though it was next to impossible to mount any significant offense against them. And Hugh knew he had to come up with a solution to this skirmish quickly. With the two men waging battle against him, he would tire faster, and they would soon overcome him.

Acutely, he felt the disadvantage of his narrowed vision, being unable to take his eye off his adversary to search out higher ground, or a better position of attack. If he turned just for an instant, he’d lose any slight advantage his skill gave him. He just hoped, that whatever happened, Siân would have the good sense to stay inside with Henry and keep the doors barred against the intruders.

Without warning, an opening came. Hugh took quick advantage of a miscue by his attackers, and lunged for the swordsman, spearing the man in the side. Unfortunately, at the same time, the fellow hacked and wounded Hugh in his upper arm, near the site where his previous wound had already begun to heal.

His arm went numb, and even so, Hugh considered himself fortunate that the rogue hadn’t struck him in his sword arm. Reflexively, Hugh finished him off.

But he lost his advantage as the remaining thief blindsided him with the thick oaken branch, knocking him unconscious.

Siân could not leave Hugh out there so badly outnumbered.

She looked for a weapon in the house, but there were none. She finally settled on a big clay jug that she might be able to use in case of necessity. Then she let herself out a back door of the manor house.

The horses had more intelligence than she would ever have credited them. They’d wandered back into the stable, out of the rain. Siân hoped they would stay there for she had no time to bother with them now.

With the large jug in her hands, Siân crept through the rain across the yard where Hugh was beleaguered by two attackers. A third man lay dead on the ground with a sleek, narrow shaft protruding from his throat. Swallowing back a wave of nausea, she watched as Hugh held his own against the remaining men, but knew that the unfair advantage was multiplied by Hugh’s lack of sight on his left side. She stole across the yard, undetected by Hugh and the men who continued their pitched battle.

Choking back a scream when Hugh’s arm was savagely sliced by the sword, Siân watched with horror as Hugh finished off the rogue. Nearly paralyzed now, and choking on the bile in her throat, she was powerless to act when the oaken branch came down on Hugh’s head, knocking him to the ground.

Without thought, she returned the favor and slammed the crockery on the rogue’s head, knocking him unconscious, too. Disregarding the man she injured,
Siân ran to Hugh’s side, knelt in the mud and cradled his head in her lap. “Hugh!” she cried.

He did not respond.

“Os gwelwch yn dda, Huw!”
she cried, terrified and desperate for him to react to her. He was breathing, though, and bleeding badly from the wound in his arm. Siân knew there would be a terrible lump on his head where he’d been hit.

She had to get him into the house, out of the rain, but he was a great deal larger than she, and would be impossible to carry. Nor could she pull him by the arms, only to do more damage to the injured one.

Siân quickly ran into the house and gathered up the largest of the furs, checked on Henry to find the child still sound asleep, then ran out again to where Hugh lay in the mud. She carefully rolled him onto the fur, then yanked and pulled and struggled until she managed to drag him into the manor.

First, she barred the door behind them. She doubted that the one surviving thief would be moving anytime soon, but she was unwilling to risk another dangerous confrontation. If the scoundrel regained consciousness and managed to go back and steal the horses, then there was nothing to be done about it.

She tore Hugh’s tunic and used the material to make a tourniquet for the wound in his arm. Then she dried him as well as she could and felt his head for lumps, finding a nasty one right at his crown. Dragging him closer to the fire now, Siân covered him with blankets, then threw her cloak over her shoulders and went outside to secure the horses in the stable. They really couldn’t afford to lose them.

For the next few minutes she wouldn’t allow herself to worry about Hugh. She had to concentrate on taking
care of everything else so that when it came time to leave for Windermere they would be able to do so.

Luckily, the animals hadn’t wandered. They were still standing in the dry building, out of the rain. There were a few leaks that Siân noticed, but for the most part, the shelter was sound.

She dried the horses down and threw their blankets over them, then stood in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest, and wondered what to do about the thief who lay unconscious in the yard. She assumed the other two were dead, and therefore no threat to them, but she couldn’t very well leave the third man at large to try to steal the horses again. Nor could she leave him out to catch his death in the rain. Clearly, she had no choice in the matter. She had to get him out of the wet.

Glancing around the stable again, Siân spied a long, thin strip of leather. It may have been a whip at one time, or part of a bridle, but it was about to become the man’s shackles. She picked up the length of leather and braved the rain to get to the unconscious man. Finding him facedown where she’d left him in the yard, Siân pulled his hands together and tied them securely. Then she pushed him onto his back and pulled him by the feet through the mud to the stable. Leaving him just inside, she shoved the door closed and barred it behind her.

Exhausted now, Siân went back to the house and, once inside, made sure the door of the manor was securely bolted against intruders. Then, leaning her back against the thick wooden door, she took a long, deep breath.

There was still much to do. Hugh’s wet clothes had to come off and the wound in his arm needed tending.
It was doubtful that anything could be done about the lump on his head, but Siân thought she might lay a cool, wet cloth on it—not that it would do much more than soothe the injury.

Siân built up the fire, then returned to Hugh. He was still unconscious and unmoving. He was a mess. His clothes were soaked and covered in mud and the wound in his arm still oozed blood.