Dryden's Bride. Margo Maguire
her up as if she weighed nothing, then turned to glance quickly at the dead hog. Without another word, he began to make his way through the forest whence he came.
“Put me down, sir!” she cried, confused by this contradictory man. His tone was gruff, yet he handled her as if she were precious goods. “You cannot intend to carry me all the way to Clairmont!”
“True enough,” he answered sourly as he continued on.
Siân was caught between her gratitude and her prejudice. For several weeks she had been in the company of her brother’s Saxon friends and found most of them to be arrogant, heartless snobs. They were rude, and perhaps a bit cruel to the little Welsh bumpkin in their midst.
Yet this Saxon man had come to her rescue without question. It was puzzling. “What is your name, sir knight?” she asked in spite of herself, “that I might thank you properly for helping me.”
“Hugh Dryden…” he said, and after a pause he added, “Earl of Alldale.”
He’d received the title and lands from Henry V, for his long and faithful service in France. But Henry had been dead over a year, his son now less than two years of age. Queen Catherine currently resided in London with little King Henry, by the grace of the council, while Bishop Henry Beaufort and the dukes of Gloucester and Bedford waged a silent but deadly war against one another. It was a battle Hugh Dryden had every intention of avoiding. Perhaps that was why Wolf Colston had managed to convince him to come to distant Clairmont and woo the widow. Clairmont was far in the north country, safely removed from London.
“Then I thank you again, Lord Alldale,” Siân said. She leaned toward him and lightly kissed his cheek. Hugh nearly dropped her. Her lips were soft and cool on his skin. The scent of wildflowers invaded his senses. Though her kiss was innocent and guileless, Hugh found himself responding in a manner that was not altogether respectable. He could not determine whether the sudden pounding of his heart was due to the exertion of carrying her, or her kiss.
“I am Siân verch Marudedd,” she said, slowing Hugh’s runaway reaction.
“Far from Wales, are you not?” he forced himself to ask as they went on through the thick woods. He recognized her softly accented “Shahn” as a Welsh name, as well as the reference to her father, Marudedd. Well dressed in her finely woven, brightly colored kirtle, Siân verch Marudedd was clearly a Welsh noble-woman.
She was as dignified as the situation would allow, yet there was a fascinating vulnerability about her. Lady Siân raised his interest as no one else had in many a month, though Hugh did not particularly welcome it.
“London is where I’ve been of late, My Lord…” Siân said quietly, careful not to offend the nobleman, whose manner was unfathomable. “I’ve just recently come to Clairmont with my brother.”
Hugh let her statement drop in silence while he tramped back in the direction where his horse was hobbled and Nicholas was likely still sleeping. The sooner he returned her to Clairmont and got her out of his hands, the better.
“You may put me down, my lord,” Siân said. “I’m certain I can walk.”
By now more than willing to put distance between them, Hugh let her down.
Apparently still slightly dizzy from her fall, Lady Siân took one step, then staggered a little. Hugh quickly wound an arm around her waist and, with an impatient sigh, guided her carefully along the rugged terrain.
Siân was unaccustomed to this kind of gallant, masculine attention, and her reaction startled her. She’d never thought herself capable of the emotions churning through her now. To think that one strong, male—Saxon—arm around her could cause such an upheaval! It was ridiculous.
She may as well have spent the last few years in St. Ann’s cloister for all she knew of men and their habits; how hard and powerful a male body could feel against her own. After all, no man had ever shown the least interest in her before, and Siân had had little use for them in all her nineteen years.
At least until now.
“Satan’s heels, Hugh,” a voice called out as they moved through the woods, “where have you been?”
“On a fool’s errand,” he muttered.
“I resent that!” Siân whispered back.
In the small clearing, Hugh and Siân came upon a man saddling his horse. With a thick mane of light blond hair and pleasing features, Hugh Dryden’s companion was easily the most comely man Siân had ever seen. And she had seen many, in Wales as well as in England, though none of the preening, conceited louts had roused her interest in the least.
Nor had she particularly roused theirs, unless she counted a few unsuitable advances made by some of her brother’s highborn Saxon friends.
“Nicholas Becker at your service, my lady,” the man said, smiling, showing his perfect white teeth. He bowed courteously.
Hugh grunted and introduced her grudgingly. “Lady Siân verch Marudedd.” He didn’t miss Siân’s open and guileless appreciation of Nick’s pleasing countenance. Nor did he begrudge Nicholas his golden good looks. Hugh had never been able to compete with Nick’s success with the ladies, even before he’d been scarred and maimed. And they’d been friends too long to let a mere woman come between them. “From Castle Clairmont.”
Nicholas turned a wry expression on Siân. “Conditions are a trifle rough at Clairmont?” he asked with humor, indicating the condition of Siân’s clothes and hair.
“Surely not,” she said, a little breathlessly. For a Saxon, Nicholas Becker was well endowed with charm. “This did not happen at Clairmont. A boar chased me through the woods and his lordship rescued me.”
Nick raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“He shot the beast through the heart,” Siân said, “and again betwixt the eyes.”
Nick turned to look at Hugh. “I thought your sight was still damaged.”
“’Twas a lucky shot.”
“Two lucky shots?” Nicholas queried.
“Aye, well…” Hugh cleared his throat and bent to pick up his saddle. He lifted it and threw it over the broad back of his destrier. “We’ll break our fast on pork at Clairmont today.”
Two horses and three riders. ’Twas awkward, but Nicholas was able to convince the lady to take her seat ahead of him on his mount. Hugh found himself fuming quietly as Nicholas and Siân bantered easily with each other, but he did not speak out.
Lady Siân verch Marudedd was nothing to him.
Breaching the castle gate a short time later, they found Clairmont a hub of activity. The setting reminded Hugh of Windermere Castle, the now-prosperous family seat of his friend, Wolf Colston. Perhaps marriage and stewardship of Clairmont would not be such an onerous thing, Hugh told himself. After all, Wolf and his lady wife seemed content. With their lively little daughter, Eleanor, and another babe expected within the month, Wolf and Kit were more than content. They were delighted with life.
It was quite beyond Hugh.
Reaching the great hall, Hugh dismounted and watched as Nicholas assisted Lady Siân from his horse and guided her up the stone steps. As if that were necessary, Hugh thought as he regarded the lady’s sprightly step. Any evidence of her prior mishap was absent now. Deliberately turning his back on his two companions, Hugh spoke to the page who had arrived to take charge of the horses and instructed the lad to have someone fetch the great boar in the woods.
Ignoring the familiar hollowness inside him, Hugh began his own climb up the steps to meet his intended bride.
Chapter Two
Fresh rushes coated the floor of Clairmont’s great hall, and all the trestle tables were covered with clean cloths. No one lazed about, not even the dogs