Margo Maguire - Dryden's Bride

Hugh notched his arrow and let one fly, then another one followed in rapid succession, all the while, his stomach churned with the agony of self-doubt. How could he be certain his arrow would meet its mark and not kill the woman? How could he know the arrow would reach anywhere near its mark?

The sudden screech of the huge creature was testament to the wound.

Hugh didn’t stop to relish his victory. He scrambled down the ridge as the beast squealed in fury and pain. Dry leaves and dust flew, and Hugh could feel the heaving of the boar against the earth itself. Bright yellow wool fluttered and fell. Blood, dark and red, flowed. Then all at once, all movement ceased.

Hugh approached cautiously through the hazy rays of morning sunlight, with silent steps, an arrow at the ready.

Then he thought he heard something. A groan. A slight, feminine groan. A rustle in the leaves. The bright yellow wool moved.

Siân looked up at the man who’d rescued her, and squinted against the bright morning sunlight. Though she’d banged her head and was more than a little dazed, she could see that he was tall, and well made. His physique was strong and wiry, ’twas that of a knight-at-arms, well-honed and able. As Siân pushed herself awkwardly away from the monstrous boar, the knight shot another arrow directly between the eyes of his prey.

Apparently satisfied now that it was dead, the soldier turned to Siân, showing his entire face for the first time.

She was surprised by the black patch over his eye, but not by the strength of his other features. Strong bones, jutting jaw and high cheekbones suited him. Full lips and straight nose; forehead scarred, but high and bright; brows thick and dark. His uncovered eye was an uncommon, light blue color, strangely remote and guarded. His dark hair was overlong and untamed, with a few silver strands shining in the morning sunlight like the steel of a lethal blade.

A dangerous-looking man, Siân thought hazily. Different from anyone she’d ever encountered before. His powerful presence sent a chill of awareness through her and she was unable to call forth the caution required of her situation. She should not be alone with any man, especially a lone knight who might be a rogue. But her head ached and her vision was oddly blurred. Under the circumstances, the ability to muster the necessary wariness was beyond her.

Hugh knelt beside the young woman in the deep pile of leaves. She was moving again now, and he wanted to be sure she was uninjured before she attempted to stand.

“Hold, woman,” he commanded.

She ignored him and sat up. He could see the pulse pounding in her throat, above the tear in her gown where the boar’s tusk had gone through. An ugly bruise had already begun to darken near the joining of her shoulder and arm, and the flesh was torn by an ugly diagonal rent in her perfect ivory skin.

She should have been killed.

Hugh could not tear his one-eyed gaze away from her as she swept her red-gold hair back from her face. Saucy eyes, the deep blue of the evening sky, were thickly framed by gold-tipped lashes. Delicate bones, cleft chin, impish mouth…Even now, she had the look of a mischievous child about her, although it was clear that she was no child. She was lovely. Hugh forced his gaze away from her beguiling face and looked back at her injury.

The wound was not a deep one, would not even leave a scar above her perfectly formed breasts, he thought. He looked away from her barely concealed attributes, then silently took one of her injured hands in his own and raised it, palm up, examining it. The act was a strangely sensuous one, with her pulsating heat flowing through to his own hand from hers.

The woman drew her hand back quickly, as if burned. Hugh furrowed his brow, unsettled by the strange effect this slight physical contact had on him. Not since before his captivity had he been so stirred by a woman’s touch.

It was not a welcome sensation.

“Diolch,” she said in her native Welsh. “I th-thank you, sir knight,” she stammered, returning to English, “for your assistance this morn. Without your intervention—”

“You could have been killed,” the knight said gravely, his rich voice somehow wending its way into a secret place deep within her being. She couldn’t be sure whether her sudden tremor was due to her misadventure or the knight’s proximity. “Why do you wander these woods alone?” he asked. “Where is your escort?”

Siân swallowed and glanced away from his penetrating gaze. She knew she’d been foolish to go so far beyond Clairmont’s walls alone, but could not resist the lure of freedom. In one short week she would be banished to the convent of St. Ann, and all such small freedoms would end. In truth, she would become little more than a slave to the abbess when she arrived at St. Ann’s, for the dowry her brother Owen had been able to raise was a poor one, indeed.

“I walked here from Clairmont, sir,” Siân said. “It is not far, nor—”

“What lunacy…” he muttered harshly. Contrary to his tone, with his scarred brow furrowed with concern rather than anger, he ran his hands with the utmost gentility across her ankles and feet, assessing, she supposed, for an injury that would prevent her from walking.

Ignoring the unsettling feelings caused by those competent, Saxon hands, Siân pulled away and raised a hand to her breast, only to wince with discomfort when she touched the long scrape. “I am no lunatic, sir,” she said with indignation, “merely unfamiliar with the terrain and the—”

“Spare me such lame explanations,” the knight said curtly. “Can you stand?”

“No. Yes! I think so…” she said, confused by his sudden hostility, though she should never have expected less of one of these Saxons.

Before she could protest, the knight gave an exasperated look, scooped 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.