Margo Maguire - Dryden's Bride

“My lord!” Siân cried, trying to pull away from Hugh’s touch—the very touch that sent strange and wild tendrils of heat through her chilled body. “This is unseemly! You cannot—”

“I most certainly can,” Hugh said. “I’ve already saved your foolish life once today. I’ll not see you take ill and die of fever and let my efforts of this morn go to waste. Now be still. These wet laces are the devil to open and I have little time.”

“I object, my lord!” she cried, his strong hands on her back making her tingle in agony. What kind of magic did the man possess to cause such feelings? Why had she never felt these sensations…this odd yearning before?

“Your objection has been duly noted, my lady,” Hugh said, as he released the final loop of the lace….

Dear Reader,

For all our Medieval readers, Dryden’s Bride by Margo Maguire features a lively noblewoman en route to a convent who defies her family and takes a detour when she falls in love with a noble knight. This stirring tale is Maguire’s second book, a follow-up story to The Bride of Windermere, which was one of our featured titles in the March Madness promotion for 1999.

If you’re a Western reader, Liz Ireland’s Trouble in Paradise, with a pregnant heroine and a bachelor hero, is a heartwarming story you won’t want to miss. In keeping with the season, look for Halloween Knight, complete with a bewitching heroine, a haunted castle and an inspired cat, by Maggie Award-winning author Tori Phillips. It’s a delightful tale of rescue that culminates with a Halloween banquet full of surprises! And USA Today bestselling author Margaret Moore returns with her new Regency, The Duke’s Desire—a story of reunited lovers who must suppress the flames of passion that threaten to destroy both their reputations.

Whatever your taste in historicals, look for all four Harlequin Historicals at your nearby book outlet.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Dryden’s Bride

Margo Maguire

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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The Bride of Windermere #453

Dryden’s Bride #529

As always, this book is for Mike and our gang.

It is also fondly dedicated to the women in my life—

for Julia, Justine and Fran; for my mother-in-law,

sisters-in-law and nieces; and for my remarkable friends,

in cyberspace and in person.

Heroines, every one!

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Northern England

Autumn 1423

Casting a grudging glance up at Castle Clairmont with his one good eye, Hugh Dryden stalked toward the huge stone fortress and again cursed the day he was born. He reviled the fates that intervened in his life, still refusing to let him be.

His depth perception had never improved after losing the eye, so he had difficulty judging how far away the castle was, though his companion, Nicholas Becker, said they were a mere mile from Clairmont’s portcullis. They’d stayed one last night in the woods, planning to broach the castle at a civilized time of day—in the morning, after they’d had the opportunity to bathe and ready themselves.

For Hugh’s bride.

A pox on her, Hugh thought, muttering other more serious oaths under his breath. He had no interest in marrying. He cared not a whit about adding land to his estates, nor a woman to his life. He would never understand why his friend, Wolf Colston, the Duke of Carlisle, believed Hugh was the man to carry out the council’s wishes. Wolf and his wife could not be unaware of Hugh’s preference for solitude. It had taken many long months for him to recover from the injuries sustained during his imprisonment at Windermere, and in those months, Hugh had done nothing, said nothing, to indicate a need or an interest in a woman. If anything, he’d shown a decided lack of interest.

He was a solitary man now. The agony he’d suffered alone and in the dark caverns under Windermere Castle, helpless to defend himself, powerless against the pain of mutilation, of near death…He shuddered with the unwelcome memory. Nightmare images plagued his daylight hours and tortured him as he lay tossing and turning every night.

It was better to keep to himself now. He had nothing to offer the world of light. No strength or determination for his country. Certainly nothing left for a woman.

Besides, Lady Marguerite Bradley would likely turn tail and run for cover when she saw his shattered visage, as all others did, save his closest friends.

Hugh adjusted the patch that covered what was once his left eye, and walked on. It was a fool’s errand, he thought again. To Hugh’s recollection, widows were not usually overanxious to remarry…unless there was some good reason. He doubted he could provide reason enough for the widow of the Earl of Clairmont to remarry. In fact, if truth be told, the only one who benefited—

A woman’s scream pierced the early morning silence. Acting on sheer reflex—reflex he hadn’t known he still possessed—Hugh turned toward the sound and ran through the thick wood toward the source of the panicked voice. Covering territory quickly, he moved determinedly, with the agility of a trained knight, a formidable knight, in possession of all his considerable skills. Heart pounding, nerves on edge, Hugh’s well-muscled legs ran swiftly but stealthily.

Simply dressed in hose and hauberk, he was without armor, but carried his longbow and a quiver of arrows, in earlier hopes of shooting a brace of hares to present to the Clairmont kitchens. Now, it seemed, his one-eyed skill might truly be tested in a matter of life and death. It was not something he cared to think about, having only practiced with the bow at Windermere, and not once shooting to his satisfaction.

Siân Tudor clutched the tree branch desperately, swinging her legs up in an attempt to gain purchase on the branch—away from the charging pig. The huge boar had surprised her only moments before as she’d ambled carelessly through Clairmont’s forest. Unskilled in the wielding of weaponry, Siân was forced to flee the fearsome boar, and flee she did, though the great beast’s tusks had nearly been upon her as she’d jumped for her life onto the low oaken branch.

Terror made Siân’s hands strong as she held on for dear life, but her cumbersome woolen kirtle prevented her from throwing a leg over the saving branch. She glanced down at the enraged boar snorting fiercely under her, his sharp and gleaming tusks in the air, his snout flaring. She knew it would be certain death to let go, but her hands were weakening, her nails tearing! She began to slip.

By the Holy Cross, the lass was falling!