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!
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,”
