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.
“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
