Dryden's Bride. Margo Maguire

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СКАЧАТЬ intricately and becomingly around her head. Her violet eyes were sparkling and lovely, framed by thick, black lashes. The lady’s demeanor was gracious and serene, her movements elegant and graceful as she received Hugh and Nicholas.

      “Welcome to Castle Clairmont,” she said, her voice a pleasing melody to the ear, laced with undertones of her native French. “I am Marguerite Bradley, and this is my son, John.”

      Servants brought chairs for the gentlemen, and a nurse took the infant from his mother. When they had completed their greetings and were seated, an awkward silence ensued. Even Nicholas, who seemed always to have something to say, was rendered speechless by the lady’s poise and exceptional beauty.

      “I trust your journey was a pleasant one?” Marguerite asked. Her gaze flitted uncomfortably from Hugh’s scarred appearance to Nicholas’s more comely one.

      “Yes, quite,” Nicholas said, and they spent a goodly portion of time discussing the best kind of weather for travel and the incident in the wood that morning with Lady Siân and the boar.

      Hugh was quiet, his usual state, leaving most of the conversation to Nick. He’d become accustomed to ladies’ reactions to his eye patch, and the scars that emanated from beneath it, and it had no effect on him anymore. Oddly enough, Lady Marguerite also had little effect on him.

      He realized, of course, that she was breathtakingly beautiful, but he could not muster much enthusiasm for taking a wife. He tried to appreciate the delicate arch of her black brows, and her flashing violet eyes, the aristocratically straight nose, and voluptuously full lips. But it was useless. Whether or not he wed this woman, Hugh knew he was destined to a life of lonely isolation. For no one would ever come to understand the blackness of his soul.

      The music that Queen Catherine brought to Clairmont delighted Siân. Naturally, the queen had her own musicians and minstrels, and they provided an enchanting accompaniment to every evening meal.

      As Siân sat in her assigned seat at supper, she wished for some of Lady Marguerite’s elegance and competence. Not only did the countess’s beautiful and saintly appearance do her credit, but as chatelaine of Clairmont, Marguerite kept everything in splendid order. All of Lady Marguerite’s domain was neat and organized. Guests and servants alike were simply perfect.

      Siân picked at the food in the trencher she shared with her tablemates as she watched all the noble gentlemen at the dais vie for Marguerite’s attention.

      All but Hugh Dryden, Earl of Alldale. He was different from the other Saxons. He alone seemed indifferent to Marguerite’s abundant and obvious charms, and held himself apart from the excessive adulation. Though he kept his face carefully expressionless, Siân noted the familiar spark of intelligence in his eye.

      Alldale was truly a man alone, Siân thought. She’d sensed that about him in the woods that morning and had been wondering about him ever since. He was not a handsome man, exactly…. Still, there was something about him: a depth of fortitude and endurance that had surely served him in the past. A man wouldn’t survive the kind of injuries that had damaged and scarred Hugh Dryden without a well of inner strength from which to draw.

      Of all the ladies on the dais, only Queen Catherine seemed unaffected by Hugh Dryden’s appearance. The scars that were barely concealed by the leather patch…the ravages to his hand…Siân knew Hugh must be aware of the aversion he aroused, and her heart went out to the quiet and solitary man. She, at least, knew what it was to be alone in the world. Siân doubted that anyone else on the dais knew what that was like.

      Alldale joined in the conversation only when addressed, and Siân considered that he might be ill at ease among the highborn folk at his table. He was like one of the hawks she’d seen out in the woods. With craggy features and a taut, sleek power, hawks prized freedom above all else. Flying high above the land, circling, riding the wind, they were masters of their domain, subject to no one.

      Hugh Dryden was as well made as any hawk, Siân thought, with powerful arms and chest, and strength enough to carry her without effort through the forest that morning. She doubted there was anything that could ruffle the feathers of this man, outside of being caged here in polite company, listening to the idle chatter of the queen’s ladies and gentlemen.

      Her Majesty eventually took her leave of the company, along with several of her ladies and gentlemen. The minstrels stayed in the hall, continuing to entertain those who remained. Siân forced herself to ignore the thinly veiled, lewd remarks made by the young London courtiers with whom she was seated, and cast several furtive glances toward the main table, hoping to catch a few more glimpses of Hugh Dryden. It did her heart good to see that he remained indifferent to the glorious Marguerite. It was gratifying to know that at least one man in England was unaffected by her perfection.

      Soon after the queen’s departure, Hugh excused himself and Siân watched as the earl made his way through the hall and out the main doors. She couldn’t help but wonder how and where this solitary man would choose to spend his time.

      And as she daydreamed girlishly about the way his powerful arms had lifted her and carried her so chivalrously through the woods, Siân knocked over her goblet and spilled ale all over her blue gown.

      It was the only decent one she had left.

      Stone walls began to close in as darkness approached and Hugh often sought solace outside, where the open sky was immense and he could breathe easily. He walked through the town of Clairmont and followed a path up a hill, then down into a clearing to a small lake with a rugged, rocky bank.

      Hugh sat on a large, flat rock near the water’s edge and threw a stone into the black depths, where it sank with a plunk! Then he threw another.

      He breathed deeply.

      It had been a strange day. He’d killed a boar with an arrow. Found his target and dispatched the arrow to its mark. Without hesitation, without fail. A quick, clean kill.

      He nearly smiled.

      Plunk!

      The darkness that dwelled inside him day after day refused to be assuaged by that puny success. He was still half blind, still a maimed man. Tonight, as usual, he would be unable to sleep without images of red-hot tongs and sharp little knives plaguing him. He would see his enemy’s leering face and feel the tongs burning his eye; the cruel mallet breaking fingers and toes….

      Plunk!

      In the two years since his ordeal, it had been the same. He’d been stripped of his honor, of his potency as a man. Held prisoner like a child, he’d suffered every depravity with as much dignity as he could rouse. Though his dignity had been sufficient, his faith and endurance had not. He’d reached a point where he’d closed himself off from consciousness intentionally, rather than suffer the agonies planned by the twisted earl of Windermere. He’d have bargained away his soul for his freedom.

      He had given in to a knight’s ultimate disgrace. Despair.

      How could he possibly offer himself as husband to the chatelaine of Clairmont? How could he tie himself to that beautiful, accomplished lady? Hugh was a man with nothing more than a title, an estate…a past. There was nothing for him to offer Marguerite of Clairmont. There was no future for Hugh Dryden.

      A light drizzle began to fall and a thin mist gathered across the surface of the lake. Hugh wondered if it would thicken much, for he’d lost his appreciation of the beauty of the mist. Where once it had leant an unearthly, magical appeal to his world, it now made him feel trapped, suffocated.

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