Книга - His Lady Fair

His Lady Fair
Margo Maguire


How Could He Love This Daughter Of Treason…?Yet with his heart so full, his passion so afire, how could he not? Nicholas Hawken had never found a woman so attuned to his touch, his taste, his very being, as Lady Maria Burton. Though if her father proved traitorous, he was duty bound to expose him…and so destroy their love!From household drudge to daughter of a duke, Maria Burton had been forever transformed. But nothing had been as soul-shattering as what she'd experienced with Nicholas Hawken, infamous scoundrel, intriguing rogue…and truebound mate-of-her-heart!









Male instinct ruled.


While Maria was still recovering from the shock of seeing him, he pulled her close and claimed her lips with his own. He savored the spicy taste of her, the scent and texture of her hair as he cupped her head, the lush curves of her body as he pressed the length of her body to his own.

Nothing mattered but this.

He would have devoured her completely if he could, but the indignant shrieks of a nearby woman eventually penetrated his consciousness. At the same time, he felt Maria’s hands against his chest, actually pushing him away.

“My Lord!” the older woman cried. “Unhand Lady Maria this instant!”

Nick kept his eyes locked on Maria’s. All he could see reflected in those glorious irises was panic.

Her lips were swollen by his kiss, but they were trembling. She took a step back—And slapped him…!




Praise for Margo Maguire’s previous titles


Dryden’s Bride

“Exquisitely detailed…an entrancing tale that will enchant and envelop you as love conquers all.”

—Rendezvous

“A warm-hearted tale…Ms. Maguire skillfully draws the reader into her deftly woven tale.”

—Romantic Times

The Bride of Windermere

“Packed with action…fast, humorous, and familiar…The Bride of Windermere will fit into your weekend just right.”

—Romantic Times

#595 CARPETBAGGER’S WIFE

Deborah Hale

#597 THE DOCTOR’S HOMECOMING

Kate Bridges

#598 WICKED

Beth Henderson




His Lady Fair

Margo Maguire





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Available from Harlequin Historicals and

MARGO MAGUIRE

The Bride of Windermere #453

Dryden’s Bride #529

Celtic Bride #572

His Lady Fair #596


This book is for Mike.




Contents


Chapter One (#u4961e0fc-5a29-52d6-9fb4-da7a6d1f743e)

Chapter Two (#u055afc85-d517-5157-b91e-073a4a72e290)

Chapter Three (#u1bed5e0e-9e24-5db0-8399-180c414fbc89)

Chapter Four (#uc0dba4d1-2407-5c14-9f34-b658c330d6e0)

Chapter Five (#uf568d8c3-6ace-5704-a2d2-2d17d97cfb82)

Chapter Six (#u4cdb45c0-fc6a-58c3-8ea2-314cb632f256)

Chapter Seven (#u553fa5a7-76ab-54e0-b07b-bda4f9c8e564)

Chapter Eight (#u49a0c04f-f2fd-50c5-a9f6-0c95f2dc4fe3)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One


Alderton Keep. Early Spring, 1429

Ria stole into the buttery and smoothed the wrinkles from the front of her new gown. Not that the gown was truly new, for it had belonged to Cecilia Morley, Ria’s sophisticated, young, legitimate cousin. But even if it was not a perfect fit, the elegant castoff, once a lovely blue silk dress, was a decided improvement over the threadbare gown Ria had been wearing these last few years.

Ria allowed herself a moment to savor the sensation of the fine silk against her skin. She was glad Cecilia had had the fur lining removed. Ria had no use for it. Nor had she any use for the jeweled collar that had once adorned the neckline. With the hard work that was required of her, Ria knew those fineries would quickly be ruined.

Besides, she had her own jewelry, a precious locket—a bauble of gold with a secret latch that held a lock of her mother’s golden hair within. Ria always carried it with her, though she kept it tied up in a square of linen so that no one would ever see it. And take it from her.

She spun around and gave herself leave to imagine that, just this once, she was dressed in the glorious gown before its lining and jeweled collar had been ripped from it. She could almost feel the weight of the gems, and dream she was tall and slender and lovely like Cecilia, making heads turn and eyes glitter with envy.

’Twas a foolish fancy, Ria knew, but her little dreams made life at Alderton Keep bearable. Her life had always been harsh, and it seemed to grow worse with every passing year.

Her aunt Olivia had made it quite clear that Ria would never be recognized as a member of the family. The Morleys would provide her a roof, food for her belly and the occasional bit of cast-off clothing. But Ria would be required to work for it.

The bastard daughter of Lady Sarah Morley deserved no better.

“Ria!” Cook’s harsh voice interrupted her wandering thoughts. Ria quickly tied a scratchy woolen shawl ’round her shoulders—more to cover up the shortcomings of Cecilia’s dress than for warmth—and flew out of the buttery, into the kitchen.

“Where’ve yer been, girl?” Cook demanded.

“I—I’ve just—”

“Get the pot out of the fire fer me now,” the sour-tempered cook ordered, “then give it a good stir.”

Ria lifted the heavy cauldron from its hook in the huge blackened fireplace and carried it to a sturdy wooden table in the center of the kitchen.

“Ye slopped some of m’ stew over the side, ye beef-witted dewberry!” Cook screeched at her, cuffing the side of her head and nearly knocking Ria down as she struggled with the heavy pot. “Now wipe up the mess ye made!”

“It wouldn’t have sloshed if you’d put it in two smaller pots like I told you before,” Ria retorted just as Cook cuffed her again.

She knew better than to sass Cook, but it went against her nature to keep silent over unfair criticism. Ria rubbed the bruised spot on the side of her head and picked up a rag. She said nothing more, but began cleaning up the spill.

“When yer done there, yer to take this tray up to Lady Olivia’s solar,” Cook said. “She’s got a guest wi’ her, so try not to splash or spill while yer up there.”

Ria glanced up to see a large wooden tray laden with ale and other refreshments. She was bone weary, but it did not matter. She would take the tray to her aunt Olivia, then await further orders. Just as she always did, and always would.

Within the warmth and comfort of her solar, with its thick walls and narrow windows, its warm fire and colorful tapestries, Olivia Morley poured warm wine for her visitor from London, a justice from the high court, and tried to conceal her agitation.

The widow of Jerrold Morley, Olivia was still a comely woman, with nary a gray hair in her thick sable mane—at least none that had a chance to flourish before being plucked out. Her eyes were of the same soft brown as her hair, though their softness was deceiving. Her vision and acuity were as sharp as ever.

“No, my lord,” Olivia Morley said to the visitor. “There never was a child. And even if Sarah’s issue had survived, she would not, could not have inherited Rockbury.” She maintained an even, well-modulated tone as she spoke to Lord Roland, as distinguished a gentleman as she’d ever encountered. Not the slightest hint of Olivia’s discomposure showed as she lied.

“But my lady, the property is en—”

“I care not how the property is entailed,” Olivia continued in a haughty tone, “or who wrote Sarah Morley’s will.”

“Sarah Burton.”

Olivia shrugged indifferently. “I will not allow my husband’s property to go to the child of a harlot!”

“But Rockbury was never your husband’s propert—”

“Of course it was!” Olivia raged as she stood up from her chair. She paced in front of the fire, her hands twisting angrily in front of her. It was so unlike her to lose control of her temper, and she worked to subdue it. “Whoever heard of such a bequest? The very notion of a bastard inheriting such an estate is ridiculous. Absurd. Preposterous! As Sarah’s next of kin, my husband—”

“I assure you, Lady Olivia,” the visitor replied calmly, “the estate in Staffordshire was clearly, and quite legally, a gift to Lady Sarah from King Henry IV. The property was hers…to bequeath to whomever she chose. And as to the bastardy of—”

“Nonsense!” Olivia persisted. “The will can be broken. Surely the king did not intend to reward my husband’s sister for her wanton behavior.”

“My lady, you are speaking of the late Duchess of Sterlyng,” Sir Roland said through clenched teeth. “And she had every right to bequeath Rockbury where she would. King Henry’s papers indicate that he gave the title to Rockbury to your sister-in-law as a reward for her loyalty to his cause, in spite of her family’s ostracism for it.

“And according to Lady Sarah’s last will and testament, the property was properly, legally, bequeathed to her offspring, a girl-child named…Maria Elizabeth.”

“It was our understanding that the child perished,” Olivia said tightly.

“But there have been rumors—”

“None of them true, I assure you.”

“Then Rockbury reverts to the crown,” Sir Roland said as he arose from the comfortable settee near the fire.

“But that is impossible, sir!” Olivia declared with her hands clasped tightly in front of her gilt girdle. “Rockbury should be part of my son’s estate! He will have it!”

“Nay, my lady,” Roland replied quietly. “The crown will have it back.”

A light tap at the door failed to penetrate Olivia’s distracted state, so Lord Roland bade the newcomer to enter.

A young serving maid appeared, a lovely girl whose mass of wavy, honey-gold hair was more out of its chignon than in. Her eyes remained downcast.

He could not help but notice the young woman’s delicately crafted face, with skin as clear and sweet as fresh cream. By her looks, she could have been a highborn lady, he thought, but for her subservient manner and the reddened, chafed skin of her hands.

The justice turned his attention from the serving maid and spoke to the well-dressed woman who stood before the fireplace, her expression one of controlled fury. “I had hoped to find Lady Maria and discharge my duty to her this afternoon, and be well on my way to Chester before nightfall,” he said, easily dismissing Lady Olivia’s unpleasant mood.

Olivia tightened her lips slightly before speaking. “I am sorry. As I said before, there was no chi—” she said, then spoke sharply to the maid. “Go on! Out with you!”

The servant girl turned and moved quickly from the room, closing the door gently behind her. Perhaps she was simple, Roland thought.

“I am loath to keep you from your appointment in Chester….” Olivia said. But perhaps, she thought, if she kept him at Morley, she would manage to convince him of Geoffrey’s right to Rockbury. Then the justice would prevail upon the ruling council in London to grant Rockbury’s title to her son.

“Please,” she said, extending a gracious arm toward the food that Ria had just placed on the table. “Refresh yourself before you continue on your journey. Chester is a good two-hour ride from Morley. But the weather is fine and after your meal you will be fit again for travel.”

Ria stood outside the door trembling. She had not been able to hear all of what had been said behind Lady Olivia’s door, nor did she know what to do about what she had heard. ’Twas more than likely she’d misunderstood everything. Certainly that possibility made her hesitate to speak up, along with knowing she’d take a beating later for impertinence if she spoke to Lady Olivia’s guest. Especially if Ria happened to be wrong.

If she had heard correctly, and she was to have an inheritance from her mother, then there was time enough to receive the news. One hour, or even two, did not matter, not when her whole life was about to change.

And what a change ’twould be! She would have a home, a place where she belonged, without question.

Empty-handed, floating on air, Ria made her way down the stairs and entered the kitchen, where an oversize basket full of dirty laundry was shoved into her hands.

Ria smiled and took it outside.




Chapter Two


Nicholas Hawken, Marquis of Kirkham, set several small stones upon a wall of rock. Then he picked up his whip and walked twenty paces away.

Snapping the lethal strip of leather several times in quick succession, he hit each rock separately, without touching its neighbor, and knocked every piece down.

At one time he’d have thought it quite an accomplishment. Now ’twas just another idle pastime.

Nicholas was restless. At the rate he and his companions were traveling, ’twould take another two days to reach Kirkham. That is, if the men didn’t decide to stay here at the Tusk and Ale Inn, where the serving wenches were uncommonly pretty and more than accommodating.

Mayhap he would avail himself of their services later, but for now, this exacting exercise would work to dissipate his foul and melancholy mood. For it had been on this day, exactly twelve years before, that his brother, Edmund, was slain on a blood-soaked battlefield in France.

The two brothers had fought side by side under King Henry himself, proud and happy to be part of the conquest of France. They’d been determined to distinguish themselves on the field and achieve glory for the Hawken name.

Nick lined up the stones again and once more whipped each one off with the precision he’d learned from an Italian nobleman.

So many years, so many regrets.

’Twas his own fault Edmund had been killed before his twentieth year. Had Nicholas not persuaded his brother to accompany him to France, Edmund would be firmly ensconced as marquis at Kirkham, with Lady Alyce Palton as his wife.

Instead, poor Alyce had wept herself into an early grave over Edmund’s loss, and Nicholas himself had become the heir, a man as unworthy as any could be.

He turned and, with a flick of his wrist, viciously whipped the long, narrow strip of leather around the trunk of a nearby tree. Would the icy grip of guilt ever let him free?

Nick didn’t think so. He could not imagine living without it.

“There you are!”

Nicholas turned to see two of his traveling companions crossing the narrow field to approach him. The two intruders retained their cheerful demeanors in spite of Nick’s scowling face.

“Lofton sent us in search of you, Kirkham,” one man announced.

“He said to tell you he saved the frisky one for you,” the other added.

“Frisky what?” Nick asked, winding his whip into a neat loop.

“Frisky blond wench!” the man said with a hearty slap on his back. “Knows you’re partial to ’em!”

Blond or bald, it hardly mattered. Oblivion was all Nicholas sought. He raised an eyebrow and gave a good impression of a knavish grin, then started the walk back to the inn.

Oblivion.

Ria wondered why, after so many years, anyone bothered about Sarah Morley’s—no, Sarah Burton’s—child. No one had thought of her since her birth twenty-two years before. What did they want with her now?

Rarely did she think of herself as Sarah’s daughter, or even as Olivia’s niece. Ria was no one, had never been anyone. At least, not since the death of her nursemaid, Tilda, the old woman who’d brought her here to Alderton Keep when her mother had died.

Tilda was the one who’d started calling her Ria, a pet name, really. But when Tilda died, it had become something less. It was no longer a name, but merely a sound people barked when they wanted something.

Happily, that was about to change. No longer would she be the no-name girl of Alderton. She was Maria Elizabeth Burton, a legitimately born person of consequence.

And if she were legitimate, it meant she had a father.

Ria stopped in her tracks when that thought dawned on her. The man in Aunt Olivia’s solar had referred to her mother as Sarah Burton, Duchess of Sterlyng. That would make Ria’s father a duke—the Duke of Sterlyng.

Ria scrubbed the soiled linens in the washtub, wrung them out and hung every piece on the line that was strung across the bailey. She frowned and wondered what all this meant, reminding herself she could very well have been mistaken about what she’d heard. Why had she never heard of the Duke of Sterlyng before? Why hadn’t her aunt and uncle known of Sarah’s marriage to this duke?

Or had they known, and chosen to keep Ria from her inheritance…and possibly, from her father?

She picked up the empty basket and walked around to the kitchen, where she set it in a corner. When she noticed that there was too little firewood stacked by the hearth, she picked up the heavy canvas cloth and went outside to retrieve more before Cook had yet another reason to cuff her.

Soon, Ria thought…soon she would be known as the daughter of a duke. She shook her head, dislodging more unkempt tendrils from her braid. ’Twas all beyond any of her wildest imaginings.

She stacked the wood outside the kitchen. Though it was still early afternoon, Ria began to worry. She had hoped to be summoned sooner rather than later, but the gentleman in Aunt Olivia’s solar had not yet called for her. Was it possible she had entirely misunderstood what had been said?

Nay, she assured herself, ’twas not conceivable. Ria was Sarah’s daughter—no one had ever denied that. Her mother had been despised by the Morleys when she’d gone with King Henry. They’d been firm supporters of King Richard, and Sarah’s defection had caused a terrible rift in the family.

But now Ria knew her mother had wed a duke. She’d been a duchess with an estate of her own. A place called Rockbury. There was no mistake about the name. Ria had heard it clearly.

Feeling more optimistic again, she decided to go to her little nook beneath the back stairs and pack her belongings. Not that she owned very much, but all that she had was precious to her, though her most valuable possession—her locket—was never far from her person.

Tamping down her growing excitement at the prospect of leaving Morley, Ria thought of her journey ahead. How far was Rockbury? she wondered. In Staffordshire, she’d heard the man say, but she did not even know where that was. Would she have to travel for days, or merely hours to get there? And what would they think of her once she arrived?

Would her father be there, or was he long dead, just like her mother?

The idea of a father was compelling. Ria could hardly imagine how it would be to have someone who cared, someone who would champion her and protect her from all who would harm her.

Ria looked down at her clothes. Better to turn up at Rockbury wearing her own modest, rough kirtle, she decided, than Cecilia’s cast-off gown with its low-riding neckline and too-long hem. It only emphasized her short stature and too-full figure.

She entered her tiny chamber and lit a tallow candle, since there was no window to provide light. The dark, cramped room contained only a narrow pallet on which she slept, and a stand that she’d fashioned out of stones from the fields. A threadbare kirtle and a dingy linen underkirtle lay neatly folded on the end of the bed.

After peeling off the shawl that covered her bodice, and slipping down the shoulders of the gown, Ria poured water from a cracked clay pitcher and began to wash off the grime from the morning’s work. She was only partly finished when she heard the commotion.

Ria tried to ignore most of the disturbances around the keep unless she was directly involved, but it suddenly occurred to her that Olivia’s visitor might be leaving.

Without her!

She hastily pulled the gown back on and tied the shawl around her shoulders as she quit her room, running through the dark passageway that led from her nook to a side entrance of the keep. If she could only make it to the stable before the man left…

She managed to shove the heavy door open, and quickly flew outside, tripping over a crate holding several chickens. Painful scrapes on the heel of her hand and on her knee did not deter her. She just scrambled up and continued on, hurrying to intercept the visitor before he left.

“Ria!”

The female voice came from above. Ria paused long enough to see that it was her aunt, leaning from the window of her solar.

“Stop this instant, you clumsy girl!”

Ria ignored Olivia and circled the keep, then ran down the path to the stable. Her cousin, Geoffrey Morley, and young Thomas Newson, son of a neighboring baron, stood at the entrance. Though they were a few years younger than Ria, they were much larger and a good deal stronger. The two youths eyed her indolently.

“Where is he?” Ria cried in frustration. How could the visitor have left so quickly?

“Who?” Geoffrey asked with feigned ignorance.

“You know—the gentleman who came to see your mother!” Ria replied, in a panic. “Has he left?”

“Now why would you care about that?” Thomas said. The two young men crowded around Ria, forcing her to back up into the stable. She glanced quickly around the yard. There was no one nearby—no one to call for help, not that any of the Morley servants would have come to her aid.

“’Tis none of your concern, Thomas Newson,” she said, holding her ground, poking one finger into the fellow’s chest. Ria had never liked Thomas, not since he was a young lad, sneaking around and pulling mean pranks on her. In the intervening years, Ria had been ever on her guard when he was near.

She suppressed a shudder. “Where is the gentleman?” she demanded in spite of their intimidation. “You must know!” She would not cower before them, even though they clearly had the upper hand, in terms of brute strength. Between them, though, Ria didn’t believe they had half her brains.

“Well, let’s just see….” Thomas grabbed her arm and pulling her deep into the stable. “Perhaps he is here, eh?”

They shoved her into the first stall, but found one of Morley’s old horses standing there. A second stall was open, empty.

“This where that fancy mount was, Geoff?” Thomas asked, grinning.

Ria yanked her arm away and turned to leave, but Geoffrey blocked her way. Thomas grabbed her shawl and pulled her into the empty stall. Geoff knocked her down.

“Get away from me, you oafs!” she cried, kicking at their legs when they tried to approach. Pain stabbed through her elbow where it hit the ground.

“Hold her down!” Thomas said.

A terrible, dark fear gripped her, but she refused to be paralyzed by it. The outcome of this incident depended upon her ability to keep her wits about her. With one arm immobilized, she tried to roll, but couldn’t do it while she fought off two pairs of strong, male hands.

Thomas got hold of her feet while Geoffrey held her shoulders. He knocked her head on the ground, stunning her for a moment. When she came to her senses, she doubled her resistance.

She fell a pull and heard something tear. She swallowed the bitter bile that rose in her throat and braced herself. There had to be something she could do, she thought as instinct made her lash out with one foot.

One of her hands slipped loose, and Ria quickly reached up and wrenched a handful of Geoffrey’s hair. She yanked viciously, tearing it out by the roots. He howled and fell back for an instant, just long enough for her to knock Thomas off balance and roll away from him. When she was on her feet again, Geoffrey was an absolute puddle, holding his head, lost in his own misery.

Thomas, however, was still a serious threat. There was an innate meanness about him that Ria and every other servant at Morley recognized. Everyone kept clear of him.

Ria knew it would take a miracle to save her. She wanted to cry when she thought of her near escape from Morley, of her impossible dream of leaving with the stranger.

She should have known better.

Thomas started to circle. “You aren’t going anywhere, Ria,” he jeered. “You’ve flaunted your arse in my face once too many times to go free now.”

Ria turned as he moved, never letting him out of her sight. Flaunted? She’d stayed as far as possible from Thomas Newson. Why would she have tried to attract the attentions of this slimy toad?

He lunged suddenly, catching her shawl, pulling her close. Ria shoved her knee up as forcefully as possible between his legs, and he cried out, grabbing his belly and falling to the ground.

Ria knew he wouldn’t stay down forever. Gathering her aching, bruised body, she made a run for the stall door, knowing perfectly well she could not stay at Morley any longer. ’Twas clearly time to leave, even though she had to go alone.

She moved quickly, daringly. ’Twas a hanging offense to steal a horse, but that was what she meant to do. It took only a second to run from the stall where Thomas and Geoffrey nursed their wounds, and open the next one. She hauled a mounting block over and climbed onto it, then threw one leg over the old mare’s bare back. Without a backward glance, Ria rode out of the stable, then out of the yard. Heading southeast, she had only one thought, one destination in mind.

Rockbury.




Chapter Three


Lord Kirkham gave a lazy smile in response to a lame jest by one of his companions. His party of noble wastrels was finally nearing Castle Kirkham, prepared to enjoy a month of diversions far from the tedium of London.

And Kirkham was a most inventive host.

Legends had grown around his prowess in the hunt, his fondness for ale and his talents in the bedchamber. His brawling abilities were celebrated across the kingdom, and his finesse with a whip was unparalleled.

“Hand me your flask, Lofton,” Nicholas drawled. “Mine’s empty.” He carelessly tossed his own tin container into the forest beside the horse path.

“What say we race to Kirkham’s gate?” asked Viscount Sheffield. “Loser pays the tavern bill.”

Nicholas swayed in his saddle.

“You up to it, mate?” Lord Lofton asked him.

“Aye. But I say the winner has his choice of the comeliest wench in the castle,” Nicholas declared, throwing his dark head back with a laugh.

“Agreed!” Lofton hooted. Kirkham’s changeable moods as well as his capacity for drink were a constant source of amusement to his friends and acquaintances. “Let’s go.”

They were off as abruptly as if a flag had been dropped at a tournament. Nicholas dug in his heels and hugged his horse’s back as they urged their mounts to a gallop, side by side on the path. Only three of them joined in the race, the others following casually behind, jesting and laughing, too inebriated to manage much speed.

It was just as well. The horse path was narrow and barely allowed space for the three horses to ride abreast. Nicholas rode on the outside, with Lofton in the middle. No matter how much ale he’d consumed, the others knew Nick liked to win, and would do what was necessary to accomplish it.

The horses were nose to nose, but there was still a good distance to go before they reached Castle Kirkham ’s gate. Just down this track a bit, then around the bend where the eastern road bisected—

A rider turned onto the road ahead. The horse reared, and there was a quick flash of blue and gold as the rider was thrown into the path of the galloping horses. Nick pulled back sharply and slowed his mount, while the others scrambled in confusion. Dismounting before his horse had come to a halt, he ran to the woman, who lay unconscious in the road.

She was young. And clearly of noble birth, judging by her clothes.

Her head was uncovered. Her hair, a glorious honey color that looked as if it had been tipped by a monk’s gilded brush, spilled on the ground around her. At one time Nicholas would have called her lovely. Now the cynic in him knew there was little true beauty in this world. Still, he was well able to appreciate her attributes.

Thick eyelashes formed crescents over her high cheekbones, and her eyes themselves were framed by delicately arched brows. Her nose was unremarkable, but her mouth, those lips, full and inviting…

Nick licked his own and spoke. “Madam…”

A soft moan was the response he got, and he had the most remarkable sense of another time, another place. That moan could easily be mistaken for one of pleasure, and he could almost imagine that lush, fantastic hair spread out on his bed.

Yet something about her pose struck him as entirely innocent and without guile. She would have need of his protection, not his—

Nick shook his head to clear it of the ridiculous notion, and turned to the men who were now dismounting to surround him and the maid. His cohorts were chuckling and talking about Kirkham’s wenches, and having a piece of this comely one.

Their crude talk riled Nicholas unaccountably. “Go on to Kirkham,” he said roughly. “I’ll see to the maiden and join you shortly.”

“Maiden, eh?” one of the ruffians behind him muttered.

“Not one of your castle wenches, then?”

“Go,” Nicholas said harshly, turning toward the men gathered behind him. Quickly composing himself, he added in a more amicable tone, “Rooms have been made ready for all of you, and we’ll meet in one hour for the evening’s festivities. Please. Leave me now. I will deal with this.”

Reluctantly, the men moved away, while the young woman lying on the path moaned again and turned slightly. Nicholas could see her pulse beating at the base of her delicate neck, and he envisioned himself pressing his lips to the spot.

“Madam,” he repeated as he slid one hand under the maid’s head.

She opened her eyes abruptly. Without a moment’s hesitation, she raised a fist and delivered a solid punch to Nicholas’s jaw. It was the surprise, as much as the force of the blow, that threw him back on his rear. While he was down, the girl scrambled to her feet. But before she could take one step in flight, she crumpled to the ground again, muttering.

Nicholas felt fortunate that his comrades were far up the path and not present to witness his inglorious dumping by this slip of a maiden. Clearly, she felt no remorse for her actions, for she grumbled angrily about mothers who should have drowned their clumsy, half-witted children at birth.

She turned onto her hands and knees and began to crawl away. Fully appreciative of the view she presented, he held back a grin and spoke. “D’you accost every man you meet,” he said sarcastically, “or do I alone enjoy the honor?”

“Only bumble-headed fools who terrorize the countryside with their horseplay,” she muttered.

Nicholas frowned, gritting his teeth. His reputation might not be the purest, but no one spoke to him in this manner! “Bumble-head—!”

“Go away,” she said, turning to flash the most incredible eyes at him.

He vaguely remembered once before having seen clear amber eyes like hers, but he could not recall where or when. Nor did he care. Their unusual, seductive color intrigued him every bit as much as their scornful expression.

His ire was quickly replaced by something else. Suddenly, the only thought he could entertain was how those disdainful eyes would flare with passion when he took—and gave—the ultimate pleasure between her thighs. By the look of her, though, he would have to put some effort into her seduction. She was no easy tavern wench, ripe and willing.

Nay, this golden beauty was indecipherable. She seemed as delicate as a young maid, fresh and untried, yet she was as spirited and feisty as the most jaded courtesan he’d ever known. ’Twould be amusing to discover which she truly was.

And what sport that would be. He almost smiled in anticipation of the game.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, raising himself up to crouch near her. He was on his guard lest she turn around and deliver another punch…nay, he almost welcomed her to try it.

Ria turned back again and eyed him warily. Yes, she was hurt, and she doubted she’d be able to walk. But could she trust this man?

His powerful body was richly clad. He moved with the physical confidence of a warrior, but he smelled of ale and his demeanor was one of casual indifference. He was a drunkard. A lecher.

His gray eyes darkened perceptibly as he watched her, and Ria knew that, drunk or not, this was no raw lad whom she could best with a quick kick to his privates. Though he gave a superficial impression of indolence, she sensed there was more to him than what he presented.

His hair was dark, nearly black, and its extra length gave its owner an appearance of sensual laziness. Thick black lashes framed stormy gray eyes. His nose was long and straight, but for a small bump near the bridge—where Ria assumed it might once have been broken. His cheekbones were sharply carved in a face that would have appeared harsh, but was made more human by his mouth. His lips betrayed a sensitivity that was otherwise well hidden by a dark and disagreeable expression.

Ria licked her lips nervously and wondered if she should apologize for striking him. She decided the less said about that blow, the better. She needed to get away from here as quickly as possible, and on her way to Rockbury. Luckily, she had learned in a little village a few miles back that the estate she sought was not far off.

“I’ve twisted my ankle,” she said, once she was out of close reach. “If you would just—”

“Let me see.”

“Nay, sir.”

Ria had no intention of allowing herself to be handled by this man or any other. She’d fought for her freedom from her kin at Alderton, and now she was going to Rockbury. Nothing was going to deter her. Not her sniveling young cousin, Geoffrey Morley, and his vicious cohort; not this flagrantly masculine nobleman. She was going to find out the truth of her birth, even if the words she’d heard in her aunt’s solar turned out to be a misunderstanding.

She dragged her skirt over her legs and scooted away. But the man lunged before she could move very far, and grabbed her leg near the knee, holding her fast.

“What’s the hurry?” he said. The words were innocuous, but there was more than a hint of danger in his voice. He changed position, then turned her, pinning her beneath him in the damp grass next to the path.

His scent was not just that of ale. He smelled of horse and leather, and man. Dark whiskers shadowed the lower half of his face, emphasizing the devilishly attractive creases in his cheeks. He was a great deal larger than she, and his long, hard frame provoked a physical reaction she did not recognize.

When she shivered, his eyes went nearly black.

Ria could not move. Her breath was trapped in her throat, just as surely as her arms were trapped by his powerful hands at her sides. Her legs had lost all ability to move.

Their breaths intermingled. His chest touched her breasts. She felt weightless. Feathers replaced the organs in her belly, tickling her insides, from the tips of her breasts to her loins.

One of his hands pressed against her waist, and his legs shifted. Ria squirmed, eliciting a groan from him. He lifted his torso, framing her shoulders with his powerful arms, then moved one leg between hers. Keeping her eyes imprisoned by his own, he moved again, making contact with the most intimate part of her. He increased the pressure and a shot of molten heat burst through her.

Shocked by his scorching touch, Ria shoved him away with all her strength. She suspected he allowed her to do so, but nevertheless took advantage of the distance.

Sitting up quickly, she drew her legs under her. It was a moment before she was able to catch enough breath to speak. “M-my horse, my lord,” she said stiffly, summoning the nerve to brazenly look him in the eyes. “If you would be k-kind enough to help me remount, I will be on my way….”

Nicholas did not move. He had never been one to force himself on a woman, but this one was different. He knew she’d been affected by his touch. Even now her voice was breathless, husky. There was confusion in her eyes.

Bits of dried grass laced her hair, and the deep blue silk of her gown was damp in places. She had the look of a woman who’d been well pleasured, though they’d not come close to what could have been.

Nick could not believe he’d lost his touch. He’d have this girl writhing beneath him again. Soon.

Her form pleased him; her soft curves had fit him perfectly before her sudden attack of conscience forced her to push him away. He’d have liked to remove the ugly shawl she had tied around her shoulders, to see what lay beneath, but hadn’t had time to manage it.

Contrary to his usual inclinations, Nicholas was curious about her. He wondered what had brought her to his lands, mounted on a broken-down mare, without a saddle or any other baggage. As far as he could see, she had only the clothes on her back and a golden locket hanging on a delicate chain about her neck. Was she some nobleman’s discarded mistress, or an innocent maid, somehow lost, perhaps separated from her guardian?

He smiled a little to himself. Clearly, she had nowhere to go. He would keep her with him.

“No,” he finally replied.

The young woman’s eyes widened as her brows lowered. “Sir,” she said, pushing up onto her knees. “My lord…”

“You will accompany me to Kirkham,” he said, “where someone will tend to your injured ankle.”

“But I—”

“I insist,” he said, with a tight smile that did not reach his frosty eyes. “After all, ’twas my fault you were thrown from your horse. ’Tis only fair that I offer you the hospitality of my home.”

Nicholas stood and assisted her to her feet, even as he noted the surprise in her eyes. She had not realized that he was the lord of Kirkham. Supporting her weak side, he helped her step up to a jutting rock, then lifted her onto her horse.

“No saddle?” he asked as he mounted his own gray roan.

Ria shook her head as she considered making a run for it. Unfortunately, though, she was lost and needed guidance if she was ever to find Rockbury. She’d been riding for two days…two very long days without food or shelter. Two days of wondering when Geoffrey Morley would catch up with her.

She was not certain she wanted to tell Lord Kirkham who she was, or where she was headed….

“Come with me,” he said, his voice warm and inviting. “The hour grows late and Castle Kirkham is just ahead. I’ll see that you get that ankle bound and have a hot meal before you continue on your journey.”

Ria had learned that it was better to say too little rather than too much, so she kept silent as they rode. She certainly had no objection to helping herself to a meal at Kirkham, and perhaps along the way she could discover Rockbury’s location from one of Kirkham’s servants.

She straightened her posture and assumed a haughty air so that Kirkham would not think her such an innocent miss, easily flattered and seduced. Far better to pose as a woman of sophistication so that this handsome and worldly nobleman would not attempt to take further advantage of her.

Nicholas made no pretense of watching the road. He let his eyes wander over the maid who rode alongside him, fascinated as much by the questions she presented as her comely form. Her speech was usually as refined as that of any noblewoman, yet she met his eyes with a challenge and the kind of defiance not often seen in young women of his class. Her clothing was torn and ill-fitting, though it was made of as fine a material as he’d ever seen. Her sun-kissed hair was magnificent, and her features delicate and alluring. But her hands were reddened and chafed.

She was not an expert equestrian, but she chose to ride without a saddle. The horse she rode posed questions, too. Her mare was far from being prime horse-flesh, but Nicholas knew of no villein who could afford even the poorest horse.

Had she stolen this hapless mare?

“I am Nicholas Hawken,” he said. “Marquis of Kirkham.”

The young woman kept her eyes on the road ahead. Nicholas watched her profile, unable to take his gaze from her throat as she swallowed before speaking. “How do you do, my lord?” she said.

Nicholas smiled. She did not intend to give her name.

“’Tis my estate upon which you trespass.”

“I do most heartily beg your pardon, my lord,” she said lightly. “’Twas not my intention to infringe upon private property.”

“Of course not,” he said, watching, fascinated, as she secured the ugly woolen shawl over the neck of her gown. It was a crime to cover such smooth and enticing skin with that coarse brown wool. “You have yet to speak your name, my lady fair.”

Again she rode on quietly, taking in the scenery around her. Nicholas knew she was procrastinating, and wondered why she hesitated to give her name. Was she running from her family? Wanted by a sheriff somewhere, perhaps?

“My name is…Maria. Of S-Staffordshire.”

“Ahh…” Now he was getting somewhere, though the manner in which she spoke the name led him to suspect she’d made it up. “No surname?”

“N-nay, my lord,” she replied, as if it were commonplace for a young maid of quality to be traveling about the countryside unescorted, riding bareback on an old nag, wearing ruined clothes and having no name other than “Maria of Staffordshire.”

He would send inquiries to the nearby estates when he had her settled at Kirkham.




Chapter Four


Lord Kirkham had noticed the rough skin of her hands, so Ria tried to keep them hidden as Kirkham’s secretary bound her ankle in the privacy of a well-appointed chamber near the chapel. ’Twas a comfortable room with long mullioned windows facing out over a quaint courtyard full of statuary and early greenery.

The secretary, Henric Tournay, was a young man scarcely older than Ria, she thought, with pale hair and even paler skin. His deep brown eyes were set starkly into the light backdrop of his complexion. All his features, in combination, gave him the appearance of being startled, at all times.

His hands were as white and clammy as the underbelly of a fish, and his touch repelled her. Still, he was trying to help, so she kept her unease to herself.

“’Tis bruised nearly to the toes, my lady,” Tournay said as he wrapped Ria’s foot and ankle. “You must stay off it for a few days.”

“But that is impossible,” Ria said. She glanced out the window and saw that it was nearly dusk. Daylight would be gone within the hour. “I must be on my way. On the morrow at the latest.”

Tournay raised his nearly nonexistent brows and shrugged. “’Tis for you to decide, my lady. But Lord Kirkham—”

A burst of laughter in Kirkham’s distant hall interrupted the man. Other male voices joined in, along with spurts of music. Instruments began to play, and voices joined in song, then all dissolved into discord and gave way to raucous laughter, only to be repeated again.

Ria bit her lower lip. How would she get out of Castle Kirkham without encountering the lord’s guests? She was completely out of her element here.

She halted her dismal thoughts and decided she must take control of the situation. If she were to pass as a lady—nay, if she truly were the Burton daughter—she would have to act accordingly, and not be cowed by every chance encounter. She had spent years mimicking Cecilia, and knew she could make her speech and her bearing seem every bit as regal as her noble cousin’s. Ria had plenty of experience in grooming, having played lady’s maid to both her cousin and her aunt on many occasions.

It should pose no problem for her to appear as a noblewoman.

Yet why did the thought of carrying out her deception with Lord Kirkham make her tremble?

A light tap at the door had the secretary on his feet in an instant. He opened to a burly knight, who stepped in and glanced shyly at Ria.

“Lord Kirkham sent me to carry the lady to her chamber,” he said.

“Very good, Sir Gyles,” Tournay said. “I’ll light your way.”

Relief settled in Ria’s heart. They must not be going through the hall, where Kirkham’s party was gathered, or they would not need extra light. Silently, Sir Gyles gathered her into his arms and carried her through the door, then down a dark passageway until he reached a narrow, circular stone staircase. Here he climbed, following Tournay, until he reached the top, and again turned down a dark passage.

Tournay walked ahead, and finally reached a heavy oaken door, which he pushed open. In the chamber beyond, Gyles gently set Ria down on a chair next to the fireplace, while Tournay set the candelabra on a table.

Ria could not help but wonder where her host was, not that she was anxious to see him again. Merely curious.

“A tray will be sent to you presently, my lady,” the secretary said as Sir Gyles turned to leave. “Lord Kirkham said to tell you that whatever clothing you find in these chests is at your disposal,” he added, gesturing to two large wooden chests on the floor near the washstand. “No one uses them now, and Lord Kirkham noticed you had no…er, that your baggage was lost and he thought…Well, help yourself.”

When the men were gone, Ria lowered her feet to the floor. She attempted to stand, only gradually adding weight to the injured ankle. Pain shot through the joint, all the way to her knee, making her dizzy and nauseated. Quickly, she sat back down.

This would never do, she thought. She had to leave Kirkham soon. There had to be a way to deal with this infernal ankle.

Standing again, she hopped on one foot to the other wooden chair, near the hearth, and took hold of it like a crutch. That was all she needed. A staff, or a crutch, to help her move about until the joint healed. There was no reason why she couldn’t ride to Rockbury, and once there, everything would be settled while she limped on her bad ankle.

Hobbling around her chamber with the aid of the chair, Ria went to the basin of water that had been set out for her, and started to wash. She felt grimy after her flight from Morley, and the warmth and shelter of the room was a relief.

But she was only a guest here. Once she reached Rockbury and claimed her legacy from her mother, Ria would have her own home—a place where she really and truly belonged.

At least she hoped she belonged there.

Ria shook off the worry. Surely she had not completely misunderstood what had been said in Aunt Olivia’s solar. She had to be Maria Burton. She had vague memories of Tilda calling her Maria, and shortening the name fondly.

Ria pulled off her woolen shawl and let the rich, silk gown slip from her shoulders. Glancing up, she saw a clear reflection of herself for the first time in her life.

What a mess she was!

’Twould take more skill than she had to give herself the refined appearance of a noblewoman.

A noise at the door disrupted Ria’s thoughts, and two maids entered the room. One held a tray laden with food and drink. The other carried an armful of things, including a hairbrush and various other items used in a lady’s toilette.

They both curtsied and set down their burdens. Piqued by the intrusion, Ria wondered if anyone at Castle Kirkham waited for leave to enter before barging in, but her annoyance was assuaged by the pleasant smiles and obliging manner of the two women. She knew her annoyance was misplaced.

“Lord Kirkham said you would have some trouble getting around,” the short one said.

“So he sent us to help,” the other added.

Nicholas Hawken paced the length of his chamber, dangling a folded missive from one hand. Tournay had handed him the letter, which had arrived a few hours before his own return to Kirkham, and the accusations stated therein were compelling.

If only the actual evidence of treachery, a letter to the Duke of Alen


n, had not been lost.

For years Nick had played the lecherous drunkard, a superficial sot who cared for nothing beyond his next diversion. His recklessness and dissipation were renowned, and understood to be his reaction to losing his brother in France.

Not even his secretary suspected the truth.

’Twas the perfect ploy for gleaning information that could be used to further the English cause in France, and bring about a swift end to the interminable war. More than any other motive, Nicholas was committed to his purpose of reducing the number of Englishmen who perished in the French wars each year.

No more should have to die like Edmund.

While it was true that Nicholas still felt tremendous guilt for his brother’s death, in reality his wild and wicked reputation had been carefully cultivated in order to allay any suspicions of him. While he went on his supposed drunken binges with his waterfront cronies, he was well able to cull information for the Duke of Bedford, Regent of France.

In short, he was Bedford’s spy, and his missions had been both dangerous as well as amusing at times.

Over the past few months, however, sensitive information had repeatedly been diverted to the French dauphin in Chinon, information that had already had detrimental effects on a few small skirmishes. Whoever was channeling this information had to be stopped, or England’s interests in France would be seriously compromised.

Nick looked down at the vellum in his hand. As impossible as it was to believe, the letter implicated John Burton, Duke of Sterlyng, as the traitor who had sent secret information to Jean, Duke of Alen


n, regarding the numbers and status of English troops at Orléans.

How could that be? Nicholas wondered. Sterlyng’s reputation was beyond reproach. The man’s family lines went back to the Conqueror! He’d been a trusted advisor of King Henry V, as well as of Henry’s father. Even now, the duke was part of the council that would rule England until Henry VI reached his majority.

And he was the Duke of Bedford’s closest friend and advisor. With the disintegrating situation in France, Sterlyng’s treason would be a terrible blow to Bedford and all the knights fighting for the English cause.

Nicholas threw the missive into the fire and clasped his hands behind his back. He’d invited a couple of dozen noblemen from London in order to ferret out their secrets. When the wine flowed and the wenches were willing, Nick often learned what he needed to know, with his pigeon never the wiser.

Now he wondered if there was any point in continuing this party.

Yes, he thought. He must do all that he could to verify the charges he’d just read. One intercepted letter bearing a fragment of Sterlyng’s ducal seal was not adequate proof of treason. Before he could accuse John Burton of such a heinous crime, the case against him had to be ironclad.

Nicholas would continue with the party as planned. Most of his guests traveled in Sterlyng’s circles, and one of them might know something. Nick took a swig of ale and swished it around in his mouth. Then he spat it out in the basin next to his bed. He only had to appear the drunkard. ’Twould never do to be caught truly incapacitated.

He left his chamber, intent upon the activity in the great hall, and gave a passing thought to the woman he’d brought home. He wondered how she fared, and considered summoning Tournay for a report. Then he decided to see for himself. Those glorious eyes alone were worth a short delay of his mission below.

Besides, her chamber was adjacent to his own. ’Twould not make much of a detour to see to her.

’Twas odd for Ria to watch her hair taking shape into a stylish coiffure. She who had never before seen her entire face in a mirror observed closely as one of the maids finished pinning the elaborate braids in place. Ria could hardly believe it was truly her own reflection she saw before her.

While one maid helped her remove Cecilia’s gown, the other searched through the trunks and discovered a delicate chemise made of fine chainsil, as well as two beautiful gowns, which she laid out on the bed.

Ria did not believe she was dressing for any particular reason, for Lord Kirkham had not mentioned anything about joining the party in the hall. And she was grateful. She had no interest in testing her playacting abilities on so large an audience. Fooling a couple of young maids was one thing. Keeping up her charade before Lord Kirkham and his companions was far different.

“There, my lady,” the maid with the gowns said, “you have your choice between the green and the orange. Both suit your coloring.”

To Ria, the two gowns could not be described in such simple terms. The green one was finely made of velvet, and as deep a color as the forest at dusk, with lovely white fur trim around the neckline and hips. The orange looked more like a shaft of iron turned to rust. Its neckline was cut in a dramatic square, with tiny balls of gold sewn along the edge, and a golden girdle to match. Contrasting yellow silk was set into the flowing sleeves and train.

“I prefer the orange,” said a deep, male voice.

Ria whirled to see that Kirkham had come in and was standing only a few paces from her. She did not know how he had entered without her hearing, though admittedly, her attention had been completely engaged by the beautiful gowns.

“Leave us,” he said to the maids.

Ria opened her mouth to protest, but the two maids hurried to do his bidding while Lord Kirkham held her eyes. She felt naked, wearing only the thin chainsil. It left her neck and shoulders bare, as well as a goodly portion of her bosom—much more than was appropriate or comfortable in the presence of this man…this stranger.

As he came closer, she raised her hands instinctively to cover the exposed expanse of flesh. She would have taken a step backward, but knew her ankle would not support her.

“You were lovely lying on the ground with your hair in disarray, your clothes wet with dew,” he said. “But now, my lady fair, you take my breath away.”




Chapter Five


He should not have been so stunned by her transformation. She was the same maiden he’d accosted on the road, but now, with her hair artfully arranged and her shoulders bare, he was able to fully appreciate the fine bones of her face and neck, the creamy purity of her skin.

Lady Maria was exquisite.

“My lord,” she said. She raised her chin and glared at him peremptorily, but he heard the slight tremor in her voice. He made her nervous.

He smiled and inclined his head as she tried to subtly cover her décolletage. To his great satisfaction, she was only partially successful.

“My own p-preference was…for the green,” she said, her lovely eyes engaging his own. “But since you like the orange…” She picked up the gown and held it over her bare skin.

Nicholas paused a moment before replying. Lady Maria presented an odd mix of sophistication and naiveté. While she seemed to flirt and dally with him, he sensed a subtle unease in her demeanor. For the first time in many a year, Nick was unsure how to proceed.

Rather than moving forward to touch her, and perhaps steal a kiss to begin his seduction, he watched as she moved enticingly, holding the rich russet gown over her nakedness. Light and shadows played off her flawless skin, and Nick felt his muscles tense, his pulse rise. He was a master at seduction, yet felt he was the one being seduced.

’Twas not at all unpleasant.

Ria did not know what to do next.

The marquis stood looking at her, devouring her with his eyes, yet made no move to indicate what he expected from her. Perhaps that was to her advantage, she thought. She might be able to keep charge of the situation if she stayed one step ahead of him.

She moistened her lips and turned slightly away from Lord Kirkham, unwilling to display any more of herself than she had already. She was vastly uncomfortable, standing unclothed before him. It had been pure inspiration to take the gown and hold it in front of herself, interfering with his blatant perusal of her form.

But what now? She could not very well toss Lord Kirkham out of one of his own chambers. Could she?

“My lord,” she said, tipping her head regally. “You very graciously provided maids to help me dress. If you would be so good as to call them back…?”

Lord Kirkham shrugged casually. “We won’t need them.”

Somehow Ria managed to refrain from gasping in shock. Surely he did not mean to dress her.

“On the contrary, my lord,” she said, surprising herself with her audacity. She tipped up her chin and attempted to look down her nose at him. “I will need the maids.”

He smiled.

“Please summon them on your way out,” she added as she put one hand on Lord Kirkham’s shoulder and turned him. Then she gave him a gentle shove toward the door.

When he was just outside, he turned to look back at her, his visage dark and frightening. Ria felt a slight palpitation of her heart and wondered if she had made a dangerous mistake.

Then he smiled tightly and turned away.

She closed the door and leaned against it, letting out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Quickly, before Lord Kirkham changed his mind, Ria hobbled back to the bed and struggled to pull on the gown. She got caught up in the sleeves and neckline, but one of the maids arrived just in time to rescue her before her coif was ruined.

“Oh, my lady,” the young woman said, hurrying into the chamber, “here, let me help you with that!”

Ria allowed the maid to pull the gown over her head and then help her with the buttons and laces. She was anxious to be fully dressed, lest the dark lord pay her another visit.

She did not know what to make of him. One moment he was surly and out of sorts, the next he was seductive and overly familiar. Was this the kind of behavior noblewomen were forced to endure from their men? Ria was unsure, her only experience with noblemen being her observations of the guests at Alderton.

She only knew that his effect on her was a powerful one, the likes of which she’d never experienced before.

She sensed that he was a dangerous man. Lord Kirkham was not dangerous in the same way that Geoffrey and Thomas threatened her…nay, the danger was much more subtle, and a far greater threat to her well-being.

Nicholas had no stomach for the game tonight. He sat quietly at the long table in the center of his hall and observed his peers as they indulged in their vices.

He surveyed his realm. His realm! Ha!

Kirkham. The title and estate he’d never thought would be his. The irony of his situation never escaped him. ’Twas only through Nick’s own folly that Edmund had been killed, making Nicholas marquis.

Nick damned himself once again for the callowness of his youth and his unwavering belief that he and Edmund were invincible. ’Twas his own reckless desire for adventure and fame that had driven him to join King Henry’s troops in France, and coerce Edmund into going along for the glory. Little had he known he’d leave his elder brother in an unmarked grave, buried deep under French soil.

Nicholas hadn’t had the heart to return home right away…to his father, who had been devastated by news of Edmund’s death, nor to Edmund’s betrothed, the daughter of a neighboring earl. Nay, he’d wandered over Europe, punishing himself for Edmund’s death until he’d been able to stay away no longer.

And when he’d returned to Kirkham, his father was dead. ’Twas one more regret to add to his list.

Naught had changed here since he was a lad. Kirkham’s hall looked just the same, except for the company, of course.

Ale flowed freely. Men tossed dice and played at cards. Bawdy songs were played and drunken voices chimed in sporadically. There were willing wenches aplenty in the hall, and Nicholas was certain there were more in various nooks and crannies throughout the castle. But none were so interesting as the one in residence in the south tower.

Maria. Of Staffordshire.

Maria with the fascinating eyes.

He was now achingly familiar with some of her other attributes, and regretted his decision to leave her for the time being. It had been nigh on impossible to turn away from those seductive curves that she’d barely managed to hide behind the russet gown.

Enough had been left uncovered to whet his appetite.

Nicholas took a gulp of mulled wine. ’Twas no matter now. He’d made his decision and he would let it stand. He would not intrude upon Lady Maria tonight. Better to let her rest her ankle overnight and let it heal some before he seduced her. Besides wanting her willing, he’d also like her able.

Harry, Lord Lofton, sat down next to Nicholas and reached for one of the pitchers of ale on the table. He poured himself a cup.

“Not interested in dice tonight, Kirkham?” Nick’s guest asked with a sly gleam in his eye.

“I rather prefer the minstrels’ songs at the moment,” he replied lazily. He leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs to their full length, crossing his ankles indolently atop the table.

“You wouldn’t be thinking of visiting a mysterious lady abovestairs, would you now?”

Nick raised an eyebrow and shrugged. Most assuredly, the thought had crossed his mind repeatedly, though he was working to dissuade himself from that notion. He’d like nothing better than to see her in that russet gown…and then see her out of it again.

“What do you hear of Carrington these days?” Nicholas asked, changing the subject. The Earl of Carrington was a close friend of the Duke of Sterlyng, and news of him could very well shed light on Sterlyng’s activities.

“Gone to the Continent,” Harry replied. “Bexhill mentioned that Carrington’s taken ’is wife and daughters to Italy for a month or two.”

Nicholas preferred never to take the word of the Earl of Bexhill, a pompous London sot, and had difficulty believing it now. Despite rumors to the contrary, Nick knew that Carrington was not on close terms with his wife, who usually remained at their country estate while the earl lived in London. The man’s departure with his family bore closer scrutiny, regardless of what that fool Bexhill might have said.

“What’s in Italy?” Nicholas asked, taking another sip of wine. He made it appear quite the generous gulp.

“The weather,” Harry replied. “Bexhill said that Carrington’s countess suffers from…aah, but you’ve diverted me from a more interesting topic.” Harry grinned wickedly. “The lady you’ve stashed in your tower.”

“The woman is not your concern.”

“Ah, but Kirkham,” Harry cajoled, “if you’re not interested, then what say you let me—”

Nicholas swung his feet down from the table. “The lady is under my protection,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “And as long as she remains so, I—”

“Want her for yourself, s’that it?” Harry asked drunkenly.

“Do you not see another female here to interest you?” Nicholas asked, reining in his temper. Lofton had to be the most thick-skulled of all the wastrels known to Nick, but he often had access to information that Nicholas might otherwise miss. “The fairest and most willing young maids in all of Staffordshire are under Kirkham’s roof tonight.”

“Ah, but the one you shroud in mystery is not—”

“Mystery?” Nicholas scoffed.

“You never allowed any of us to see her, did you?”

“Certainly not,” Nick said indignantly. “Throw an innocent maiden to the wolves? I think not.”

Hal laughed. “Don’t tell me you’ve sprouted a conscience, Kirkham. I say she’s fair game.”

“But then, you’re an ass, Lofton.”

Hal barked out another laugh and furrowed his brow as he looked at his host speculatively. “That I am, Kirkham,” he said. “That I am.”




Chapter Six


Ria awoke chilled.

She sat up in her bed, disoriented for a moment in the dark chamber. Then she remembered where she was.

The thin gown she wore was little use against the cold, and Ria now wished she’d found something more substantial to wear to bed. Instead, she’d been enamored of a lovely white silk chemise with tiny sleeves and delicate embroidery along the neckline. There was no drawstring at the neck to close it, and it gaped, slipping off one shoulder, adding to her chill. Ria pulled it up, only to have the other side slide down.

The castle was quiet now, without the sounds of revelry that had accompanied her drifting off to sleep. In fact, ’twas surprising she’d been able to sleep at all, with all the voices and music and laughter floating up to her from the hall.

The draught given her by one of the maids must have aided her in falling asleep, Ria thought as she swung her legs out of the bed. She stepped down gingerly and half hopped to the hearth, taking care not to put weight on her injured ankle.

Ria would have made it but for the low stool standing in her path. Invisible in the dark, it tripped her up as she neared the fire. She fell hard, letting out a yelp and pulling a chair down with her.

She was not seriously injured, but couldn’t help groaning as she sat up. She must have roused everyone in the castle with all the clatter.

Just as she feared, there was a sudden spate of voices outside her door. Embarrassed to have made such a disturbance, Ria started to pull herself up just as the door opened.

“Return to your beds,” Lord Kirkham said to those who had gathered outside Ria’s chamber. His back was to her, but she sighed, knowing she would soon have to face him in all her clumsy splendor. When he turned, she saw that he carried a lamp.

And he was only partially dressed.

She clambered awkwardly to her feet as he closed the door behind him. On the tip of Ria’s tongue was an apology for the disturbance she’d caused, but she suddenly remembered who she was pretending to be. A woman of noble birth. A lady who would not think twice about rousing an entire household if there was something she needed.

Nor would she quake at the sight of a half-dressed man coming to her aid. She was the daughter of a duchess, after all. The sight of a brawny chest with an intriguing mat of dark hair sprinkled across it meant naught to her. Nor was she particularly moved by the sight of his powerful legs, clad in hose and braes that were scandalously exposed by his lack of tunic.

Not at all.

She wiped her clammy hands on her gown and stood up, determined to play the noblewoman.

“Have a care, Lady Maria,” Kirkham said as he approached her. “Else you’ll fall again. Are you hurt?”

“Nay, my lord,” Ria replied lightly. “Only my pride.”

“Mmm,” he said, setting the lamp on a low table near the bed. “Your pride is likely to be sporting a few new bruises on the morrow.”

Ria bristled at the unmistakable sound of humor in his voice. After all, it was at her expense, and she did not appreciate bearing the brunt of his ridicule.

“Let me help you.”

Before she could react, he lifted her in his muscular arms and carried her away from the hearth.

Kirkham’s scent pervaded her senses. He did not smell of strong drink. Nay, his scent was warm and masculine, and altogether too appealing. Alluring, somehow. Ria had never before experienced the kind of longing he aroused with a mere touch, and she remembered thinking him a dangerous man.

This was the danger.

The candle in the lamp flickered, and shadows played over Kirkham’s face. Ria could not read the expressions crossing his visage, but his eyes held a dark intensity as he carried her to the bed.

Instead of placing her on the mattress, he let her feet slide to the floor, her body slipping down the length of his own, like a caress. The heat of his chest burned through the thin silk of her chemise, and she knew he felt it, too, when he glanced down.

Ria’s eyes followed Lord Kirkham’s, and she saw that they were skin to skin. Somehow, between falling and being rescued, the neck of the overlarge chemise had become askew. Steeling herself to keep from reacting like a naive bumpkin, Ria raised her chin and blinked.

Nicholas felt he might burst. Surely the woman knew what she was doing to him. She had only to feel the evidence of his arousal to know how this contact of her body against his affected him.

The naked tips of her breasts brushed against his chest, setting his skin on fire. Her breath caught, sending a tremor of fierce desire through him. She wanted him as wildly as he wanted her.

His lips touched the madly beating pulse in her neck as she tipped her head back to give him better access. Her skin tasted faintly of flowers, soft and feminine. He kept one hand on her back to keep her clamped to him, while his other hand cupped her shoulder, then touched the delicate bones of her throat. Softly, seductively, he moved it to the fullness of her breast, where he caressed her and made her whimper with need.

He found her mouth then, and absorbed the small noises she made, sounds that only inflamed him further. He soothed her trembling with his kisses, and slid one hand down to her buttocks. Pulling her ever closer, he moved against her in a rhythm that clearly demonstrated his intent.

His tongue boldly sought hers, and their mouths engaged in an intimate match that set his senses reeling.

Her responses to him gave an impression of shyness and innocence, yet he remembered the seductive expression in her eyes, the calculated shrug of her shoulders…the enticing gown that barely cloaked her lush attributes.

No one who looked like Lady Maria could still be chaste.

As soon as her ankle healed—

God’s teeth, what was he doing? The woman was injured due to his lack of caution, and now he was making love to her before her injury healed. She likely had new bruises from her most recent fall, as well.

“Maria…” he whispered, breaking off the kiss.

She looked up at him, those amazing amber eyes glazed with arousal. He could have her now; he knew that without a doubt. But he wanted her full participation. And that was not likely to happen until her body was intact, without bumps or bruises.

There would be another night. A full night, hours and hours together, when her stamina would be reduced neither by pain nor by an inconvenient draught of valerian to ease it.

He wanted her fully awake when she succumbed to him.

Morning dawned, bright and sunny.

Maria lay quietly in her bed and listened to the bird-song outside her window. All else was quiet at Kirkham.

Except for the thundering of her heart. She did not know what had come over her during the night when she had nearly allowed Lord Kirkham to bed her. Nor did she understand why he had stopped his seduction.

She was grateful that Nicholas’s advances had not progressed too far while she was under the influence of the drug she’d drunk earlier in the evening. Yet his departure from her chamber had caused a terrible longing that persisted through her dreams and even upon awakening this morning.

She’d never experienced anything like what he’d shown her last night. Never an inkling of what a man’s touch could do.

But not just any man, Ria suspected. Only the hands and lips of Nicholas Hawken would ever have the power to excite her that way.

She shivered with the chill of morning and glanced about her room. This was how it would be to arise in her own chamber at Rockbury, she thought, in a deliberate attempt to remove Lord Nicholas Hawken from her mind.

With sunlight bursting through the windows, a soft bed with adequate quilts—mayhap even a curtain—to ensure ample warmth, and fresh rushes on the floor, she would have more than she’d ever known in her life. Peace. Comfort. Contentment. A place—a home—where she belonged.

She drew her knees to her chest, pulled the soft quilts up around her shoulders and thought about leaving Castle Kirkham. She was torn between her need to get to Rockbury and her desire to stay and explore the possibilities with Lord Kirkham.

What were his intentions toward her? Surely they were honorable, for he believed her to be a noblewoman. No man in Nicholas Hawken’s position would seduce a woman of gentle birth. And Lord Kirkham believed she was “Lady Maria.”

Ria told herself she truly was Lady Maria. She did not know if she would ever become accustomed to hearing herself addressed as Maria, or Lady Maria. ’Twas doubtful.

She considered telling Lord Kirkham of her quest for Rockbury, then decided against it. She was not sure of anything regarding her inheritance, and did not want to be embarrassed if it turned out she was wrong. She could not tell Nicholas she was the daughter of a duchess and heir to Rockbury until she verified the truth of the matter. Better to remain quiet until then.

Still, there was the matter of this attraction that blazed between them. How would a noblewoman act in these circumstances?

Ria thought about the many times young men had visited Alderton, and how her cousin Cecilia had behaved in their presence. Cecilia had spent several seasons at court in London, and was quite adept at managing all her young suitors.

Ria wondered if she could be as brazen and flirtatious, yet modest and demure as Cecilia was. Surely Cecilia would have known how to deal with Lord Kirkham when he’d arrived in her room last night.

“Oh! My lady!” a pert young voice said quietly. “’Tis early…I didn’t expect you to be awake yet!”

’Twas one of the young maids from the previous night. She turned and picked up a basin of steaming water she’d set behind her, then entered the room, closing the door behind her.

The prospect of hot water was appealing, and Ria slipped her legs out from the warmth of the quilts. She had decided nothing about her actions today, but much depended on the condition of her ankle. If it was well enough to travel, she would go.

If not, then another day or so at Kirkham would not harm her.

All was quiet in Kirkham’s stables. None of the grooms were about as yet, and Nicholas enjoyed the serenity of the morning. All too soon his guests would be up and about, searching for new and ever more wicked diversions, even as they suffered the effects of the previous night’s festivities.

Nick paced the length of the low building until he reached the last stall, where Lady Maria’s mount had been stabled for the night. Unlatching the gate, he stepped in with the aging mare and looked her over, though his attention was not fully on the horse.

Instead, he could only think of the hour he’d spent after his encounter with Maria during the night, tossing about in his bed, deliberately restraining himself from returning to join the lady in hers. He hadn’t been so stirred by a woman in…well, in quite some time. Perhaps never.

And he did not know why.

’Twas not any one feature that made Lady Maria so enticing, though she intrigued him as no woman had managed to do before. Nay, he could not quite determine what made her so attractive to him.

Perhaps it was her injury that made him feel so protective, so possessive. After all, he’d been the one responsible for her fall from this sorry nag.

Nicholas ran one hand down the horse’s forehead to its muzzle, then glanced at the teeth. He wondered how far Maria intended to travel on this ancient beast.

More than that, he wondered how he had allowed his attention to become so sidetracked by Lady Maria that he’d spent no time at all considering the Duke of Sterlyng and his treachery against England.

Nicholas barely knew John Burton. The man was of his father’s generation, and his friends were older noblemen. As far as Nicholas knew, Sterlyng had never expressed any wild tendencies in his youth, as so many well-born young men often did. The duke had been in the service of Henry of Lancaster when Henry had taken the throne from King Richard, and had been a loyal Lancastrian ever since.

To Nick’s knowledge, the man had no family, but was entirely dedicated to the service of England.

Was it possible he’d gone traitor?

If he had, Nicholas would prove it. Then he would personally see to the man’s execution.




Chapter Seven


Typically, Henric Tournay had seen to all the details for the day’s hunt. There was nothing left for Nicholas to do but ruminate over the letter he’d received on his arrival at Kirkham, regarding Sterlyng’s alleged treason.

Thinking of the methods he would employ in his investigation of Sterlyng, Nick took a leisurely stroll back to the keep and circled ’round toward the garden in back, where he and Edmund used to play as children.

The gardeners had done their work well, for the flower beds were raked out, and there were new, young shoots just beginning to poke through the winter-ravaged ground. ’Twas difficult for Nicholas to understand how anything could grow after the past winter, which had been uncharacteristically harsh, but he supposed that was life. It always seemed to renew itself.

He followed the footpath through the squat fruit trees with their gnarled branches covered with early buds, and headed for the secret part of the garden where he and Edmund used to hide from their tutor. Though not quite a maze, it was a winding path, and the deeper one followed it into the garden, the farther away from the world it seemed.

He had nearly reached the low wall where the vines grew thick when he heard a low, feminine voice speaking.

“Come down, you fierce little beast!”

Vaguely, Nicholas recalled similar words being spoken to him years before.

He grinned and walked on, following the cooing voice, and stopped when he rounded a set of tall evergreens. Lady Maria stood on her toes, trying to coax a kitten out of the crotch of a tree.

Regrettably, she was quite properly dressed this morning, in a deep blue velvet gown with long, flowing sleeves and a high neckline that would have pleased a nun. Her head was covered, as well, though her golden tresses were partially visible through the headpiece and veil.

He wondered how she’d managed to walk all this way unaided.

Unless her ankle was better…?

“Come now, poor kitty,” she said, unaware of Nicholas’s quiet approach behind her. She raised one hand invitingly toward the tree, and Nick hoped the kitten wouldn’t give her a nasty scratch. “I do not want you to fall. Where is your mama?”

The kitten finally relented and moved tentatively, stretching its paws and taking one step toward Maria. She reached up and allowed the kitten to come to her. When it was close enough, Maria took it gently in her hands and cuddled it to her breast.

Nicholas stopped to observe the sensuous stroking of Maria’s small hands over the tawny fur of the cat. A stab of desire, as fierce as any he’d ever known, shot through him as he watched.

He regained some semblance of self-possession and approached her, taking care not to startle her.

“I daresay I wouldn’t mind your hands doing that to me, my lady fair,” he said. To his delight, she blushed sweetly and allowed the kitten to drop to the ground and scamper away. Then she reached awkwardly for the crutch that was propped against the tree.

“My lord,” she said. “You should not say such things.”

“No?” he asked, moving closer. He lifted her chin with one finger and looked into her eyes. “Your little friend shed his fur all over you.” Keeping his eyes locked on hers, he gently began to brush away the cat hair from the velvet bodice.

He knew he was out of order, touching her this way, but when she trembled at his touch, he could not seem to help himself. He did not want to help himself.

Again he was unsure of her reaction to him, though he remembered how she’d felt against him during the night. Soft. Lush. Inviting. His palms itched to have her naked beneath them again, with her breasts tightening in response to his caress.

His body screamed with the urgency to touch her, and he wanted her more in that moment than he could remember ever wanting anyone.

She suddenly moved her crutch and stepped away, breaking all physical contact with him. She turned and surveyed the area between herself and the garden wall.

“This part of the garden is unusual,” Ria said once she was able to trust her voice. It had never occurred to her that Lord Kirkham would be out wandering the garden while he had so many guests to attend to. And somehow he’d done it again—managed to disconcert her with his eyes, and a mere brush of his hand. “I’ve never seen vines that grow so thick….”

Nicholas cleared his throat. “My brother and I used to hide here,” he said as he approached her again. He looked dark and cross, and more dangerous than ever. Maria could not keep herself from envisioning his naked chest, broad and muscular, with its spattering of dark hair and flat brown nipples. She hoped he did not notice her unease.

“We had a particularly nasty tutor,” he continued, his voice low and intimate, “who liked nothing better than to thrash us whenever we slipped away from our lessons.”

“And your parents allowed this thrashing?”

He shrugged. “I suppose your parents coddled you?”

Maria averted her eyes so he would not be able to read the truth in them. “Of course.”

She jumped a bit when he lifted her locket from its resting place against her breast.

“This is an interesting piece,” he remarked, gazing intently into her eyes again. The back of his hand rested against her heart, and Maria was certain he could feel it racing. “What secrets does it hold?”

“None of any interest to you, my lord,” Ria said, whisking it out of his hand and moving away. “’Twas my mother’s.” She knew she should not be alone with him here in the garden, since he’d proved himself anything but trustworthy. She could not trust herself when she was alone with him, either.

“Where did you get the crutch?” he asked as he followed.

“Aggie…your maid gave it to me,” Maria replied. “Her younger brother is lame and he outgrew this crutch.”

“It looks awkward,” Nicholas said. “Take my arm instead.”

“This will do, my lord,” Maria said. She did not want to touch him, nor could she allow him to touch her again. The experience was all too disturbing.

She only wanted her ankle to heal enough for her to leave Kirkham and head for Rockbury. The sooner she knew whether or not she was Maria Burton, the better.

“Have you broken your fast?” he asked, taking the crutch from her anyway, and then tucking her arm in his.

Maria did not know how to protest this familiarity and still maintain her semblance of a noble demeanor. She let it go, and hobbled alongside him. “Nay, my lord.”

“Then you will do so with me,” he said.

“But I—”

“No one will be up and about for hours,” he said. “’Twill give us an opportunity to become better acquainted.”

“I thought we became rather more acquainted than we should last night, my lord,” Maria said, then wished she had bitten her tongue. Oh, why had she said such a thing?

“Nowhere near as well acquainted as we will be, my lady,” he said, clearly amused by her discomfiture.

His remark caused a slight hitch in her step, but Maria could think of no retort. She kept silent as she limped beside him. She could feel the warmth of his upper arm against the side of her breast, even though she’d worn a heavy velvet gown.

She pulled away slightly and walked on, ignoring the vaguely devilish smile that quirked Lord Kirkham’s lips.

They entered the keep through a wooden door that opened into the gardens, and went into the richly appointed room where Henric Tournay had bound her ankle the night before. Sir Gyles was there ahead of them, looking big and burly in his gray hauberk with his sword sheathed at his side.

“Good morn, my lord,” he said, then turned to give a slight bow to Maria. “My lady.”

All this deference was so strange. Ria—nay, Maria, as she had to think of herself—did not know how she would ever become used to it.

Nicholas ushered her to a soft chair near a large oaken desk. A fire flickered cozily in the fireplace, making the room warm and comfortable. “You will rest more easily here than in the great hall,” he said. “’Tis cavernous and cold when there are only a few occupants.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she said warily. Lord Kirkham’s eyes raked over her appreciatively, and Maria felt less than covered by the modest gown she’d chosen to wear. She was glad of Sir Gyles’s presence, but caught a disapproving look in his eye before he had a chance to mask it. She wondered if he disapproved of her or of something Lord Kirkham had done.

Uneasy with both men, Maria sank back in the chair and closed her fingers around the locket, which hung from its long chain about her neck.

“Gyles,” Nicholas said as he sat down at the massive desk. Maria watched him take a sheet of clean vellum, then dip a tapered quill into ink. He filled the page with a thick, bold script. “I should like you to take a few men and ride to London with this message.” He remained silent until he finished writing his missive, sanded it, then folded and sealed it. He handed it to Sir Gyles.

Maria’s eyes followed Lord Kirkham’s hands, strong and powerful, their backs dusted with dark hair. Hands that had touched her more intimately than they should.

“Shall I await a reply?” Gyles asked.

“Nay, ’twill not be necessary,” Nicholas replied as Gyles turned to leave. “And you need not hurry back to Kirkham. Return at your leisure.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“By the way, Gyles…my lady has not yet broken her fast. Nor have I.” Nicholas glanced at Maria, and she felt his smoldering look all the way to her toes. “Before you leave, send a footman to the kitchen for a meal…to be served here.”

“Aye, my lord,” Gyles said as he bowed again to Maria and left the chamber.

Lord Kirkham stood and came around to Maria’s side of the desk. “So, the ankle is still quite sore today?”

She nodded ruefully. “I had hoped to be on my way this morn.”

Nicholas leaned back against his desk and crossed his ankles. “And what exactly is your destination, my lady fair?” he asked.

Maria hesitated only an instant. “H-home,” she said, knowing perfectly well that he would next ask specifically where home was. She glanced toward the fire to avoid his gaze.

Lord Kirkham let out a bark of laughter. She glanced up at him and saw bemusement in his eyes. ’Twas a little better than the sarcasm in his tone when he called her his “lady fair.”

“It has been a long while since a woman has intrigued me so,” he said as he knit his brows and shook his head slightly. “If I ask where ‘home’ is, will you answer me honestly?”

“In truth, my lord?” she said haughtily. “No.”

That earned her another bolt of laughter, and Maria bit her lip in consternation. This was not at all how Cecilia would have conducted a conversation with a gentleman at Alderton. Maria’s dauntless cousin would have stood up to the man and said that her destination was not his concern. Then she would have batted her eyes and postured outrageously, dislodging all questions from the poor, unsuspecting suitor’s mind.

The trouble was Maria did not for a moment believe that Lord Nicholas Hawken was poor or unsuspecting. Nor did she believe she possessed the kind of allure that was second nature to Cecilia. Her cousin was tall and willowy, with beautiful sable hair and lovely brown eyes.

“I’ll leave you to your secrets then,” Nicholas said as he pulled a low stool next to her. “You are welcome to stay at Kirkham as long as you wish.”

Maria thought his choice of words strange, but did not dwell on it. She did wonder, however, why he would think she would stay any longer than was necessary for her ankle to heal.

She contained her astonishment when Lord Kirkham crouched down and picked up her injured foot, placing it gently on the stool. He did not take his hands from her leg, but caressed her through the thin wool of her hose.

His attention…his bold touch…unnerved her.

She should not be able to feel his heat so well through her hose, and that heat should not have had the power to make her recall the sensations caused by his hands, his lips, his body, during the previous night.

“My lord…” Maria said, quite breathlessly.

“There does not seem to be any swelling,” Nicholas said, ignoring her alarmed tone, “but…’tis quite bruised?”

She nodded in response.

One of his hands moved up to cradle her calf, and his eyes met hers. He was seducing her with a mere touch of her leg! “Was nothing else injured?”

“N-nay, my lord.”

She’d begun to pull away when Nicholas removed his hand and stood. “Ah, here is the footman with our meal,” he said.

Maria let out the breath she was holding and marveled that Lord Kirkham had been aware of the footman’s arrival long before she herself had noticed anyone else’s presence.

She did not doubt that that was the only reason she’d gotten a reprieve from his attentions.

The footman carried in a tray laden with bread, fruit and mugs of warm cider, which he placed on a low table near Maria.

Lord Kirkham pulled up a chair and sat next to her.

“I hope you are hungry,” he said to her as the footman took his leave.

“Aye,” she replied. “I am. Quite famished.”

And by the expression on his face, Maria felt as though she’d said something entirely improper.

The day’s hunt was successful, although Nicholas did not succeed in learning anything useful about the Duke of Sterlyng. Rumor had it that the duke had a secret heir stashed somewhere, but Nick was uninterested in Sterlyng’s personal affairs. It was the affairs of England that concerned him.

If Sterlyng had any nefarious dealings with the French, he was somehow managing to keep all suspicion away from himself. None of the guests had anything to say about him other than to remark on the folly of searching for his missing offspring after so many years.

Considering Sterlyng’s wealth and status, it was assumed by all the noblemen present that impostors would begin to seep through the woodwork and try to lay claim to the Sterlyng fortune.

And so the discussion went, until all the men returned to the keep for refreshments, then to their chambers to rest before the evening’s entertainments. Nicholas paced the floor of his private study on the main floor of the keep.

’Twas his favorite room, the office, as his father had called it. Here was the collection of books his grandfather had begun decades before, and to which his father and he had added precious tomes throughout the years. There were various Hawken keepsakes stored here, as well, under lock and key. Business was discussed here with Nick’s steward, and ’twas in this chamber that he reviewed important lawsuits brought by the people of the village.

Here, in the office, was where he’d barely reined in his desire for the lovely Lady Maria.

Nicholas did not want to think about the Duke of Sterlyng anymore. He had no interest in trying to wheedle information from his guests while playing the debauched nobleman.

Lady Maria had his full attention.

He gave a moment’s thought to the clothes he’d put at her disposal—clothes that would have belonged to Edmund’s wife, had his brother married Alyce.

Lady Alyce had been a charming girl, the daughter of a neighboring earl. Yet Nicholas could not recall that she had ever looked as well in deep blue as Lady Maria did. Or that Alyce had ever filled out a gown as enticingly. He could not think of Alyce as anything other than the child who’d grown into the young lady Edmund had loved.

Nick certainly could not have imagined Alyce in the wispy gown that had slipped from Maria’s shoulders the night before as he carried her to her bed.

He shuddered with the memory of that moment.

And tried to think of a way to keep his preoccupation with Lady Maria at bay.




Chapter Eight


Aggie placed the last bone hairpin in Maria’s coif and stepped back to admire her handiwork. “I doubt Lord Kirkham has ever seen one as lovely as yourself, my lady,” she said. “’Tis no wonder he wishes to sup with you alone.”

Maria blushed in dismay. “I have no intention of joining Lord Kirkham in the solar, Aggie,” she said. He stirred her too deeply for comfort. ’Twas best she keep away from him for the duration of her stay at Kirkham, which she hoped would not be more than another day.

“But Lady Maria,” Aggie protested, “his lordship specifically requested that—”

“He has important guests here,” Maria interrupted. “There is no need for Lord Kirkham to cater to me….”

Aggie remained silent for once, and Maria appreciated it. She needed to think more about getting to Rock-bury, and less about Nicholas Hawken.

The marquis had deftly turned her over to Sir Roger and Tessa Malloy, Kirkham’s steward and his wife. Maria thought he’d done it to keep her out of the way of his other guests. In truth, she did not mind. Tessa Malloy was a friendly, talkative soul, so much so that Maria did not have to explain herself or her reasons for being at Kirkham. She’d passed the afternoon pleasantly with the older couple, learning about Kirkham and the villages in the district.

She’d also discovered the location of Rockbury.

Her mother’s estate had been mentioned only in passing, but Maria’s casual questioning gained her the information she needed. Rockbury was merely a day’s ride from Kirkham. She should be able to hobble out to the stable and get her horse. And she knew she could ride.

The only question was whether she could mount and dismount. Maria hoped that by morning her ankle would support her.

“I’ll just have Cook prepare a tray for you here in your room, my lady,” Aggie finally said, “if that’s what you prefer.”

“Thank you,” Maria replied. “I do.”

She stood and, supported by her crutch, made her way to the window that overlooked the garden where she and Nicholas had walked that morning. He’d left her soon after their morning meal, and Maria had been grateful for the reprieve. The man never let up with his seductive overtures.

She had nearly succumbed.

“Tell me about Staffordshire, Aggie,” Maria said now. She knew she needed to take the east road from Kirkham to get to Rockbury, but more information about the district would be welcome. She did not ask specifically about Rockbury, preferring to keep her interest in the estate to herself. Since she did not know how her situation would work out there, she was hesitant to mention any of her plans…or hopes.

Eventually, Aggie left Maria alone.

Dusk began to fall, and Maria lit the lamps in her room to ward off the gloom. She was unaccustomed to so much inactivity and found herself growing restless. With her ankle still so tender, she was a virtual prisoner, since she could not walk very far, even with the help of the crutch.

Music began to play in the great hall, and Maria assumed Lord Kirkham would be occupied again, drinking and feasting with his guests. She did not know what pastime they’d enjoyed all afternoon, but most of the guests had been away from the castle while she had visited with the steward and his wife.

Voices drew Maria to her chamber window, and she hobbled over to look. A couple of men and a woman wandered out into the garden. The lady’s laughter filled the air, though the men’s voices remained low and in-discernible. Then one of the men laughed and the three strolled away, out of Maria’s sight.

Leaning on her crutch, she went back to her chair by the fire and sat down. It was going to be a long, dull night.

The games were afoot. Lord Lofton and Viscount Sheffield played drunkenly at swords on the upper landing of the hall. Music played while several men danced with the loose women who’d been hired for the purpose. Men gambled with dice at one end of the large room, and raucous laughter broke out in the other.

In one quiet alcove, the wench on Nicholas’s lap wiggled suggestively and batted her lashes at him. She reached across him, brushing her breasts against his arm, and picked up her mug from the table next to them. She took a long draught of ale, then touched her tongue to her lips, implying all the wicked things she would be willing to do for him…for a price.

He wasn’t interested.

Awareness of his disinterest appalled him. The wench was as willing as any woman could be, and he was a fool not to take advantage of her enthusiasm.

Nick tried to tell himself his distraction was due to the lack of news about Sterlyng. He had pursued all avenues of information available to him at Kirkham. He’d subtly questioned all his guests about the Duke of Sterlyng and his friend Carrington, who’d supposedly gone off to Italy just as England’s most pleasant season was upon them. Nicholas had subtly questioned his guests about every nobleman who was known to have financial or other dealings with the Orléanist faction.

But he had learned nothing, beyond the rumors that had been rife about the duke’s missing heir.

Perhaps that was the connection. Nicholas would have to determine who the mother of this supposed heir was…a Frenchwoman, perhaps? If that were the case, and heaven knew Sterlyng had spent sufficient time in France with Bedford, was it not possible that he’d taken a French mistress and sired a bastard on her? The dauphin himself was rumored to be illegitimate….

Since Sterlyng left no other heir, he might be strongly tied to this offspring.

’Twas worth investigating, though by no means would the duke be exonerated if this theory turned out not to be true. The letter to the Duke of Aleno¸n, affixed with Sterlyng’s official seal, was incriminating in and of itself.

One thing was certain—there was no more Nicholas could do tonight. He could pass the time as he would, with no thought to England or the men serving the king’s cause in France.

Which brought his attention back to the lusty harlot in his arms. Her eyes were a deep, liquid brown and oh, so seductive. Her gown was cut low, all the better to display her ample charms. ’Twould take very little to coax the lass up to his chamber in the south tower.

Right next to the one occupied by Lady Maria.

Nicholas stood, easing the woman off his lap. “My lord?” she asked.

Nick frowned as he found himself without an explanation for what he would do now, or why.

After he’d returned from the hunt, Maria had told him—through her maid—that she was resting and did not care to be disturbed. Then she’d declined his invitation to dine with him in the solar, making her aversion to him clear.

He had no good reason to allow the woman to preoccupy his every waking thought.

He grinned wickedly at the woman before him. She possessed a coarse beauty that would serve him well enough. One long night with this one in his bed would give him respite from his political speculations, and mayhap even dispel his fixation on Lady Maria. He took the wench’s shoulders in his hands and dragged her to him, planting his lips on hers.

She speared his mouth with her tongue and grabbed his buttocks, grinding her pelvis against him. She pivoted, dragging him with her, and pushed him onto the chair he’d just vacated. Then she sat on him again, only this time she straddled his hips with her legs.

“Lord Nicky…” she whined. She wriggled against him, pressing her hips to his loins. She took one of his hands and placed it on her breast, startling him when he realized he hadn’t put it there himself.

He doubled his effort to seduce her, though she clearly required no wooing. Unaccountably irritated with himself, and with her, Nicholas rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He pulled her gown down in order to have better access to her bountiful flesh.

But he was pitifully unaffected by the wanton, willing female sprawled across what were usually his most sensitive parts.

Nicholas felt smothered by her. She smelled of onions and…of something else he couldn’t quite determine. ’Twas not the pleasantest of aromas, though.

She moaned into his mouth and detached herself enough to whisper a suggestion that they find a private place where she could show him a few tricks she knew with her tongue.

Again Nicholas was remarkably unmoved by her proposition. In truth, he thought that if she wriggled against him once more, or tried to shove her tongue any farther down his throat, he would be compelled to dump her off his lap without ceremony.





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