His Lady Fair. Margo Maguire
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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