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  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 b
y 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?