Margo Maguire - His Lady Fair

“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.”

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.