His Lady Fair. Margo Maguire

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      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—!”