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
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
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
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?
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