His Lady Fair

by Margo Maguire

  She merely nodded a greeting as she continued to ride.

  “’Tis a fine morn for riding,” he said innocently. But when he caught her gaze, his eyes took on an intensely sensual expression. “Or strolling hand in hand alongside yonder brook…” He took hold of her horse’s reins and pulled her to a halt. “I would steal your kisses in the grass, my lady fair,” he said, taking her hand and peeling away her glove. He kissed her palm while his eyes held hers captive.

  Maria’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She knew full well what he was suggesting, but had no intention of making herself the fool again. Instead, she gave an impression of considering his invitation, glancing in the direction of the little brook that ran through the meadow. “Nay, I think not, Lord Kirkham,” she finally said, pulling her hand away. She closed her fingers around the locket that hung from its repaired chain. “The path would likely be too muddy after the rain.”

  “You know me far too intimately for such formalities, Maria,” he said. “Let us—”

  “I meant to thank you, Nicholas,” she said airily, though her heart was pounding, “for the roses. They are wonderful.” She would maintain a polite distance, just as she had the last time they’d been together, but not give an inch on this. She knew what a rogue he was, and that he would take advantage if she did not keep him at arm’s length.

  She resumed a leisurely trot.

  “They reminded me of you—your golden hair, your beautiful eyes,” Nicholas said as he nudged his own mount to keep up.

  Maria laughed. “You are a flattering knave, Nicholas,” she chided. She turned and looked at him thoughtfully. “But those roses touched my heart.”

  At that, she dug her heels into the side of her mount and galloped away from him, regretting that she’d spoken her true feelings, afraid she would say more if she stayed. She could never allow Nicholas to know what she felt for him. ’Twas better to keep her distance, and keep her heart safe.

  Nick watched Maria ride away, and did not follow, as he should have done. He knew he should pursue her relentlessly until he became as commonplace a visitor to her father’s house as Henric Tournay, who was becoming so familiar with his delivery of gifts that he could now come and go at his leisure.

  But Maria’s words made Nicholas falter.

  Nay, ’twas not just her words, but something he’d seen in those expressive eyes when she’d spoken of her heart, the way she’d touched the locket that rested at her breast. He did not care for the way it made him feel.

  He did not enjoy lying to her—using her to get to her father. But, by damn, he had a mission to accomplish, an important task for England. If he lost sight of his purpose now, ’twould be at the peril of too many English knights, still fighting on French soil.

  He had to admit that he had not been thinking of strategy when he’d suggested a stroll by the river. He’d only been able to think how it would feel to touch her and hold her close. It had been far too long since he’d kissed her, and Nicholas could swear she felt the same. He’d not seen disdain in her eyes when he’d touched her, rather a heat and a hunger that he knew only too well.

  Maria’s figure faded in the distance as Nick watched. Her groom followed faithfully behind, the man whose sole task was to see that his mistress came to no harm.

  Nick only wished he could guarantee the same.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I trust you slept well, my lady?” Lord Bexhill inquired as Maria strolled with him in the Sterlyng courtyard. Gardeners had been at work preparing the flower beds, and baskets of color adorned the archways that lined the walls.

  “Quite well, thank you,” she replied. Her hand was upon his as they walked, and Maria desperately tried to conjure some heat from their connection. To her chagrin, none existed. Bexhill was handsome and sophisticated, but he did not inflame her as Nicholas Hawken could do with merely a glance.

  “You will attend the tourney on the morrow?”

  She swallowed hard. She’d been dreading the day of the tourney, and had hoped to avoid it, but she and her father had been invited to share Gloucester’s box, and could not refuse. “Yes,” she said. “I shall be there.”

  Bexhill smiled. Though naught was unpleasant about the earl’s face, his smile involved only his mouth and teeth. It did not touch his eyes, or effect the set of his head upon his neck, the way Nicholas’s smile would do. When mirth took Kirkham, his entire body was alight with it. His head tilted at an engaging angle, and the corners of his eyes crinkled with merriment. ’Twas a thoroughly rascally smile, and Maria would do well to forget it.

  They came full circle and sat at a wooden table that would soon be surrounded by flowers. A maid brought a tray of cider and sweetcakes, but as she set it on the table, one of the goblets tipped off and cracked.

  “Stupid girl!” Bexhill said. He pulled Maria away as though she might be injured by the broken crockery. His grasp on her arm was a mite too rough.

  “’Tis all right, Lizzie,” Maria interjected, freeing her arm from Bexhill’s grasp. She helped pick up the broken pieces. “No harm done.”

  “Oh, my lady, ’tis sorry I am—”

  “’Tis sorry you ought—”

  Maria placed her hand on Bexhill’s sleeve. “Come, my lord,” she said. “Let us join my father in his study.”

  Maria had made many a blunder over the years in serving her aunt and uncle, and understood the maid’s nervousness. Bexhill’s harshness with the girl rankled, and Maria wanted nothing more than to see the earl to the door. However, she could not expedite his departure without seeming rude, so she decided to shift responsibility for him to her father.

  “Father,” she said as she opened his study door, “I brought—”

  Her thoughts deserted her when she saw Nicholas standing at the window, and her father seated at his desk. Judging by their expressions, they’d been engaged in some serious discussion, and Maria could not help but feel guilty at the interruption.

  “Oh, I beg your pardon,” she said, but Bexhill pushed past her and entered.

  “Your grace,” he said politely, but when the earl turned to Nicholas, he positively sneered. “Kirkham.”

  To his credit, Nicholas did not rise to the bait. He merely nodded at Bexhill and then caught her father’s eye. Some unspoken communication flashed between them, and Nicholas moved away from the window. He came to Maria, took both hands in his and kissed the back of one. “You look lovely this morning, my lady fair,” he said. “Your morning ride agrees with you.”

  She blushed at the reference to their meeting, but said nothing. “Father, I apologize for interrupting,” she said. “I was unaware that you had a guest,” she added, looking straight into Nicholas’s eyes. She hoped to dispel any notion that his presence was what had brought her here.

  “Ah yes, Kirkham and I have been hard at work,” the duke said as he arose from the desk. “Bedford has asked for a new poll tax, and the Lords have been discussing how to present it.”

  “We shall leave you to it, then—”

  “Nay, join us,” Sterlyng said. “I’ve been so preoccupied with matters at Westminster these days, I’ve missed seeing you as much as I’d like.”

  Only then did Nicholas let Maria’s hands go, and he held out a chair for her. Bexhill took the chair nearest her, and Nicholas returned to his perch near the window. There was none of the teasing rascal about him now, and Maria surmised that his discussion with her father had included more than just a discussion on a new poll tax.

  Her heart thrummed when Nicholas’s eyes found hers. She did not wish to be under his scrutiny as she was courted by another man, and Bexhill was clearly courting her. He would make an admirable husband, and Nicholas could not help but know it.

  But it made her feel vulnerable, and open to his criticism. As if he had any say in her choice of spouse. Nicholas himself was utterly unsuitable, yet he took every opportunity to remind her of her unwise—yet oh, so breathtaking—liaison with him.

 
Nicholas swore under his breath. Bexhill acted rather too proprietarily with Maria for his liking. If the blond giant pawed Maria one more time with those beefy hands, Nick was going to shove the earl’s nose into the back of his head. And never give it a second thought.

  Surely Sterlyng would not have his daughter wed this man. Nick could not imagine anyone less suited to her, and if he ever got word of an impending marriage between the two, he vowed to intervene.

  God’s teeth! Nicholas himself was not a likely husband, and well he knew it. He had no right to come between Maria and the man of her choosing, even if ’twas an idiot like Bexhill.

  Nick had made it clear to Maria that, though he’d be willing to resume their affair at any time, he was not in the market for a wife. There was no doubt that if he had been looking for one, she would suit him better than any woman he’d ever known. But the work he did for England was dangerous. He had taken great pains to avoid being discovered, but knew that he was in peril at all times.

  He had no intention of changing his style of life at this point. He’d built a reputation as an infamous rogue, a ladies’ man, one who took foolish risks and consorted with others of his kind—all done in order to eke secrets from the unsuspecting men of his class.

  ’Twas a dangerous occupation, as well he knew. A Frenchman or an English traitor could expose him at any time, and then all would be lost.

  Nicholas had no interest in leaving a widow…and perhaps children. ’Twas something to which he’d rarely given a thought, his mind singularly centered on his work for Bedford.

  But the thought of children suddenly left him breathless. Maria as mother to Hawken children was all too appealing an idea.

  His attitudes must be changing, he thought with chagrin, if he was thinking about getting Maria Burton with child. For even now, the idea of making children with her was extraordinarily tantalizing. So was the prospect of living a quiet life at Kirkham, of visiting Mattie Tailor in the village whenever he was of a mind to do so, of knowing that Sir Roger and Lady Malloy understood that Nicholas was not the wastrel they’d been led to believe.

  He speared his fingers through his hair as he looked over at Maria, so lovely and poised. He knew he made her nervous. There was no doubt in his mind that his presence disturbed her.

  God’s blood, she disturbed him as well! His thoughts might be seriously muddled with regard to Lady Maria Burton, but one thing was perfectly clear. He could not bear the thought of her wed to another man.

  At noon the following day, Maria was seated next to her father, sharing a private box in the gallery that overlooked the tournament field. Sitting with them were Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, and his wife, Lady Eleanor.

  Eleanor was a lively woman, different from any of the noblewomen Maria had yet met—and unpopular among many of them. Maria liked her, though. She was friendly and vivacious, touching her husband often, to his obvious pleasure. Her hair was only barely covered, and she wore vibrant colors that set off her complexion. The daring cut of Eleanor’s gown made Maria envious of her audacity.

  Various servants came and went from the observation box, bearing pillows to make their masters comfortable in their seats, and food and drink to refresh them.

  Maria was nervous and on edge, knowing that Bexhill and Nicholas were to meet on the field. She comforted herself with the knowledge that this was to be a “tournament of peace,” and that, in any event, Nicholas would not be mortally wounded. She’d heard plenty about Bexhill’s mastery on the field of battle, but knew little of Nicholas’s skills.

  She knew of his courtly skills. And she knew of his skill in the bedchamber.

  Neither of these would serve him now.

  At least he was a competent brawler. He’d shown her that much when he’d rescued her and her father on the road from Fleet Castle. She could only hope that he would be equally skilled in formal battle, without his whip.

  “The contest will run three courses, Lady Maria,” Gloucester said. “The combatants will wield blunted weapons, since this is a tournament of peace.”

  “First is the lance contest,” Sterlyng explained. “Then they’ll fight with swords, and last of all with axes.”

  Maria felt a wave of nausea that was becoming all too familiar of late. If only events in her life would settle down, then perhaps her stomach would, too.

  “But their weapons cannot do real injury, Father?”

  “That is correct.”

  A knight in black leather armor rode into the arena on a gray roan. His head was fully covered by a black helm, but his colors were burgundy-red and white. The crowd in the stands cheered his arrival and watched as he rode to the gallery where Maria sat.

  This was not surprising, for Gloucester—the king’s uncle—was the highest ranking nobleman present at the tournament, and Maria happened to be sharing his box with her father. According to Sterlyng, ’twas customary for the combatants to pay homage to the king before beginning the contest. Since King Henry was not in attendance, the Duke of Gloucester would do.

  The knight sat tall and straight in his saddle, with his sword at his side, his ax hanging from his saddle and his lance in front of him. He was broad shouldered and narrow hipped, and he rode with the easy confidence of a champion. Maria knew at once that this was Nicholas Hawken.

  He stopped in front of Maria, then bowed to Gloucester and Sterlyng. Lastly, he raised his helm and afforded a view of his visage.

  The crowd grew silent. Maria’s heart gave a start when she looked into his eyes, now a stormy gray, and he spoke directly to her. “My lady,” he said. “A small token of your confidence and esteem would honor me.”

  Smiling widely, Lady Eleanor leaned toward Maria and whispered, “Give him your veil, Maria.”

  The fine white silk of her veil had been made with the cloth that he’d sent her. It did not conceal Maria’s hair, but the fabric had been so lovely…and it had been a gift from Nicholas. She could not deny she’d had the veil hastily made, along with a chemise that she now wore against her bare skin. ’Twas foolish, Maria knew, but still ’twas almost as if his hands caressed her while she wore it.

  And almost as if he knew what lay under her gown as his eyes raked over her.

  Refusing to be discomfited by the intensity of Nicholas’s gaze, she pulled the veil from her chapeau and leaned over to hand it to him. With his gauntlets removed, he took the veil from Maria, keeping her hand in his for a long, heated moment. Then he slipped the cloth under his armor, to wear against his heart.

  Maria felt a strange burning in the back of her throat as she watched this gesture, but before there was time to give it any further thought, Nicholas turned his horse and sped away.

  “Upon my oath, I would swoon at so gallant a display,” Lady Eleanor said. “How handsome a champion…” Then she added under her breath, “And what a superb lover he would be…”

  Nonplussed by the lady’s remark, Maria was saved from having to respond by Lord Bexhill, who rode up at that moment.

  She wondered if Lady Eleanor had some particular insight into her past, but realized that she’d made the statement only because of Nicholas himself, of his handsome features and the dashing figure he cut. ’Twas true that Maria’s heart beat a little faster, her palms were a bit moist, now that he was within sight. Why should it be different for any other lady? She tipped her chin up slightly and hardened her heart. She knew how popular he was among them.

  Bexhill followed the same formalities as Nicholas. The only difference was that he turned to another gallery down the way and begged a token from some other lady. ’Twas given with much fanfare, and then the battle was on.

  “Bexhill wears full armor,” Gloucester noted, frowning.

  “’Tis odd,” Sterlyng agreed.

  “Why is it odd?” Maria asked anxiously.

  “Kirkham’s armor is cuir-bouilli.”

  “Leather?” Maria asked incredulously. She looked with alarm at the combatants on the field. “But Bexhill wears plat
e armor. Does that not—”

  “Nay, Daughter,” Sterlyng said. “Kirkham’s armor has been boiled and treated, and is quite sturdy. ’Tis customary to wear lighter protection in a peace tournament.”

  “But why does Bexhill wear plate?”

  Sterlyng frowned and shook his head. It seemed that he was puzzled by the earl’s attire, too.

  “Look, they begin!” Lady Eleanor cried with excitement.

  Maria braced herself as the two knights charged each other from opposite ends of the field. Each man bore a lance that extended well beyond his horse’s head, aimed at his opponent. Unconsciously, Maria held her breath and grasped her father’s forearm as she watched.

  “What is the goal of this contest?” she asked, her voice betraying her worry.

  “’Tis merely to unseat the opponent,” Sterlyng replied. “In actual battle, ’twould be to kill.”

  The first clash had Bexhill nearly falling from his mount. Maria let out the breath she was holding as the two knights galloped away from their first charge and circled ’round to the far ends of the field.

  Again they went at each other, but this time, neither knight was compromised. The third charge was different.

  Bexhill’s lance dipped slightly, and the two horses collided. Nicholas’s horse went down. Maria flew to her feet as Nicholas disappeared amid hoofs and screaming horses. “Father!”

  Sterlyng came to his feet beside her, as did Gloucester. “What ho?” the king’s uncle said, frowning.

  “Something ails Kirkham’s horse,” Sterlyng replied. “’Tis odd for a horse to be so injured during a peaceful conflict.” He called for a page and gave him instructions, and the young man quickly left the gallery.

  Several men ran to the field to assist Kirkham, while Bexhill rode off to the perimeter. Maria did not care for Bexhill’s arrogant posture, and wondered if the earl had done something to injure Nicholas’s horse. Whatever had happened had not been clearly visible to her, nor to anyone else near her.

  But Sterlyng and Gloucester exchanged a glance.

  “What?” Maria asked, noticing the two.