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