Maid Until Midnight. Joanne Rock

kicking his shins in a bid for freedom. With no choice but to tighten his grip, he sealed her body to his.

      The curve of her rump seared his groin, the indent of her waist providing the perfect spot to secure her. Both of his arms grazed her breasts, the soft swell of unmistakable female reminding him how long it had been since he’d taken a woman to his bed. Unfortunately, his prickly quarry didn’t seem as inclined to idle pleasures as her song had implied.

      “I am surprised a scullery maid who sings coarse songs while wandering far from home would prove so defiant in a man’s arms,” he remarked, his carnal interest waning at her resistance. “But do not fear me. I only wish to know how you departed Glen Rising.”

      The maid shook her head furiously, loosening her hood as she did. The black wool slipped back, revealing unbound tresses the color of spun gold in the sunlight.

      Spun gold? Simon was not a man given to fanciful thoughts, but the woman was no ordinary female. In profile, her features were perfectly carved, as smooth and unblemished as an alabaster statue. Long, dark eyelashes swept along the top of her cheek as she blinked up at him, turning to peer over her shoulder with silver-gray eyes.

      Such perfection did not exist in scullery maids. No woman who appeared thus had ever known hardship, had ever gone to bed hungry. No matter that her cloak was the garb of a humble servant, she could only be a noblewoman.

      “Who are you?” he demanded, his gaze roving the hillside below the keep’s walls to see if he missed her guards. “No lady of noble birth is allowed to wander the woods without escort.”

      He knew a moment’s cold dread as he held her. Such a prize would be missed. If this exquisite lady belonged to him, he would unleash the hounds of hell on anyone who dared to touch her. Was his Matilda as fair as this winsome beauty? Behind his palm, his captive made an urgent sound that vibrated along the skin where she’d bitten him. Her gray eyes pleaded silently, the appearance of tears reminding him she must be frightened.

      “Do not scream,” he warned, enthralled by her uncommon beauty and the feel of her against him. “I will not harm you, but if you lift your voice now, there will be consequences.”

      Like his death, perhaps, by the arrow of some member of a retinue that must surely accompany her. He peered around again but spied nothing save trees and birds.

      “Nod if you understand,” he insisted, though he would put little stock in a woman’s word given under such circumstances.

      She inclined her head and Simon loosened his hold on her mouth. Shamed to see the light red imprint of his fingers on her creamy cheek, he also eased his grip on her waist, regretting the loss of her hips pinned to his.

      She lurched forward with renewed vigor. Lifting her skirts to her knees she took off like a deer.

      Cursing himself, he took chase, crashing through the underbrush while her feet fell lightly on the forest floor. The gap between them widened until he realized how well she moved, darting trees and leaping fallen logs.

      He was not pursuing a terrified maid, but a cagey foe with a plan. Picking up speed, he extended an arm and half dived to reach her. And still, he treated her with care. Instead of landing on top of her, he spun them in midair so that he took the brunt of the fall on his shoulder.

      She landed atop him in a sprawl that tangled her skirts about his legs and dislodged her hair from her hood. The silken mass pooled alongside his neck, her cheek grazing his.

      “You are a madman!” She tried to lever herself up but winced when she put her hand on the ground.

      He picked up her palm and discovered an assortment of cuts there. She must have braced herself when they tumbled to the ground, skidding her flesh along the stones and pinecones.

      “Not half as mad as a noblewoman who ventures alone in the woods.” Thinking about it made him angry. When he’d assumed she was a solitary laundress, he envisioned a woman of sense and experience, not this delicate creature thinly disguised as a serving wench. “How did you escape without anyone seeing you?”

      He needed to wrest just this one answer from her before he released her. Before he did something foolish like sift his fingers through the fall of golden locks tickling his cheek or roll her beneath him for a better feel of her body.

      “I am no noblewoman,” she protested, trying to slide off him. “I am a maid to the lady of the keep and I do her bidding. If you would not have me flayed alive when I return, I pray you will release me unharmed.”

      “Not a noblewoman? Aye, and I’m the village priest.” He wondered how long he could keep her here, her thigh dipping lightly between his.

      Her breasts rose and fell against his chest with each ragged breath she took. The sensation tantalized.

      “Do not be absurd,” she chastened him with an imperious command no servant would dare. “Lady Matilda will miss me at any moment. I merely gather herbs for her bath.”

      Simon tensed at the name of his betrothed. He did not see any herbs. Nor did he see a basket for gathering. Instead, he saw a liar desperate to escape. How interesting that she’d chosen to hide behind Matilda. If he did not know better, he would think she might be the lady herself. But if noblemen gathered from throughout England and Wales to view the earl’s prized daughter, she would be the last female to escape the keep.

      And yet...

      The woman he held was beyond beautiful. How many maids of such uncommon looks could take shelter in Glen Rising this eve?

      Could he be so fortunate to have snagged his quarry so easily? Favorable luck had eluded him since his wife’s death. He hardly dared to believe it would visit him now. Heart slogging harder against his chest, he kept one arm around his captive and rolled her to her back in the warm patch of sun-dappled grass. Her gray eyes widened in alarm.

      “Sir, please,” she protested, her hands coming to rest on his chest as if she could pry him off.

      Her touch inflamed him. The thrill of the chase had roused sleeping hungers. He caught the sun-warmed scent of lavender soap and fought the urge to bury his nose in her neck. Nay, her bodice. His gaze flicked lower to the soft swell of her breasts. His fingers itched to unfasten her brooch and part her long woolen cloak to reveal her garb beneath. Would it be the rough fabric of a maid’s clothing? Or the silk of a lady’s?

      More than that, he simply wanted an excuse to undress her.

      “You walked these hills singing, as if you’d done it dozens of times and knew your way.” He scanned her face for any trace of the greedy earl’s visage passed down to this woman. But if that man had fathered this graceful beauty, he’d left no trace of his squashed features or scowling countenance.

      “I have done it dozens of times!” she retorted, giving away too much with that answer. She tracked his gaze with a nervous, darting glance. “As Lady Matilda’s maid, I fetch things for her often.”

      The only noblewoman who would have traversed these hills dozens of time would be one who lived at Glen Rising permanently. Since Matilda’s mother had died many years prior, that left only one possibility for the noblewoman beneath him.

      Matilda herself.

      Triumph swelled in his chest along with the hunger for possession. She belonged to him.

      “Prove it.” His breath rasped in a throat gone dry, his hip covering her left thigh to hold her in place.

      She was sun warmed and soft. Her heart raced with a fear he couldn’t ease quite yet.

      “W-what do you mean?”

      “Prove you are a servant by opening your cloak. Show me your garments.” He fingered the simple silver brooch at her throat, tracing the cool metal. “Do you wear the garb of a serving girl beneath humble wool? Or will I find evidence of the noble lineage I suspect?”

      Lady Matilda’s mouth went dry as the knight’s weathered hands hovered at the base of her neck.

      She