In the midst of the furor, Marian heard the rumble of laughter from the surrounding men, and she turned to look at who had the effrontery to hold her in his arms as though she belonged there. Her angry words died in her throat as she met familiar blue eyes, sparkling with mischief and jest. Despite the beard and mustache that covered half of his face, she recognized him.
“Robin-!” she began, but before she could speak his complete name, he covered her mouth with an impudent kiss.
After not seeing him for so many years, she couldn’t have been more surprised by the kiss. Although she’d always been attracted to him, his charming personality and handsome appearance in the past, he’d done little more than tease her into a fury. He certainly had never tried to kiss her.
By the time Marian had caught her breath and freed herself from the man she’d known as Robin of Locksley-not Robin of the Hood-he had swept her up and run into the woods with her. A moment later, he thrust her up onto the saddle of a horse, and Robin vaulted up behind her before she could untangle her legs from her skirts and slip back to the ground.
The outraged roars from Bruse and the responding threats from the band of thieves faded as Robin kicked his horse into a gallop, crashing through the brush with his captive. Branches slashed across her face and caught at her veil, pulling it half off, as they dashed through the forest.
“Robin! What are you doing? Are you mad? It is you, isn’t it?” Marian hardly knew what to think. The last she had heard from the young man who’d fostered at her childhood home, Mead’s Vale, was that he’d gone on Crusade with the newly coronated King Richard.
“Aye, indeed, Lady Marian,” he said, stressing her title a bit. “I thought it would be a fitting welcome to you as you journeyed to that blackhearted cocklicker’s court.”
“Robin,” she gasped, all the air jolted from her lungs as they galloped through the woods. “What are you talking about?”
Suddenly, he wheeled the horse into a small clearing and slid down from the saddle. Looking up at her, he gave her the slow, easy grin she remembered from their youth, and rested his hands at her hips as though to help her down. But he didn’t; instead, he curled his fingers firmly into her flesh and then slid all along the sides, from thigh to knee. Little bumps rose on her skin, tingling at his intimate touch.
“And little Marian is all grown up now, into a beautiful, rich lady. I am honored that you should remember me after all these years.” His eyes sparkled with naughtiness, and the next thing she knew, he pulled her down from the saddle, sliding her body all along his. All along his, so that she felt every bump and crease of the mail hauberk he wore. And something that most certainly felt like the beginning lift of a cock. “You’ve grown quite beautiful.”
“Robin,” she said, truly happy to see him. She’d always favored him, always found him irresistible. With his easy personality, bright eyes, and handsome face, it would have been difficult to feel otherwise. “What are you about?” she asked again, aware of his thighs pressed against hers, her slippers captured between his heavy boots. And, most definitely, the growing bulge of his cock. Her hand didn’t have anywhere to go but flat against his chest. “Are you truly an outlaw?”
“An outlaw of great repute,” he said, his lips curling. “Have you not heard of Robin Hood and his band of men who make merry with the king’s coin? I thought for certain tales of our waywardness had reached the court’s ears by now. Alas, mayhap I shall try harder, take more risks . . . be more daring!”
His face swooped toward hers, covering her mouth with his for the second time in a matter of minutes. Before she could react, his tongue slid into her mouth, licking in and around and tangling with her own.
Marian allowed the sleek kiss this time, even kissed him back for a moment, surprised at how much she enjoyed it. As much as she might have admired him as a young boy, she never imagined that actually kissing him would be this exciting. Kisses and coupling with her husband had been little more than duty, and, thankfully, of short duration-not only in each time he’d come to her bed, but also in the number of years in which they’d occurred. She’d been married for only three summers before Harold died of a fall during a boar hunt.
Robin’s arms tightened around her waist and his tongue thrust deep as she came flush against his body. His lips were soft, but there were other areas of his body that were hard and insistent, drawing another unfamiliar response from Marian. She felt a heightened awareness, and a low, twisting sort of tickle deep in her belly.
After a moment, he pulled back a bit, kissing her and smiling into her mouth as she opened her eyes. “Not so bad, was it, now, Lady Marian?” he said lightly. “Your veil is slipping too, sweetling,” he added, giving it a good tug off the back of her head.
“Robin,” she said, pulling the veil back up to cover her braided hair and trying to act as though she kissed men in the forest all the time, “tell me what has come of you. Why are you here, in the woods, instead of at Locksley Keep?”
Now the humor slid from his face to be replaced by an irritable expression. “ ’Twas all a mistake, and now here I am, running for my life. I never made it to the Holy Lands with the king,” he confessed. “We were set upon by bandits when we put ashore in Greece, and I took an arrow to the thigh. Fever set in and I could not travel, though I was not deadly. The king wanted to make haste, and continued on. And I had no choice but to return to England. And to Locksley . . . I thought.”
“You thought?”
He shrugged, stepping back, and she saw that though he stood only a hand or so taller than she, his shoulders had broadened quite a bit from the last time she’d seen him. He’d been fourteen, and she had been only twelve. His hair had darkened with maturity to brown-streaked honey, and he wore it cut short across his forehead and long over his ears. “When I returned, it was to find Locksley having been entailed to the king-through the prince, of course-on the claim of treason.”
“Treason!”
“It’s a lie, of course, Marian. Just another way for John Lackland to seize as much control as he can whilst his brother is fighting the infidels in Jerusalem. He has raised taxes and raised them more, and he skims more than his share off the top.”
Marian had heard about Prince John’s propensity for sly coin . . . among other things. After the overthrow of the unpopular William Longchamp, King Richard had allowed his brother, John, to act as regent of England while he was out of the country.
Eleanor had also left England to go on Crusade with Richard, but word had reached her that John was conspiring with King Philip Augustus of France. John had been old King Henry’s favorite son, but that hadn’t stopped him from plotting against his father. Eleanor did not doubt for a minute that he was now conspiring against his older brother, Richard. Even at the cost of the family lands in Normandy-what Philip would certainly require as payment for his complicity-it would be worth it to John to get permanent control of England. Yet, the queen must first attend to business in her native Aquitaine. The delay would enable Marian to act as her own secret eyes and ears, and to report back to her about any possibility that John was communicating with Philip.
“But it is the king who raises the taxes, to pay for his war,” she reminded Robin, trying to keep the bitterness from her voice. She had no liking for the Crusade. It had taken many of the young men away from England, including her own brother, Walter. He hadn’t returned from the Holy Land, for he’d been buried there.
“And then John raises them that much higher, so as to line his own pockets.”
“But how did you come to be an outlaw? How could they take Locksley from you while you were away fighting at the king’s side?”
Robin looked distinctly uncomfortable. “As I said, ’twas a mistake. I returned to find Locksley closed to me, and then I went hunting in the woods-my woods-for a meal. Then I was arrested for poaching from the king’s forest.”
Poaching from the king was indeed a serious offense-punishable by hanging, gouging of the eyes, or cutting off of the hands. “But surely once the mistake was found, you were released. Even the cruel Sheriff of Nottinghamshire could not keep an innocent man of the king’s in prison.”
Robin laughed. “Released? Nay, Marian, I made my own escape from the sheriff.”
At that moment, a deep voice interrupted their conversation. “Did you indeed?”
Marian whirled to see a powerful black horse standing at the edge of the clearing. Atop it sat an equally powerful-looking man, dressed in equally dark clothing, holding a sword at his side. She stepped back automatically, but he inclined his head regally to her.
“Lady Marian.” He urged his horse into the grassy clearing.
Robin released her, fairly shoving her away so that she stumbled with the force as he moved quickly away from her, gathering up his reins. “Ah, so to speak of the devil himself,” he said, launching into his saddle. “Sheriff.” He nodded. “I trust you’ll see my lady to the keep.”
These last words floated back behind him as he bolted off into the wood, leaving Marian standing in the center of the grass, suddenly alone, and feeling more than a bit disheveled.
Marian turned to look up at the man who remained astride his mount, edging his horse toward her, but not, thankfully, chasing after Robin. She was grateful for his restraint, for he would have had to fairly run over her to go after the bandit.
The sheriff sheathed his sword, but still held the reins in one gloved hand. The hooves on the majestic animal were larger than the trencher plates at a court dinner, and he was pure coal black from hoof to mane to wild, flaring nose.
The man himself had dark hair that fell in thick curls onto his forehead and brushed the sides of his neck, and he was clean-shaven but for the shadow that comes late in the day after a morning’s shave. His mouth might have been considered sensual if it weren’t settled and thin-and the same could be said for his face, dark with tan as well as obvious annoyance. As she gazed upon the Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, Marian was overcome by the sense of expectancy, and indeed, when she looked up into those shaded eyes, she felt set off-balance again, as if she were mistaken about something.
“I trust you are unharmed, Lady Marian,” he said at last. “I apologize for the delay in coming to your aid, but we had heard your caravan was held up and thought to provide an escort at Revelstown.”
“Delayed for a broken wheel, aye, but ’twas fixed readily,” she replied, realizing with a start that he would indeed think she’d been in need of rescue. And, truth be told, if it had been anyone but Robin of Locksley, he would have had the right of it. But Marian had no fear of her childhood friend Robin, outlaw or no. In fact, she’d already decided that she must find a way to enlist the queen to help rid him of the charge of treason.
“Have I changed so much, then?” the sheriff said, sliding abruptly from the saddle. He landed on two steady feet next to her, and the destrier shimmied and snorted at the loss of his master’s weight. “Marian.”
She looked up at him again, closely this time, and recognition washed over her. “Will?” Perhaps it was the way he’d said her name, or that he now stood on the ground next to her-still much taller, but at least not towering so from the saddle.
Aye, indeed it was William de Wendeval before her now. The boy who’d grown up with her and Robin of Locksley on her father’s estate.
But a boy Will was no longer. Just as Robin had grown broader and taller than she remembered from the summer she’d seen them last, nearly ten years ago, so had Will.
Taller, aye, and broad of shoulder . . . but he had not lost the sharp edges of his cheeks and jaw, and the reserved chill of his gaze. A handsome man he might be if the tension and reserve left his face and stance. But that had always been his way. While Robin had the lighter hair and dancing sapphire eyes, and personality to match, Will had been the quieter, more thoughtful, and, at times, gloomier of the pair.
And as their personalities tended to clash like oil and water, so had the two young men. Competitive and intense, they’d been rivals serving the same master, with their differences buried beneath civility and honor.
Will bowed again, peremptorily but correctly. “It is I.”
“The Sheriff of Nottinghamshire?” Marian supposed she could be forgiven for the note of surprise in her voice. The last she’d known of Will, he’d been knighted and under service to old King Henry’s confidant William Marshal, but no other news had reached her ears in Morlaix, across the Channel. Will had been a landless youth, the son of one of Marshal’s seneschals. For him to have risen as high as sheriff of a shire was surprising, as was his ability to pay the fees that were required to buy such a post. She wondered what he’d done to deserve such an honor, and whereby he’d acquired the funds.
“And Robin of the Hood’s sworn enemy,” he said briskly. “Shall we be on our way?” Before she could reply, he grasped her by the waist and lifted her into the saddle. The destrier, unused to such insubstantial weight on its back, shuddered and pranced. But before his ire could rise dangerously, Will launched into the saddle behind Marian.
The horse quieted and Marian looked down, horrified to see how far she was from the trampled grass below. Her own palfrey was much smaller and milder than this beast, and Marian was not fond of being very high off the ground.
Her discomfort could have nothing to do with the strong arm curling around her waist from behind as they started off with a great leap. Will’s solid chest and legs provided a comfortable and safe chair as they blazed through the woods. But he was so very warm. And large.
When he ducked to avoid a low-hanging branch, Marian was forced to do so as well, leaning closer to the destrier’s flowing mane. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been required to ride pillion, and certainly never in this pell-mell fashion through the woods.
She closed her eyes and clung to the saddle’s pommel.
Moments later, they reached the road, where Marian’s travel wagons and escort remained. The horse had barely stopped when Will dismounted and reached up to lift her down, setting her, weak-kneed, near her wagon. It took only a moment to ascertain that the outlaws had taken nothing from her caravan.
“Though I don’t expect them to return, please accept our escort to Ludlow, my lady,” Will said formally. He opened the door of her wagon.
“Thank you, Sheriff,” she said, climbing in.
As she settled in her seat and the wagons rumbled off, now flanked by the sheriff ’s men as well as her own men-at-arms, Marian had much to contemplate. Least of which was whether Robin had known it was her party traveling through Sherwood, and had never intended on stealing anything from her in the first place.
Or had it merely been happenstance that Robin had recognized her, and had thus called off his men?
Or had the sheriff arrived in time to prevent the outlaws from making off with her belongings?