Bound By Honor: An Erotic Novel of Maid Marian (20 page)

For she was certain he would.

And she was not disappointed.

The filtering sun had not shifted more than a half candle’s mark, rising to its highest point in the sky, when something streaked past her head. It slammed into the nearest tree trunk, the arrow’s feathers quivering as it settled into place.

Marian smiled to herself, and rode toward the arrow, plucking it from the tree. A serviceable weapon, she thought, smoothing the fluff of goose feathers so that they lay flat. But a trifle crooked in the making, and enough so that the arrow would not fly true. Nevertheless, she slipped it into her quiver and continued to ride along.

Moments later, another arrow whizzed past her, lodging in a tree beyond and to the left, and she veered her palfrey in that direction. Retrieving the bolt, she continued along until the next one guided her path in a slightly different direction.

Each arrow she pulled from the tree and added to her own quiver, knowing that soon she would see Robin. Her heart beat faster in anticipation, and her palms became a bit damp.

After a short time following Robin’s path, she paused and peered back into the forest.

Bruse had ridden closer, and she could see him through the trees. She gestured for him to remain where he was. Aware that Robin was near, she knew she would be safe.

Indeed, it was only moments later that another arrow slammed into the tree near the knees of her horse, necessitating that Marian dismount in order to retrieve the weapon. Glancing up and about, she slid down, holding the reins, and pulled the bolt from its spot in the bark.

As she turned back, arrow in hand, a pair of feet landed silently next to her. The cushion of pine needles covered all but the slightest rustle from his legs as they passed by.

“I do believe you’ve dropped something,” Marian said, offering the arrow to Robin.

His eyes danced, matching her own mischievous smile, and he reached . . . not for the arrow, but for her arm. “I don’t
drop
arrows,” he said, pulling her close. “An archer with my skill aims true at all times.” His eyes glinted with an entirely different meaning.

Still holding the arrow, she wrapped her arms around his waist. “That may be the case,” she replied, looking up at him, “but ’tis a shame your weapons are of such inferior quality.”

“Inferior?” His brows knit together. Then he laughed, his humor echoing through the forest. “Do you still swear by the bolts made by the mad blind man at Mead’s Vale?”

“He is not mad . . . any more than you, for being so foolish as to wander through the keep at night. And with his skill in casting the heads and trimming the feathers, Tesh creates arrows that fly faster and farther than any others.”

“I would match my skill against the madman’s arrows any day,” Robin said. “And would come forth the winner.”

“I should be pleased to accept your challenge,” Marian said, shifting her shoulder so that her arrows shifted meaningfully in their quiver.

Robin’s grin grew wider. “Ah, so you are still trifling with the longbow, my lady? I do hope you’ve acquired a greater skill than what you had at Mead’s Vale. If I recall correctly, your target then was more like to be the ground or the high branches of a tree rather than the painted circle.”

Marian felt a little rise of temper. “Trifling? I would not say my skill with the bow is a trifle, Robin, and I should be quite pleased to demonstrate how well it shows with Tesh’s arrows. A combination I trow you shall not beat.”

He seemed to realize he’d overstepped, and pulled her hips close to his, where she could feel the evidence that his mind was on other things. “But of course, Marian, it would be an honor to match longbows with you. Yet . . . I had rather hoped you’d come searching for me for a reason other than to decry my arrows and skill.”

Without waiting for her response, he bent his face to hers. At first, she felt petulant, and nearly turned her face away. Trifling with a bow? He knew not whereof he spoke . . . and even when they were younger, she’d shown more than a passing skill.

Mayhap he merely teased . . . but she’d seen no humor in his eyes to indicate that was the case.

But then she thought no longer . . . for his lips had covered hers, and she did not turn away, instead accepting the kiss as a peace offering. And something more.

An edge of desperation colored his kiss, as though he’d been waiting for this and needed it. His mouth was harsh, devouring hers, covering her lips and scoring the sides of her mouth with his teeth. Tight arms crushed her against him, compressing her lungs so that she found it difficult to breathe, and she had to pull her face away to gasp for air.

Looking up, she realized he wasn’t as tall and forbidding as the darker Will was, and that should have made her feel more comfortable. Softer. More willing to melt against him, to arch into the hand that had moved to cup her breast. Robin’s mouth was supple and more finely drawn, elegant, where Will had not a bit of elegance about him . . . no elegance, but something else.

A rough, deep sensuality. Power. An underlying fury.

And ruthlessness. The scent of smoke wafted anew to her nose, reminding her of the scene she’d left behind in the village. She must not forget the ruthlessness.

She pushed all thoughts of Will from her mind and smoothed her hands up and over Robin’s chest to cup his shoulders. His fingers had curved around her breasts, thumbs finding the tightening nipples beneath two layers of cloth, and he smiled down at her.

“My lovely Marian,” he said, groping lower to raise her skirts. “You’d not lure me in with lovely kisses and then cry ware down upon me, would you?”

“Nay, of course not, Robin,” she murmured, wondering why he should say such a thing. She’d not betrayed him. The cool forest breeze brushed her exposed legs as his hands busily moved her hems higher.

“I did not think you would be such a viper,” he muttered, his mouth sliding along her jaw.

Fully aware that the last two times she and Robin had embraced in the woods, Will had come upon them, she pushed him back when he would have buried his face in her neck again. “I . . . Robin,” she murmured, wishing they were somewhere she wouldn’t feel so exposed. After all, Bruse and his men were nearby. “I do wish to speak with you.”

He stepped back and looked down at her, a strangely intense gleam in his eyes. “Ah,” he said, a full-blown grin spreading beneath his beard. “Of course you do. Out of earshot . . . and sight,” he said, his eyes dancing again, “of your trusty men. I should be happy to oblige, my lady.”

“ ’Tis not my men who worry me,” Marian said, stepping away from his grip. “ ’Tis the sheriff.” She glanced beyond his shoulder, half-expecting her words to cause the large dark horse and its rider to materialize. What would he think if he found her with her skirts up around her hips here in the forest, after moaning and gasping beneath his hands last evening?

But that was different. She hadn’t
wanted
to be in John’s chambers . . . and she had purposely sought Robin here in the forest.

Although she
had
wanted Will’s hands on her.

Marian pushed that thought away. She’d not been thinking clearly.

“Ah, aye, the sheriff. That bastion of justice, a man of ice whose demeanor must be melted by the soft hand of a woman.”

The steely glint in his eyes didn’t match the light, airy words, and caused Marian to wonder if he was jealous of Will.

The idea pleased her more than a little—after all, she was a woman, and she found Robin Hood so charming and handsome—but she replied, “Nay, Robin, do you not fear that I am setting about to soften the heart of that blackguard! For that is the reason I came to look for you. Have you not heard what he’s done in Ludlow Village?”

“Nay, I have not. What is it today? The hanging of a poacher? The stripping and whipping of a cooper who makes leaky barrels?”

“Robin, he is burning half the village! He stands and orders the buildings to be set afire as the villagers watch. They are the meanest of hovels, but all they have, and he has destroyed their homes.”

“Ah, aye, the fire. Aye, ’tis a brutal thing for the sheriff to do,” he added, glancing off toward the spiral of smoke. “But the villeins will soon rebuild, I trow.”

Was this sort of destruction so common that he was hardened against it? “A man such as that,” Marian said, all those odd liquid thoughts of Will disintegrating, “cannot be softened. And does not wish to be.”

“Aye, and I am sure that the tale will be good gossip for you and your lady friends,” Robin said. “Joanna and Pauletta and Catherine, along with the lovely Marian . . . and who is the child? The blond girl with the blue eyes? The very young one?”

“Alys,” Marian replied, looking at him, struck by the brittleness in his voice.

How difficult it must be to be thought a villain when one was really a hero. Her heart swelled with pride and sympathy for him. Dear Robin . . . she must find a way to help him.

“Ah, aye . . . Alys. And so all of you ladies will wag your tongues and discuss how cruel and blackhearted the sheriff is, aye? For, of course, he is. And he will keep you busy with your gossip.”

“Aye, mayhap,” she said. “But, Robin, I came to ask you for help. For those people. Can you help them?”

“But of course I shall,” Robin said airily. “That is what Robin of the Hood and his band of outlaws do, is it not? We are not the sly, greedy men some think us.”

Marian realized that as they conversed, he’d begun to lead her gently after him, deeper into the dark part of the wood. “Are you taking me somewhere safe . . . where we can talk freely?”

He flashed a great smile at her. “Indeed. If that is what you wish to do. Talk. But I thought mayhap there are other ways we might find to occupy our time.”

A little wave of surprise fluttered in her belly and she matched his smile. How wonderful it would be to have his elegant hands, his long slender fingers, on her bare skin—in the stead of heavy ones, groping and grabbing all the while she wished to be anywhere but there. And to have it without the furtiveness, the quick risk of discovery, while in the glades of the forest. To have the time for bodies to slide against each other, skin to skin. To taste and touch and stroke.

The memory of John forcing her fingers around his turgid cock, sliding them back and forth while he squeezed and pinched her breast, breathing heavily and roughly into her ear, caused an unpleasant rush to pass over her. Her stomach pitched with nausea.

She did not wish to return to the keep, to be forced back into that Court of Pleasure, waiting and wondering whether this would be the night that John had his way.

Or Will.

A flash of memory had her heart thumping hard and fast . . . that moment in her chamber when she’d raised their joined hands to his nose and seen the blatant desire burning in his eyes. When his nostrils had widened and his mouth tightened and for a moment she thought he might tear off the simple cloak she wore . . . and take her then and there.

Her throat had dried and she could not ignore the memory of his dark hands covering her white skin, there in the shadows of the bed-curtains . . . the way she curved and arched against him, trembling as she cried out her release. Her face felt warm, her quim full and slick, as she remembered. . . .

Then all those thoughts were driven from her mind when Robin pulled her beyond a flush of bushes into the depths of a dark cave. She realized they were at the base of a small hill, and the cave entrance was well hidden from even a sharp-eyed passerby.

“Is this one of your hideaways?” she asked, moving closer to him in the darkness. In the event that it was not, she didn’t wish to be surprised by a flock of bats—or a wild cat—swarming out.

“It is indeed,” he said, that smile back and more visible as he lit a torch. “And there is no one about, no one to disturb us here, my lady.”

He gestured into the darkness of the cave, pulling her with him. She saw that it was indeed a hideaway, for deep within, concealed behind a cluster of rocks, several pallets were arranged on the ground. The boulders had been cunningly arranged to appear to be a wall, but instead they provided a generous hiding place.

And privacy.

Marian allowed Robin to draw her deeper into the cave, the small torch casting tiny, flickering shadows. He set fire to a small pile of kindling in the corner, and she saw that there must be a hole somewhere in the high ceiling, because the smoke rose and left the space without choking them.

Despite the fire, inside the hideaway was cool and dark, and dampness seeped into her skin immediately. But she was with Robin . . . at last, Robin . . . and when he turned her to face him, and pressed her up against the rough, damp cavern wall, she allowed her quiver and bow to slide from her shoulder and gently down onto the floor.

He wasted no time, for he’d barely covered her mouth with his, in that insistent, reckless manner, when his hands tugged at her woven leather girdle, untying it with surprising ease. She pulled at his tunic, made of coarse material that would scratch her skin, yanking it up and over his torso.

His lips moved against her forehead, and she thought she heard him begging.

As the fire crackled to life, casting more warmth, more soft light, they undressed, leaving a pile of clothing near one of the pallets. Robin saved Marian’s veil for the last, and he tore it from her head, then shoved his fingers roughly into her braids, loosening Ethelberga’s handiwork only a bit before drawing her down onto the pallet with him.

The soft slide of furs beneath her bare skin awakened her, and Marian closed her eyes, lifting her arms for the warmth of his body. But it wasn’t Robin who came to her then, whose face and broad shoulders filled her mind.

Marian’s eyes flew open, her heart slamming in her chest. But it
was
Robin there, who bent toward her, whose hands smoothed along her torso as he lowered himself, settling partially over her. She kept her eyes open, even when he came so close that he filled her vision with a shadowy face.