Bound By Honor: An Erotic Novel of Maid Marian (21 page)

His beard gently prickled her skin, not so smooth as the rabbit pelts beneath her, but more coarse, like the coat of a fox. Much better than when Harold had come to her, with short, rough whiskers.

Marian’s feet were cold, for he’d drawn her hose down and away, leaving them bare. And the chill of the floor seeped through the thin pallet beneath her. Something hard was digging into the back of her shoulder, and she shifted to move away from the pointed rock.

Robin reached for her hand and brought it down between their bodies, lifting away from the breast he’d been sucking to press his lips to her fingers, then directing them down. She knew what he wanted, and eager to erase the memory of the prince’s similar demands, she closed her fingers around a longer, more slender cock than the one they’d held last night. Yet it was just as warm and smooth, pulsing beneath her touch.

He released a long, pent-up sigh as she began to stroke, and lifted himself so that she could move more easily. Now she was even colder as his warm body shifted away, and Marian became aware of their legs twined together, his heavy, haired ones against her lighter, more slender ones.

“Marian,” he sighed, “please.”

He kissed and fondled her breast, lying next to her on his side as she reached between them, slowly lifting and lowering her hand over his cock. Strangely detached, she found herself watching his face as she varied her movements, slower . . . then more quickly . . . tightening and then loosening her grip. His mouth moved, making soundless pleas, and his eyes closed.

Fascinated by the concept of the power she literally held in her hand, Marian watched and listened, noticing his breathing, his eyes fluttering beneath half-closed lids. She felt him gather up next to her, the tension simmering beneath his skin . . . the burgeoning of his cock in her hand.

She felt a little drip at the tip and used her thumb to slide it around and over, using it to lubricate her way, and felt a little tingling rise inside herself. . . . He breathed faster, had released her breast, and now simply lay there, one hand resting on her hip, gripping with his fingers.

“Please,” he said, sounding horribly desperate. “I need . . .”

Something shimmered up under his skin, beneath her fingers, and she moved faster, watching him, still strangely detached, her arm aching but her lips parted, matching him breath for breath, rising with him. . . . He stiffened, gave a low, sharp cry, and pulsed beneath her fingers, his seed spilling warm over her hand.

After a moment Marian released him, wiping his semen off herself on the edge of the fur pelts. As she did so, she realized that her own body was thrumming quietly.

Robin opened his eyes and, for an instant, she saw regret there. Then it evaporated, replaced by a hint of chagrin and a saucy smile. “Ah, Marian, you’ve no idea how badly I needed that,” he said. “But, my lady, now that that little distraction’s been taken care of, let me attend to other necessities.”

His hand moved easily between her legs, finding the soft down of hair there and the sleekness of her full nether lips. She sighed, opening her legs a bit, allowing the slide of his fingers for a moment.

But then . . . she stopped him. She was too aware of her chilled body, and the fact that her men had been waiting a long time for her. “Nay, Robin,” she said mildly, and pulled his hand away. “I have been away too long, and my men will come looking for me if I do not reappear soon. And aside of that,” she said when he would have opened his mouth to protest, “I have taken a bit of a chill here in this damp cavern.”

Easing away, she reached for her bliaud and began to search for the bottom to pull it on over her head. She was cold, and . . . ’twas God’s truth, but she realized she did not desire those elegant hands on her after all.

“Marian,” Robin said, his voice low. And hurt. “I am sorry. I did not mean for things to go . . . this way.”

“Robin, ’tis of no account. I found it all quite . . . interesting.” Marian spoke the unvarnished truth, for while her experiences of the previous nights had occurred in an environment of fear and shock, along with her own unbidden lust, this experience had been simply . . . enlightening. Fascinating. So fascinating and arousing, to watch a man taking his pleasure, so vulnerable and open during those moments. To see a strong, powerful man helpless and trembling because of the simple touch of a woman. Completely tantalizing.

Her mouth dried and she realized her breathing had risen. Marian swallowed hard and pushed away the thoughts teasing the edge of her consciousness—not of Robin, the man next to her, but images of Will’s dark hair, shadowed eyes, and strong shoulders, corded with tension.

“And aside of that, Robin,” she said, emerging from the other side of the bliaud’s neckline, “I suggest that any future trysts you might arrange with a lady not take place in this damp, cold cave.”

“Marian,” Robin said, reaching for her hand and clasping it in his, “I do not have trysts with ladies. Truly. This is the first time I’ve brought one here—”

“ ’ Tis just as well, then, that I was the first, for I am not offended in the least. But heed my warning, Robin. A soft bed and a warm fire does much more to make a woman ready than wet stone and a bit of a fire.”

“Marian!”

But she’d already pulled her hose on, and now stood with her overtunic. “But you will promise me, will you not, that you will help those villagers?” A resurgence of horror over Will’s actions eclipsed her remaining good humor. At least she was warm again, now that the overtunic settled in place.

“I have already vowed to do so,” Robin said. He’d pulled on his own hose, moving slowly, as if reluctant to admit that the moment had passed. “Marian, truly, I—”

“Robin, please. I prefer your charming devil-may-care grin to this mealymouthed person you’ve become. You need feel no remorse over our tryst this afternoon. I feel none myself.”

And she found to her surprise that it was true. Robin no longer held the fascination for her that he had when they were younger, and even as recently as yestereve. Instead of worrying about when she might be able to steal a kiss from the outlaw in the forest, she would focus on finding out what she could for the queen. And then she would leave Ludlow and go far away from Prince John. And the Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, whose image seemed to intrude on her thoughts much more often than such a cruel man’s should.

“Stay with me, Marian,” he said, suddenly grabbing her arm. “Don’t go back there. Stay with me.”

Temptation overcame her for a moment. To be away from John, from those lascivious fingers and burning eyes and the demands . . .

“I can’t let you go back to him, Marian. I see the way he looks at you. Please.”

She nodded, felt her belly sink as though it were stone. “But I must. I have a duty.” She couldn’t explain what the queen required of her even to Robin.

“Marian.”

She was shaking her head, even as she reached for her girdle. “Nay, Robin. I know what ’tis I must do. And know you this . . . I am under the protection of the queen. Her reach is far, and I will come to no real harm. But you must help the poor villagers, and I will do what I can inside Ludlow to keep you safe. How can I send a message if I hear of something that will help—or hurt—you?”

He didn’t speak for a moment. Then with a great sigh, he pulled on his shirt and reached for his tunic. “There is a large oak, five paces from the great stone marker—do you know the one? At the fork between Revelstown and Carts Grange?”

“I’ll find it,” Marian told him.

He nodded. “Five paces north from that marker, there is a large oak. With a hollow on the south side, so high from the ground.” He measured a hand at his waist. “Like this. You can place any messages for me there, but put them in deeply so they cannot easily be noticed.” He frowned, then smiled. “I never thought that Friar Bellamy’s sacrilegious teachings of a girl to scribe and cipher would come in so helpfully.”

Marian nodded, but at that moment, her heart sank. Robin and Will had both known that she’d learned to read and write from an elderly monk.

Which meant that the sheriff could mention such a thing to the prince. And that she could not feign ignorance if she happened to see a message or paper that she should not.

Which meant that she must take even greater care than she’d thought.

“Peste,”
Robin said as they emerged from the cave. He was looking up at the sun. “It’s much later than I realized. I must go, Marian, and leave you to your men.”

Marian raised her brows. “I need merely whistle for them. But, Robin, if you must rush off just now, ’tis fortunate then that we did not spend overmuch time inside.” She gave him a meaningful smile, and was rewarded as a faint ruddiness flushed his cheeks.

“Aye, Marian, indeed. And I apologize once again for my . . . unchivalrous actions. I am sorely shamed that I took from you and did not give in return.”

She shook her head, still smiling. Will had been correct: Robin was a rash, pillow-hearted man. Charming and amusing, but not as long on thinking ahead as she herself was. She raised her fingers and whistled for Bruse, and when she heard his response in the distance, she turned to Robin. “Go off with you. And if I have need of you or have news for you, I’ll secret a message in the oak.”

He bent forward and pressed a lingering kiss on her lips. “Until we can meet again, my lady.”

She patted his cheek, her feelings for him having evolved from infatuation and fascination into more sisterly ones. All in the space of an afternoon. “Do not risk yourself to do so,” she warned.

Moments after Robin disappeared into the trees above, Bruse and his men came trotting through the wood.

The smell of smoke had faded from the air during her time inside the cave, but as she rode back toward Ludlow, Marian could not help but think of Will. What had happened to him since their younger days that had turned him so cruel? He’d always been serious as a lad, but never mean-hearted. Was it simply being in the company of John? Or had something else occurred that had made a serious young man become unfeeling?

Certainly, most nobles didn’t worry overmuch about the villeins who worked the land for them, as long as they paid their tithes and produced from the lord’s land. But nor did a smart and cunning overlord seek to harm or ruin the human machine that generated his wealth. In fact, it was to the manor’s benefit that the village be well maintained enough for the inhabitants to remain productive.

And they certainly couldn’t be if their homes were razed to the ground, and they were overtaxed into poverty.

These thoughts occupied Marian’s mind as they approached the bridge that led to Ludlow Village, the keep and its protective walls rising on a low hill behind it.

Though the acrid smoke had dissipated, Marian saw that the cluster of villagers had not. And as she drew nearer, she saw that they gathered in the center of the square. Immediately, she recognized Will sitting on a balcony that overlooked a platform, and that dais was the center of the crowd.

It took only that moment to understand what was happening: a young woman stood on the platform, her hands bound behind her back. Even from a distance, she could see that the young woman had been badly beaten. Her face was bruised, and dried blood on her matted hair bespoke of violent treatment. Her clothing was more than decent, indicating that she came from the family of a tradesman or shopkeeper. She was likely a freewoman, and not bound to the land here at Ludlow.

And she was about to be hung.

Marian looked up at Will, wondering what crime this woman had committed that justified her execution. As always, his face held an impassive expression. He sat back in his chair and watched as if unmoved by the event.

Hanging was a common enough activity, and regardless of where or who the criminal was, crowds turned out to watch. But there was a different feel to this crowd . . . an unsettled one . . . that made her want to stop and see more.

“Do you know about this?” Marian asked Bruse.

He nodded, his face grave. The man had reached past forty summers, yet his eyes still shone clear and gray. He was also one of the strongest men she knew, and amusing as well. But at this time there was no hint of humor in his expression. “See you that the woman has been beaten?”

“Well and truly, it appears,” Marian said, wincing inwardly at the pain she must have endured. They’d stopped their horses near the edge of the crowd and were watching the proceedings.

“Aye, and ’twas from a man who wanted more than the cloth she weaves. He was her betrothed husband. He took her off behind the apple orchard and forced himself on her. Then he used his fists and a knife to mark her, and she managed to get his dagger. While trying to escape, she struck him in the neck.”

“And so her crime is murder?” Marian asked.

“Aye. She’ll hang for murder.” Bruse looked at her, and she read the bleakness in his eyes. “If my daughter were set upon by such a man, I would cry delight if she sliced him open. This was not the first time he did this to her, and ’tis a fact that he planned to wed her and did not wish to wait for the priest’s blessing. But the sheriff has no mercy and she’s to be hung. He’ll tolerate no breaking of the law in Nottinghamshire.”

So in the stead of living a life of beatings and rapes, the woman defended herself and killed her assailant while doing so. The sheriff cried murder and would make her an example.

Marian felt ill when she realized the man who’d only last night made her quiver and cry with pleasure would raise his powerful hand and end the poor woman’s life. If she’d thought he might have any mercy, her belief in that possibility was now gone.

Were these the sorts of things—destroying property, hanging abused women—Will did every day? Was this how he went about his business?

Disgusted and horror-struck, she wheeled her horse and started back to the keep. She could not watch such a travesty, for she knew naught would veer William de Wendeval’s black heart from its purpose.