Bound By Honor: An Erotic Novel of Maid Marian (26 page)

And yet . . . by the grace of God . . . he slept.

 

 

Alys grimaced as she stepped out into the bailey, quietly closing the door of the herbary behind her. Her fingers trembled; her heart beat madly . . . but she did not regret it. With a quick swipe of fingers, she dashed away the trickle of tears.

Anger rather than shame coursed through her. Frustration, in the stead of humiliation.

Although if she thought much deeper on it, the humiliation might yet come.

Something moved in the shadows, and suddenly the outlaw was there. Again, as if conjured by her fury. Her heart thumping harder, mortification rose within her. Had he seen her crying?

Apparently still wary from their last meeting, Robin remained at a prudent distance, leaning against the wattle-and-daub bakehouse.

Cloaked in shadow that would soon ease, for the sun was ready to begin its climb, he watched as she walked toward him, heading for the keep.

“You had little success with the sheriff, I see,” he said, scuffing the toe of his boot into the dirt, as she drew closer.

Alys continued on, and soon she would pass him. Her mouth was dry and she saw no reason to respond to his taunt. Yet, he was here. Spying on her? What a fool. Surely he would get caught if he continued such boldness.

Why, she could bring Nottingham down on him in a trice.

“Alys,” he said, and the desperate tone of his voice caught her, putting a hitch in her step.

But she kept walking. “Did you not learn from our last meeting?” she said as she passed by.

“Aye . . . I learned . . . something,” he replied in a low whisper. His voice filtered to her ears over the soft shift and clink of the watchman’s chain mail as he strode by on the wall above.

She kept on, feeling his gaze on the back of her neck, ignoring the prickles on her palms, the flipping and shifting of her stomach. The side door to the keep was only a few paces away.

“Did you have no success with Nottingham?” His question followed her. Insistent.

“You already supposed that I did not. Why should I be the one to say you nay?” She flung the reply over her shoulder and slowed her pace . . . but did not stop. Then, behind her she felt him moving, shifting closer. The hair on her arms lifted; her stomach fluttered. “Robin, do you test me yet again?”

“I wish only to speak with you,” he said. “Please, Alys. Only for a moment, may we have a truce?”

She hesitated, and that was her undoing. Before she could respond, he tugged her into the shadows. She could have raised a hue and cry, calling the watchman down on them. But she told herself that if she did, then Nottingham’s rest would be disturbed.

And she had no fear of Robin Hood. He wanted from her only what the other ladies gave him so readily. She’d heard men speak of it—little nicks in their bootheels for each kiss they stole, each noble lady they bedded.

She had no intent of being another nick. Especially on the bootheel of an outlaw.

To his credit, he released her arm as soon as she was out of sight of the watchman, encompassed by shadow in the corner between the bakehouse and the alehouse. He released her arm, aye . . . but he stood so close to her, with the wall behind her, that she felt closed in. Trapped. She swallowed and pressed the pads of her fingers into the rough straw and mud wall behind her. In the near dark, she felt his gaze heavy on her, saw the faint gleam of his eyes.

“A truce?” she said, simply for something to say. Her mouth was altogether too dry, making it difficult to swallow. “Or did you wish to lure me into a dark corner for something else? Did you not learn the last time?”

“I learned how well your voice carries,” he said, and she saw the flash of white behind his beard. The contrite Robin had gone, replaced by the charming outlaw. The one who wooed lady after lady in dark corners such as this one. Who flaunted the law, and dared to show his face where it did not belong.

A wave of disgust rose anew and Alys thought for a moment she would push past him and stalk away. But then . . . she looked up consideringly. Since he’d learned naught of her the last time, mayhap she must teach him a better lesson.

The night waned, yet it still floated gray about them . . . gray and subtle, enclosing them in a sort of private fog. Too early for anyone to be up, too late for revelers to be seeking their beds. The knowledge emboldened her, and the sense of being awake at such an odd time gave her the impression of acting in a dream.

She realized he was looking at her, and that the air felt charged with the same sort of tension as a thunderstorm, jagged with lightning.

She’d done it already once this night . . . why not a second time? At the least, she knew Robin would not stand like a statue. And mayhap she remembered it wrong. Mayhap on the heels of Nottingham, it would be no great incident.

“Alys,” he began, but he never finished. For she reached up and pulled his head down to hers.

The first touch of lip to lip was not so different from moments ago when she brushed over Nottingham’s set mouth . . . but only for that first breath. Then his mouth softened in welcome and she shifted closer, felt his lips gentle and part slightly, the brush of his beard and mustache like prickling silk. She felt the whoosh of breath from him, his hands resting tremulously on her shoulders as if unwilling to pull her closer, as if he was afraid to touch her, but unable to keep from doing so. Light and tentative.

Then she became lost in the kiss, their lips forming to each other and tongues slipping between them to curl and stroke. His mouth was sleek and warm, fitting to hers, making her close her eyes, forget who this was and where they were. Her hands came to rest on the front of his chest, feeling the solidness there, the warmth, and the pounding of his heart.

It matched hers.

Now his hands moved with more freedom, his hips pressing into hers, trapping her between him and the wall. His hands at her back, pulling her close, as if he wished to draw her into his body. A sensual mouth, sliding along her jaw to kiss an ear, then down to close his lips on the soft skin of her neck, over and over, his strong tongue stroking, pushing into her sensitive skin. She gasped and seized up, arching against him at the sensation . . . the tickling pleasure that swarmed her, settling low in her belly.

“Ah, Alys,” he murmured, lifting his face away to look down at her. “I knew it. . . .”

She shoved him away, her mouth open in shock, the languid pleasure evaporating. Nay. Not him. The anger she’d felt earlier, leaving Nottingham’s side, came back in a great wave.

“Alys,” Robin said, reaching for her again, his mouth in a smile that she could suddenly discern. The sun had begun to spill its rays over the horizon, and now she could see more. . . . She saw the man who loomed over her now. His twinkling eyes, his disarming grin.

“Nay, Robin,” she said, pushing against his chest when he would have gathered her up again.

The light ebbed from his eyes, and his mouth settled. He resisted her attempts to shove him back, held steady against her effort. “Is it Nottingham?”

Nay. And that infuriated her the most. What she’d felt when she kissed the sheriff was nothing,
nothing
, compared with what this man did to her. This outlaw, who kissed every lady who was foolish enough to be wooed into a dark corner.

“Release me,” she said, her voice rising mayhap higher than it ought.

“Hush,” he said, looking with concern at the rising sun and the nearness of the watchman.

“Release me.” She shoved hard at his chest, frightened by the way her knees trembled and her heart raced. She would not succumb to this, to him. “I have no desire for your green ribands and your stealthy kisses. Give them to your other ladies.”

He took her at her word—or mayhap it was her strident voice that caused him to step back, eyes wide and hands outspread as though facing a spitting cat. “Alys, please—”

“Do not come near me again,” she said, brushing past him. “If I had my wish, you’d rot in gaol.”

“You must tell me,” he said, his voice grinding after her. “Is it Nottingham?”

“I wish it were,” she said, a horrible sob catching at her voice. “Leave me be or I will call him down on you. The next time I see you, I will.” She managed to force out the threat as she picked up her skirts and ran.

Away.

Why could it not have been the sheriff?

Why did it have to be this man, this scoundrel . . . this
fool
, this shallow, deceitful
outlaw
. . . who owned her heart?

Marian woke the following morrow feeling restless.

She’d been unable to keep from reliving those moments in John’s chamber, writhing and moaning over the back of the barrel . . . and the relief and pleasure Will had given her. A combination of mortification and discomfort accompanied memories of her wantonness, yet she still felt the fulfillment of coupling with him, such as it were. That lovely, full slide of him filling her . . .

She closed her eyes fiercely. She would not think of it.

Naught changed the fact that he was a blackhearted brute, but she could not deny that he’d given her what she needed. And that he’d taken what he obviously wanted.

Or had he?

She couldn’t banish the memory of his face, his hard, tortured expression, as he moved inside her. And afterward, he’d been just as rigid, just as stoic as ever. Even . . . angry.

Marian rose and called for Ethelberga to assist her in dressing, then went belowstairs to the chapel. She was a bit surprised to find that Catherine, Joanna, and Pauletta attended Mass—although their faces and frequent yawns bespoke the lateness of their night. After all, Marian and Will had left before they did.

Although . . . it was more than possible that Will had returned after depositing her so unceremoniously in her chamber. Marian found herself eyeing Pauletta in a different light—all three of the ladies, in fact, but Pauletta most of all. Watching the woman, she noticed for the first time how sly her eyes were. And the way her mouth twitched in a feline smile.

Had Will returned to the chamber, and partaken of her offerings?

And why would it matter to Marian if he did?

It did not.

It
could
not.

She swept from the chapel after Mass, bestowing upon the trio of ladies what she hoped was a smile that matched theirs in smugness, and went through the great hall. She did not wish to sit at the trestle table and watch them break their fast, particularly if Will happened to be there.

She was not quite ready to face him yet.

At the back of the hall, she stopped a serf boy and bade him fetch her a piece of cheese and an apple with which to break her fast. When he returned moments later, she left the hall and went out into the bailey.

The September sun shone bright and warm this morning, and it took her a moment to adjust to the brightness. As she crunched into her apple, she saw Alys emerge from one of the smaller outbuildings.

“Good morrow,” she greeted her friend.

“Marian,” Alys said. “My goodness, the sun is high. I trow I’ve missed Mass again, haven’t I?”

“Aye, but what were you doing in there?”

“ ’ Tis the herbary, and I had prepared a draught in the night and came to see if it had taken for its patient.”

Marian fell into step next to her friend, noticing the dark circles under her eyes. “You look weary, Alys. Did your maid’s sister call you out again in the night?”

She shook her head, smiling a bit sadly. “Nay. I could not sleep and went to the chapel. There I came upon the one in need of my assistance. But now he is gone.”

At that moment, Marian realized what her friend had said, and a sudden thought . . . a wonderfully brilliant idea . . . settled into her mind. “A sleeping draught?”

“Aye.”

“Could you make one for me? One that would put a man to sleep?”

Alys looked at her shrewdly and at first, Marian thought she might decline. But then her friend nodded and said, “I could do such a thing. But mayhap you will tell me about its purpose whilst I brew it?”

Marian nodded. “I will.”

Inside the herbary, Marian found herself intrigued by the long wide table covered with neat stacks of wooden and clay bowls. Clay jars sat on shelf after shelf with markings on them, and a variety of utensils, buckets, platters, bowls, mortars, and pestles arrayed the table and another counter behind it. In a smaller room beyond, she caught sight of a narrow bed. A black cauldron hung over a happy blaze in the fireplace, steam coming from within.

“We are alone,” Alys said. “The alewife comes in to build the fire in the morning, but she has gone back to her house to check on her brew. The leechman and midwife who use these stores are busy in the village. Now tell me who it is you wish to put to sleep . . . and why.”

Marian considered for a moment whether to tell Alys the entire truth. After all, putting medicinals in the prince’s drink could be considered treason, even if it wasn’t meant to harm him.