Bound By Honor: An Erotic Novel of Maid Marian (36 page)

So she would have to make herself perfectly, unambiguously clear.

Marian blew the horn to call Bruse, who’d been posted a discreet distance away, and gathered up the chess set. She would ensure that poor John would be sleeping like an infant this night, and William de Wendeval would find himself utterly and otherwise occupied.

 

 

Filled with apprehension, Will pounded on the door to Marian’s chamber. It was late in the day, well after the midday meal from which she—as well as John—had been absent.

Upon his knock, the door opened to reveal the oft-missing maid, who looked up at him with fearful, large eyes. That was naught new, and it didn’t disturb him in the least. But what disturbed him was having no idea why Marian could have sent for him.

“Your lady has called for me,” he said shortly. “Is she ill?”

The maid seemed unable to find her tongue, and by way of response stepped back from the door and allowed him to enter. The antechamber was empty but for the maid’s pallet and a small trunk, as well as a few neatly folded items of clothing.

Will hesitated, unsure whether Marian would come to him or whether he was to go to her, through the door and into her private chamber. But the maid gestured for him to go beyond, and with damp palms and an unsettled stomach, he moved toward the door.

Marian was within, standing as though she’d been waiting for him. Standing, not ill in bed as he’d imagined. He took in the details of the chamber and her appearance with one quick scan, his apprehension growing.

She was alone, and dressed simply in a white undergown so thin and delicate that he saw the shadowy curves under her breasts and the darkness at the juncture of her thighs. The tie that gathered it about her neck hung loose, leaving a good bit of skin, brushed with golden freckles, exposed. Candles lit the chamber, a variety of them on a table giving off nearly as much light as a noonday sun, and the fire burned sedately in its alcove. The scent of violets clung to the air, which was warm and humid, as though she’d bathed recently.

All her magnificent hair was unbound but for two slender braids that came from her temples and were drawn to the back of her crown. Her feet were bare. Tension emanated from her, flowing across the room as if the air vibrated. But he saw the purpose in her eyes, the determination.

His heart was pounding now, and he realized what he’d walked into. His first reaction was one of disgust and fury, but it was closely followed by the wave of desire flushing over him, sending hot blood trammeling through his body
.

Nay
,
fool
.

Curling his fingers into the sides of his simple linen shirt, he drew in a calm breath and gritted his teeth.

“What do you require, my lady?” he asked, keeping his face and voice expressionless. “My performance, I presume?”

She looked confused, but recovered. “If you wish to consider it that, then so be it.”

The hope that he’d been wrong faded and Will glanced toward the tapestry, resignation washing over him, along with anger, and if he was brutally honest, he must admit there burned deep inside him that great need . . . that incessant desire that could no longer be denied. He should walk out, but he could not. He hadn’t the strength.

She stepped toward him, shaking her hair out so that it fell in lustrous waves over her shoulders, glinting copper and ruby and garnet in the candlelight. But when she noticed that he was looking at the tapestry, she paused.

Comprehension flooded her face and she looked up at him, eyes wide and face serious. “Will. There is no one behind the tapestry.”

As he watched her, stunned, feeling as if the breath had been knocked from him, Marian walked over to the woven picture of the knight and his horse. As he watched, she pulled up a corner of the large hanging cloth and stuffed a piece of cloth into the peephole, blocking both sight and sound. She turned back to him, raising both brows in silent question.

Flushed with shame, he stepped back, feeling his face go blank and hard. “I am sorry, Marian,” he began.

“Will.” She said his name desperately. He couldn’t read her face any longer; he couldn’t trust what he thought he saw there. “Don’t.”

“What do you want from me?” he snapped, angry with himself for the moment of hope, the flash of light in a dark world.

“I want you.”

At first he didn’t comprehend, for her response was so foreign, so impossible.

But then she said it again. “I want to be with you, Will. . . . I
choose
to be with you.”

As her words penetrated, he felt as though he’d been submerged into a rush of hot water, then cold . . . and then hot again. Everything slowed and grayed and became murky and warm. He couldn’t react, but she was already coming toward him and he could barely grasp the concept that she wanted him to touch her until she brushed against his body.

Some sort of trick. It must be. John must—

But she flowed into his arms . . . soft and warm, smelling of violets, smooth and rounded and woman . . .
Marian
. . . and in spite of the warning bells, he gathered her up against him, feeling the delicious press of her against his chest and the brush of her leg against the raging erection now filling out his braies. She pulled his face down and he devoured her lips, fingers sliding into the deep warmth of her hair to cup the back of her skull.

She sighed into his mouth, stepping onto his boots with her bare feet so that she could better reach his lips. Sweet, soft, full lips . . . he felt his whiskers scrape against them and the delicate skin of her cheek as he tried to consume her . . . this woman. This woman who’d haunted him for more than a decade.

Tremors shook his fingers and weakened his knees, and he forgot to breathe.

And then she tugged away, and he reluctantly let her go. Marian looked up at him with eyes that didn’t sparkle, but smoldered dark emerald, and held his gaze as she smoothed her hands down over the front of his chest, then grasped his shirt as if it were a mail hauberk and lifted it over his head, the swell of her breasts brushing against him. His squire, the whores, his mistresses . . . all had done such a simple act many times . . . but never before had he appreciated it more.

He reached for her, needing to feel her skin against his, but she darted out of his range, smiling a hot, seductive smile. Where had she learned such a thing? It was an expression of knowing, of teasing.

From John?

From Locksley?

But she had come to
him
.

Why?
Why?

His mouth turned dry, the blood pounding deep inside him, and he stood, wondering what new torture she . . . or John . . . had devised.

Aye, he could not discount the possibility that the prince would barge into the chamber at any time and join them.

“Nay, Will,” she said, positioning herself so that the bed was between them. She still wore that smile, that gentle smirking curve of her lips, now swollen from the long, deep kissing. Looking at him from beneath her lashes, she said, “I am weary of being the plaything. Of being pawed and licked and kissed until I cry for mercy. I have decided . . . aye, indeed . . . that it is your turn to be the one who is pleasured.”

“Marian.” His lips could barely form her name, let alone ask her if she were mad.

“Aye, Will,” she said, gliding toward him from around the bed. “I wish for you to allow me to pleasure you.”

 

 

The expression in his eyes—heated, blazing with desire—made her so weak it nearly sent her to her knees. Marian felt her lungs clog and tighten and her belly twist with anticipation. She wanted him, wanted to touch him, to bury her face in his chest, to stroke those long, strong arms, and to feel those powerful legs slide against hers, to be filled and caressed and loved. . . .

But then he reached out, pulling her roughly up to him. His expression had gone dark and blank again, with only a hint of the heat that had been there a moment ago. His fingers curved tightly into her arms as he looked down.

“Marian,” he said, dark eyes boring into her. “Tell me that John has naught to do with this.
Please.
”

Now she saw it: the desperation, the
need
buried there beneath the cold exterior. With a rush, she understood. “Nay, Will, nay.” She gripped his solid, warm shoulders. “I swear to you, on my soul, ’tis only me. And you. ’Tis my
choice
, Will.
You
are my choice. Now.” She bit her lip, but the words tumbled out because she needed to erase that fear in his eyes. “Always. I love you.”

She caught her breath. How could it be, after her deep loathing for him? But it was true. She felt the certainty of it, warm and full. Right . . . and almost holy.

The blackhearted Sheriff of Nottinghamshire had captured her heart.

“Marian.”
He said her name in a low sighing groan, then dragged her against him again. The planes of his chest moved against her flat palms as he pulled her so close she could hardly draw in a breath. “How can you . . . ?” His voice trailed off as he covered her mouth, his lips still moving.

Her eyes closed and she sank into him, against him, for a long, sleek kiss . . . and then she pulled away. “Do you not think to distract me from my purpose, Will,” she said, careful to inject a clear note of teasing in her voice.

The range of emotions that had played over his face since he’d come into her chamber indicated how vulnerable and wary he was, despite the cold, brutal exterior he’d shown. She wanted nothing to bring shadows back into his eyes again on this night.

She wanted only to see the rise of pleasure and the flush of release. She wanted him to see her, only her. To say her name and know it was she who brought him there. To be one with her.

Thus, when he stepped back, releasing her, she feared he might have misunderstood. But then she realized he was no longer so wary and that a bit of a smile lurked behind his lips.

“Your purpose?” he repeated.

“Aye.” She knelt at his feet and gave his hard belly a little push. Understanding, he settled back on the bed so she could pull off his boots. Then he stood while she unlaced his braies and dragged them down over his hips and the very insistent erection that jutted forth. A little drop gleamed enticingly at its tip.

Marian pulled herself upright on her knees and curled her fingers around the red purple cock. Will started, jolting against her, and then sighed as if catching himself. She glanced up and saw that he was looking down at her with hot, dark eyes, and she smiled up at him as she moved her hand. Once, quickly, suddenly, from head to base and back, she used her thumb to swipe over the glistening drip and ease her way.

He gave a little shudder and his eyes widened in response. “Marian, take care or you will overset me too soon.” His voice was so deep and filled with emotion—warmth, desire, affection—that it set shivers down her spine. He’d always sounded so flat or angry, so demanding or cold. Now he sounded like the rich sable furs in which she wrapped herself during the winter.

Simply in order to be contrary, and to let him know she was in control, she gave another quick stroke that made him suck in his breath again. Then she released him and stood.

When he reached for her, she danced out of his range again. “Nay, Will, you must not touch me. Not until I give you leave.”

“Marian,” he protested in that low, rough voice that sent delicious shivers curling in her belly.

“Now, lay yourself down,” she said. “I want to kiss you. And remember, Will . . . you may not touch me. In fact, you cannot move.”

“Marian, are you
mad
?” he said. Yet he followed her direction and stretched out on the bed, lying on his back. His long legs left his feet dangling a bit off the edge, and he was so large he nearly filled the narrow pallet. There would hardly be room for her to lie next to him.

She looked at him and felt dizzy for a moment. So beautiful, so hard and dark and lean and powerful . . . from those broad, angular shoulders to the curve of the muscles in his arms, which he’d tucked behind his head. Dark hair, thick and wavy, fell from his head and half covered his wrists, exposing a face taut with desire . . . but no longer with harshness or frigidity. A shadow of whiskers brushed his square jaw and beneath his chin onto the lines of his throat. His lips, parted slightly, were full and sensual . . . so unlike the flat, disgusted grimace she’d become used to. His face like this was beautiful.

The slabs of chest muscle were covered with the same dark hair that trailed down over his belly and down to rise, thick and dark, between his muscular, corded legs. His cock stood nearly straight up, proclaiming agreement to his previous protestations . . . and she eyed it appreciatively.

This night, she would enjoy the slide of that cock deep inside her, when she could touch it . . . and him . . . and when there would be no other eyes watching and taking. When it meant aught more than a simple physical release. Oh, there would be that too . . . but more.

“Could you not at the least remove your shift so that I may look if I cannot touch?” Will asked.

“But you already know what I look like,” she reminded him teasingly.

He responded with a heartfelt groan. “Please.”

Licking her lips, for the deep sound made her stomach curl again, Marian glanced up at his face, and was delighted to see that he could not seem to pull his eyes away from her. So she pulled her simple gown up and over her head, tossing it into a corner. Her hair lifted as the linen rose, then fell down in a soft, sensual swirl about her shoulders, breasts, and torso. The gentle brush over her taut nipples reminded her how sensitive they were, and how she would like to have his mouth on them.
Oh, aye.