Bound By Honor: An Erotic Novel of Maid Marian (5 page)

When the interminable meal ended after six courses, plus a round of jongleurs’ entertainment, Marian thought to make her escape to the small chamber that had been put aside for her and Ethelberga. That she had a private chamber was in itself a sign of the queen’s influence.

Making her excuses and slipping past the eager smile of Sir Roderick, Marian edged along the stone wall. She took care not to brush against it, for it was covered with smoke and other grime. One of the pleasures—few as there had been—of being sent to Ludlow was that she’d been able to prepare a new wardrobe. In retrospect, Marian wondered if mayhap she wouldn’t have attracted the prince’s attention if she’d been wearing less-fine clothing. Tonight, her floor-length undergown, fitted from throat to hip and with sleeves laced from wrist to shoulder, was the color of butter. The burnished-gold overtunic—a sleeveless shift—had been embroidered with gold-shot thread and tiny amber beads along the hems and neckline.

Marian knew that the combination of yellow, gold, and amber made her fiery hair appear brighter, her green eyes sharper, and her skin color warm and peachlike . . . and at that moment she bewailed her choice. Vanity. Would it be her undoing?

Just then, she felt a presence behind her, too close. She felt the hair at the back of her neck prickle, and she whirled around.

“Leaving so soon, Lady Marian?” William de Wendeval loomed over her.

The torchlight danced over his face, darkening shadows further, and giving his expression a wicked glow. His eyes were flat and cool, and his lips settled in a half smile that held no humor.

“I’m weary,” she replied easily, though her heart, for some reason, pounded madly. She could not pull her gaze away from those dark eyes, and his large hand closed over her arm.

“Ah, weary. Of course. You must have found it trying to fight off the advances of that rogue in the woods,” he said. His fingers held her firmly, but not painfully, though now he stood so that she was between him and the wall, hidden to the rest of the hall by his great height and broad shoulders.

“Release me, Will,” she said, again keeping her voice calm. She chose to use his name in an effort to remind him of their past. “I wish to go to my chamber.”

Having spoken, Marian turned away, and in doing so looked beyond Will’s arm . . . toward the high table. John sat there, his eyes fastened on her and Will as he raised a goblet to drink. The cup hid the expression on his face, but the avidity in his eyes told her that he watched with interest. She realized that Will had maneuvered it so that while he blocked her from most of the hall, his angle left a clear view for the prince.

“But you cannot,” the sheriff said, and she felt his foot brush against hers. The next thing she knew, the wall bumped up behind her and she was crowded between a large body and the stone. “Your presence is required elsewhere.”

Marian’s throat closed and the pounding of her heart became stronger. “By whom?” she demanded.

“By me.”

The next thing she knew, the world changed: his hands closed over her shoulders and his mouth descended. The wall pushed into her from behind, and his powerful body pressed against hers from the front, one knee shifting to push between her legs. Will’s lips covered hers before she could react or twist away, and his fingers moved to grasp her chin, curving over the front of her throat. Not hard enough to choke her, praise God, but enough that she dared not move.

She realized her eyes had closed, and her hands had gone convulsively toward his chest, her fingers closing over his embroidered tunic, grasping at the heavy stitching as she tried to push him away. He was as immovable as his mouth was skillful, and Marian tasted the heavy wine on his lips and tongue as she gave in to the kiss.

It caught her by surprise, the intensity of his mouth pressed to hers, lips and tongue slipping and sliding in an angry dance. Her breath caught and she became aware of the pounding of his heart beneath her hands, and the matching stampede of her own pulse.

But when she realized what was happening, she pulled her lips, her face, away angrily. His fingers fell from her chin, and before he could fully release her, she whipped her palm back. Will’s hand shot up and caught her wrist before she could slap his face.

“How dare you?” she whispered, fighting to pull free.

His half smile was back, arrogant and powerful and humorless, as he held her wrist with angry fingers.

“Oh, I dare. Do you not know to whom you speak? The fearsome Sheriff of Nottinghamshire.” His lips twisted in a parody of a smile.

“I know who you are,” Marian responded, her heart pounding. “Now take your hands from me, Will.”

“I cannot in conscience do that, my lady. For it’s to be me,” he said, leaning down into her face, crowding his hip against her belly, “or the prince.” He slipped his other hand back up to cup her chin again, forcing her to look at him, up into those hard eyes, flat and dark. “And I won’t draw blood. Or leave bruises.”

CHAPTER 3

R
obin eased back into the shadows.

From his vantage point high up in Ludlow’s great hall, he had a clear view of the diners below. After his men had distracted one of the men-at-arms standing watch, Robin had nimbly climbed the bailey’s wall. A corner window slit had allowed him to slip into the hall unnoticed. Now he stood on one of the narrow balconies, hidden behind a tapestry.

The air up here was hot and dull, and his eyes stung from the rising smoke. But not so much that he missed the way the Sheriff of Nottinghamshire had made his way to Lady Marian of Leaford, backed her up against the wall, and fairly rutted with her right in the midst of the hall. ’Twas hard to mistake Nottingham’s height and unrelieved dark tunic pressed up near Marian’s blazing hair, set even more afire by the rich golden clothing she wore.

A lovely lady Marian had become. So much that it had taken him by surprise when he accosted her wagon earlier today. Of course, he’d known it was hers, but he hadn’t expected to find such a pleasant surprise within. A gangly girl with pale skin and an overload of freckles, Marian had always had the beacon-bright hair, as well as the stubborn chin . . . but now all that had melded into a very lovely woman.

By all rights, Robin should have been down below, on the rush-covered floor, with all the other vassals of King Richard, sitting at the trestle tables and slamming fair maidens up against the wall for a kiss—or more.

When he was Lord Robin of Locksley, he had been a favorite with the ladies for his charm, wit, and skill on the lute. He had been counted one of the favorites of the ladies of the royal court, who’d enjoyed the tradition begun in Queen Eleanor’s Court of Love, wherein the knights and lords worshipped them from afar (and sometimes from very intimate proximity). In the old days, Robin had little difficulty moving from that pose of distant worship to a closer hold beneath the laces of those tight-fitting undertunics . . . to the mutual pleasure of all parties.

And then the old king had died, and his son decided to go on Crusade, and everything had changed.

Now Robin of Locksley had become Robin of the Hood, an outlaw who ranged throughout Sherwood Forest, terrorizing those who passed through. And who must remain on the periphery of the court, no longer lord of his own fief. There were benefits to his situation, but at this moment, Robin found them little compensation.

He watched as William de Wendeval seized Marian’s hand when she raised it to strike him, and held it steady as he leaned down into her face. The man appeared unruffled as he spoke with obvious intensity.

Robin gritted his teeth as he watched. His father had thought years ago of betrothing his son to Marian, and had even gone so far as to speak to her father about it. At the time, Robin had little interest in the pale, skinny girl who always wanted to follow him around and who beat him at archery contests more often than he liked to admit. But now he realized he didn’t like watching Nottingham pushing himself upon her, not one whit. And he wasn’t going to allow it to happen.

’Twould be a simple task to put an end to it, for one of the benefits of being an outrageously charming and handsome outlaw, he’d discovered, was that the women found him dangerously fascinating. Marian had been no exception today in the woods.

And there were plenty of other beautiful women, lush and ripe for the plucking, if that was what Nottingham had a mind to do. Many of whom Robin himself had already had the pleasure of meeting. And plucking.

As the sheriff led Marian out of the hall, Robin scanned the remaining ladies for a potential replacement for the sheriff ’s interest.

Pauletta of Yarnley was comely enough, but she kissed like a fish. Of course, one could get beyond that easily if one had a mind to. Lady Elizabeth de Guildern had fairly melted in his arms when he slipped up behind her in one of the keep’s torchlit hallways last sennight. She was an eager partner, and in fact, her hands had been quite busy during their brief interlude behind a tapestry. Robin grinned at the memory and felt his cock lift in its own salutation. Lady Elizabeth would most certainly be worth another visit.

He shifted slightly, adjusting the crotch of his braies as he considered the other candidates. Joanna of Wardhamshire . . . Catherine de Meauville . . . Hie! Who was the wench?

Robin eased the slightest bit forward, risking a bit more illumination, as he peered down. He’d never seen her before. Petite with blond hair . . . mayhap it was Henriette de Hulvasen. . . .

She turned her head slightly, looking up at Roderick of Treyvern, who was much taller than she, and Robin saw her young, heart-shaped face. That was most definitely not Henriette of the knife-blade nose and abundant bosom.

A new female addition to John’s court meant more than a chance to steal kisses in dark corners. It meant yet another source of information, another opportunity to learn who was traveling to and from Ludlow and what they might be bringing that Robin might find worth relieving them of.

Of course, Robin already had a variety of sources, including one that was very close to the prince.

And Nottingham and Marian had disappeared from the hall.

Together.

His lips pursed thoughtfully, Robin made his decision, and pulling the hood of his dark green cloak up and over his head, he eased from the shadows.

Nottingham had disrupted Robin’s playtime this afternoon. Now ’twas time for his own entertainment to be aborted.

 

 

“Where are you taking me?” Marian demanded, trying to drag her arm away from Will’s grip.

His face appeared even more dark and forbidding than before. They’d come to a narrow flight of steps and he stopped at its base. “Your presence is requested by His Highness,” he said in a low, tight voice. “In his private solar.”

Marian’s belly fell to her knees. Oh God, already? “The prince?” Then she drew in a deep breath and straightened. It would do no good to show fear. Especially to one as formidable as the man before her.

Who was taking her to the prince.

“Nay, Will.” Her voice came out in a gust of breath. “Not tonight. Please.” She reached for him, her fingers tight.

Will looked down at her, standing so that his head blocked the merry flames of the sconce behind him. The details of his face were thus obscured by shadow, but she saw his jaw move, and his lips tighten into a line so thin it was probably white. “You must make your choice, Marian, for he will not be put off.” His voice was not so harsh as it had been in the hall.

“Choice?” she responded, tamping back the wail that threatened to erupt. By the holy cross, she was Lady Marian of Morlaix, and she would swallow her weakness. Even though she’d fairly begged a moment earlier.

By her own example, Eleanor of Aquitaine had instilled in Marian the responsibility of duty and honor. And if one did not have honor, one had nothing.

“I have
no
choice, according to you,” she said. “The prince wishes my presence and you are to deliver me to him.” Now it was her turn to clamp her lips tightly, for fear that he might see them tremble.

In truth, what was the worst that could happen? Prince John might wish to tup her, and, well, she was no virginal maid. She’d endured Harold’s attentions as his wife. ’T could be no worse under . . . dear God,
under
. . . the prince.

“Your choice is to submit either to the prince . . . or to me.”

Marian looked up at him, feeling her jaw sag slightly.
It’s either him or me . . . and I won’t draw blood.

Now his rushed words made sense to her, words that she’d barely heard in the blast of anger and mortification that he should have used her the way he did in the hall.

She felt the waves of tension rolling off him as if they were heat from a fireplace.

“I’ve already made my claim,” he said. The words came out sharp and hard. “But if you prefer the prince—”

“No,” she said. “No, Will.” She drew in a deep breath. She didn’t really know this man any more than she knew the prince, and if the rumors were correct, he was as brutal as the Angevin. But his stark promise seemed sincere.
I won’t draw blood. Or leave bruises.
“I do not prefer the prince.” She snatched in her breath and looked around, afraid that her words might have been overheard.

“Then you have made your choice,” he said after a moment frozen in silence.

“Make no mistake,” she said, stepping back from him. “I prefer to make no choice at all.”

“You haven’t that freedom, Marian,” he said. “Make no mistake: if you aren’t with me, you will be with John. He accepts nay from no one. Nor is he swayed from his desires. You will attend him tonight, as my guest.”

Marian looked up at him, trying to read his face. Shadowed, closed, he looked as frightening as John sounded. She swallowed back a little shiver and said, “So you will protect me from John?”