Mojitos with Merry Men (7 page)

"How do you fare?" he asks. "Do you think you would be able to hold down a bit of stew?"

My stomach growls, and I realize I'm starving. At the same time, I'm pretty sure the main entrée on the menu is slaughterhouse deer, not corn. Can we say,
No, thank you?

"I'm okay," I lie, sitting up. "Don't really have my appetite back yet."

Robin nods—without condemnation, thank goodness. "Aye," he agrees. "You did well, though," he says, squatting down to my level. "When my father first showed me how to skin a deer, I ran screaming at the first cut."

"Really?" I ask, surprised by his admission. Here I was ready for him to make fun of me some more. Tear me down so he could build himself up. Like Danny used to.

He laughs. "I know 'tis hard to picture, but I was not always the strong, strapping man you see before you," he says, patting his chest with a silly grin.

"I see." I say, smiling back despite myself. "So what's your story, anyway? How did you turn into this big bad outlaw guy?"

The smile fades from his face. "Eh, 'tis a long sad tale," he says with a shrug. "Surely you'd rather go out to the fire and hear Alan a Dale spin a song of adventure."

"Maybe in a bit," I say, not willing to drop it. I want to hear his story, and no song or dance is going to tempt me away. So many things about the Robin Hood legend have turned out different than what you read in the storybooks or see in the movies. I'm all about gathering the real truth while I'm here. After all, if I'm stuck back in time waiting for King Richard's return, I might as well learn something. Unlike Kat, who I'm sure whittled away her hours drunk and dancing on tables at the local pubs. Probably charming the knights with some rousing Katy Perry karaoke or the like.

Bleh.

"I'm kind of cozy here, to tell you the truth." I stretch out my arms and run my hands down the soft furs to prove my point. That is, until I realize what I'm doing. Ew. I pull my hands away. Essentially, I'm lying in a pile of dead animals. Cozy would not be the right word.

"Well, don't be getting used to it," Robin says. "'Tis my bed you lie in. And I plan to take it back when I'm ready to lay my own head down."

"Sure. It's all good," I say as casually as possible, feeling my eyes burn a bit as I realize I've taken over his bed. I don't know why. I mean, it's just a pile of skins on the floor. But still… Kind of intimate, I guess. Thinking about him curling up underneath the furs. Relaxing his muscles as sleep overtakes his body. I wonder if he sleeps naked. Not that I care. Really.

"Uh, how about you tell me your story?" I say, suddenly desperate to change the subject. At the very least, I want to stop the blush that I can feel heating my pale face. It's dark but not that dark.

He stares at the far side of the tent for a moment, his eyes glazed and his expression contemplative. I study him in the semi-darkness. He really is a good-looking guy, and his close proximity is doing funny roily things to my insides. Half of me (the brave, lusty Miley Cyrus half) wants to grab him and drag him down into the bed and have my way with him. After all, thanks to Danny's infidelity, it's been awhile. But the other half (the pathetic, cowardly,
not like any celebrity I can think of
half) manages to restrain my inner Miley. After all, I don't know this guy or anything about him, save the legends—which, so far, have proven sadly inaccurate. Not to mention, he thinks I'm a eunuch, which would, I'd imagine, make him a bit squeamish if not
running screaming from the tent altogether-ish
were I to suddenly attempt to molest him.

Still, he does smell good. Musky. Smoky. Of the earth, yet with a hint of sky.
Eau du Outlaw.
Not something they'd stock at Neiman's, but it's certainly turning me on. He stretches his arms above his head, and his tunic tightens across his chest. I steeple my fingers to restrain myself from reaching out and touching someone. Him. I imagine tearing off his tunic, tracing his six-pack abs with eager fingers. Pushing him down onto the furs. Feeling him. Then he'll push me roughly onto my back and tear off my clothes so he can take me as I've never been taken before.

Robin clears his throat, breaking through the thick walls of my ridiculous fantasy. I shake my head in disgust. What am I doing, going on about this guy?
Sexually frustrated much, Chris?
After all, I'm not even technically divorced yet. Not that Danny waited for such technicalities. Heck, he didn't even wait for the honeymoon credit card bills to be paid off. (Yes, we were married seven years, but paying the minimum each month doesn't exactly bring down your balance.) Still, I'm certainly not ready for a new relationship. I should be healing. Learning to live on my own, not going and jumping the first sexy legendary outlaw that crosses my path. Even were this guy Ryan Gosling himself, I'd do best to stay clear. (Hey girl, I want to be your merry man…)

Then again, there is that whole theory of rebound relationships. Maybe a romp in the forest with someone who lived and died eight hundred years before me could be just what the doctor ordered. After all, it's not like he could go all
Fatal Attraction
on me once I go back to the 21st century.

But it seems it's not meant to be. At least not tonight. Because before I can say anything or do anything that I'd probably end up regretting, catcalls from the Merry Men suddenly erupt outside. Cheering, jeering, an all-around ruckus really. Loud as Red Sox fans after a game, and I half expect a "Yankees Suck!" chant to fly through the night. Robin's face lights up, and he grabs me by the hand, pulling me to my feet.

"Something's afoot," he says gleefully, his somber spell broken. He's funny that way—his moods change from one to the other with hardly any warning. "Shall we see what it could be?"

I crawl out from under the blankets and scramble to my feet, following him through the tent curtains (no, I do not steal another glance at his butt, really!) into the outside air. It's gotten quite cold now that the sun has gone down, and I wrap my arms around my body in a feeble attempt to garner some warmth. It had been summer back in New York. It's cold enough to be late autumn here. And there's no central heating in Sherwood Forest. Just like when my mother "forgot" to pay the gas bill for six months straight, and they turned off our heat. I remember the ice crystals forming on the inside of the windows of our tiny Hoboken apartment, my little brother and me crawling under piles of ratty blankets, desperate to get warm. It wasn't long after that social services showed up. But once I got to my warm foster home, I realized I hadn't minded the cold that much.

The cooking fire's been built up to blazing proportions, reminding me of a Burning Man festival, without all the art installations. Or the girls in fuzzy boots, for that matter. The men stand around the fire, but the flames are not what have their attention. Every last pair of eyes is focused on whatever's behind the crackling blaze. I follow Robin around the pit for a better glimpse of what all the men have found so enthralling. My eyes widen when I realize what it is. Or rather who it is.

A woman. (Though not in fuzzy boots, thank goodness.)

I'd peg her as thirty, though the wrinkles around her watery blue eyes make her seem much older. She's blonde, on the heavy side, and certainly blessed in the chest department. Sort of a medieval Rebel Wilson. She's wearing a thin, low-cut peasant's dress, her stringy hair pulled back into a bun. Not exactly your stereotypical Penthouse Pet, but the men seem pretty excited all the same. Guess they don't get women much in Sherwood Forest.

Next to her is a small boy. I recognize him immediately as the one I saved earlier from the sheriff's men. Small world.

"What is the meaning of this?" Robin demands. I glance over at him. His mischievous expression is gone, replaced by a distinctly annoyed scowl. Whoever this woman is, she's clearly not welcome here. A spurned lover, perhaps? Nah, Robin wouldn't date anyone so skanky. Would he?

The woman looks nervous as she bows low to Robin. "I beg yer pardon, good sir," she says in a quavering voice. "But I be the wife of Much the Miller, one of yer men." She points over to the far corner of the camp where the lookout guy I met earlier is trying to blend into the shadows. I guess his wife's visit was an unexpected surprise for him as well.

"That may be so, but what brings you to my lair?" Robin asks, folding his arms across his chest. "You should know strangers are not welcome here. It troubles me greatly that you knew the way to the secret lair to begin with." He shoots an accusatory glance in Much's direction. The miller jumps behind a tree. He is
so
busted.

"But good sir, I came to thank ye. For savin' the life of me son when the sheriff's men went after him this day. He came home tellin' tales of ye riskin' yer life by attacking one of the sheriff's men's horses, allowin' him his escape."

Robin narrows his eyes, glancing back at me this time. I know what he's thinking: no good deed goes unpunished. But still. I shrug. I mean, what's the big deal? I think it's sweet that the boy's mom came all this way to thank him. Even though, technically, I should be getting the credit here. Good old heroic Robin was more than ready to let little Much Jr. go through life as Captain Hook to save his own neck. But does he give props to me? Uh, no. Typical man.

"'Twas nothing," the outlaw says with a shrug. Yeah, nothing for him, exactly, considering he did nothing. "All in a day's work. Now was that all ye came for? And will ye be leaving soon?"

"Aw, come on, Robin, let them stay for a drink," cajoles Friar Tuck. "We should toast her son's health, we should. Or yours, for being such a brave man and risking yer life to save a lad."

"Aye, Robin, let them stay for a bit of stew." This from Little John. Always thinking about his stomach, this guy. "We have enough left over to feed the entire kingdom, and I'm fair sure they must be starving from their long journey."

"A grand idea. And I'll compose a song of your brave rescue," Allan a Dale declares, grabbing his instrument from a nearby rock and strumming an impromptu tune.

"Much the Miller's son attacked a deer,

I think he shot it in the rear.

So the sheriff wanted to cut off his arm

He'd then be useless on the farm
—"

"Quiet!" Robin says, looking seriously annoyed at this point. Jeez Louise! What crawled up his butt and died? "We have rules here and rules for a reason. They shall not be broken nor excepted to. We all signed the sacred code when we first banded together, did we not?"

"But Robin, it's just—"

"No women!" he declares, his eyes flashing. "The Good Lord says they tempted Adam with the apple, and surely, if given the option, they will tempt you all as well. They will make you weak and will divide your loyalty. Not to mention, they never come alone. If I let her stay, tomorrow I am sure the place will be crawling with your wives and girl children.
No.
You have said your piece, milady. Now please, go back to your village, and leave us be."

Wow. This is an interesting morsel. I stare at Robin. He really has a thing against chicks, huh? Thank goodness he doesn't know what I really am, or I'd so be tossed out into the wild. And then where would I be? No safe place to go. With all the poverty here, I doubt anyone else would agree to take me in and feed me. And it's not like I have a good skill-set to fall back on to get any sort of job. Magazine photographer isn't exactly a lucrative 12th-century career.

Nope. If I don't keep up this eunuch charade, I'm toast.

Much the Miller steps out feebly from the shadows. "Come along, my dears," he mumbles, trying to take his wife by the arm. "I will lead ye home."

But the woman stands fast, and the boy stubbornly clings to her skirts. "Nonsense, my dear husband," she says, crossing her meaty arms under her chest. The move succeeds in accentuating her cleavage—something not lost on a single merry man in camp, I'd wager, judging by the wide eyes around me. "'Tis late and the roads are dark and dangerous—crawling with thieves and wild beasts," she says, evidently the only one willing to stand up to Robin. I guess it makes sense. She has the least to lose. Though Much is looking like he'd be perfectly happy to crawl under a rock and die at this point. "Would you save the child one moment, only to kill his mother the next? Would that please you? To have my son grow up without a mother?"

You tell him!
I smile to myself, admiring the woman's courage.
Score one for Mrs. Much.

"If you truly cared for your safety, you should not have come in the first place," Robin counters stubbornly.

Grr. He's clearly not going to give in without more persuasion. And while it's not exactly my strong point, I suddenly feel compelled to come to the aid of my fellow sister soul.

"Duh. She came to
thank
you," I find myself interjecting. Not that I have much hope it'll work. I mean, if he won't even listen to his own men, how can I really expect Rob to listen to me, a virtual stranger? "She appreciates what you did to save her son's life. And do you say, 'You're welcome'?" I ask. "Do you say, 'Stay and have a drink with the men'? No, you ungrateful jerk. You think it's totally fine to just send her away, even though you know for a fact she could end up being eaten by a lion, a tiger, or bear."

Oh my!
I stop talking and hold my breath, realizing I just came off way too strong for my own good. I mean, what if Robin decides to throw me out of the camp with her? Then where will I be? Probably dead. I wonder what happens if I die back in the 12th century. Will I zip back to the 21st? Or is it game over? And if I die, what will happen to Kat? Will Nimue send someone else to get the Grail? Or is the fashionista SOL?

This time-travel stuff is way confusing.

I gather my courage and steal a glance at Robin. I offer him a sheepish smile, praying it will work.

"Sorry. Got carried away," I say with a small shrug. "All that church learning, I guess. Do unto others, turn the other cheek, all that jazz."