Thus, dressed only in a cloak, Marian hurried behind him-bare of foot, cloak flapping, propelled along by his grip to keep pace with his long strides.
She was breathless by the time they reached her bedchamber, and Marian pulled from Will’s grip. He’d said naught during their quick negotiation of hallways and staircases, rushing her along as if he couldn’t wait to be rid of her. She’d caught a glimpse of his set face, but he made no move to speak or to otherwise acknowledge her presence.
Ethelberga did not answer the door, and the antechamber, where the maid should have been sleeping at this late hour, was empty. A fire burned therein, along with a well-placed wall sconce, giving the chamber good light. Turning to close the door, Marian found Will standing there, his eyes sharp. His presence gave her a start, for he’d seemed so eager to get her back to the chamber and be on his way.
“Your maid is not here?” he said.
“Nay, and what a tongue-lashing she’ll get from me,” Marian said. “Though,” she added with a self-conscious laugh, “I trow I am in no need of her assistance to disrobe this night.”
He didn’t respond to her attempt at humor, and instead stepped over the threshold into the antechamber. She looked up at him, very conscious of the fact that they were alone, and that much had happened this day.
In this chamber, where he’d burst in earlier today and . . .
Pretended to rape her. And then tonight, in the prince’s quarters, when she’d tried to touch him, he’d rejected her overture. Why?
I am no saint, Marian. I do not deny ’twould please me greatly.
Yet . . . he did not touch her when he had the chance.
Nay . . . he had touched her . . . but not for his own pleasure. She swallowed harder as something fluttered in her belly, and she glanced up and found him watching her. Behind him the door gaped open.
Feeling exposed, she pushed it closed, sensing that he was about to speak. Yet he did not appear friendly or the least approachable; his mouth had settled into a flat line and he looked at her as if he didn’t know her. Distant, impersonal.
But she found it difficult to look away from the breadth of his shoulders and the faint sheen on his tanned, dark-haired chest. Marian could see a band of white skin above his low-hanging braies, testament to the fact that he must train or practice in the sunlight without a tunic or shirt.
She’d been gathered against that solid torso, shuddering and trembling, only moments ago. Her mouth became dry and she licked her lips, aware of her nakedness beneath the cloak. His mouth on her breast, his hands between her legs. She swallowed. Heat flushed over her.
“Marian,” he said, his voice rough, impatient. “Are you . . . ?”
She looked up at him, and her insides flipped. He was reaching toward her, his hand moving toward her face. Marian’s heart started pounding and then he touched her, brushing a strand of hair from where it had caught at the corner of her mouth.
A musky scent reached her nose, and she grabbed his wrist, barely able to fit her fingers around it. Though her grip wasn’t strong, he didn’t pull away as she brought his fingers closer. ’Twas her own scent there, still strong on his skin from when he’d stroked her.
Their eyes met over their joined fists, and she gently moved them up and toward his nose. His eyes darkened to black, a tiny glow of the fire reflected there, and his nostrils flared as he drew in the scent. Marian felt weak in the knees at the expression in the black depths. Hunger . . . remorse . . . fear.
“Will,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
Her words seemed to break the spell. His face sharpened; he extricated his hand and stepped back. “You have naught for which to thank me.”
Then he seemed to look around as if seeing the chamber again for the first time, cocking his head. “Step away,” he said, his voice sharp. “I’ll look inside.” He gestured to the door behind her, and she realized with a start that he meant to go into her chamber.
He brushed past, obvious in his attempt to avoid touching her as she stood in front of the door. Shoving it open, he went inside.
“I suspected as much,” she heard him say in a cold voice.
“Nottingham,” came an even response. “I cannot say the same.”
“Robin?” Marian exclaimed, rushing into the room, cloak flapping at her heels.
Indeed. None other but Robin Hood sat comfortably on the stool in the corner of her room, beneath the horse-eye peephole. A fire burned happily, lending a soft glow to the room. He seemed more annoyed than apprehensive about the arrival of the man sworn to hang him.
“Marian! What has befallen you?” Robin shot to his feet when he saw her. Then he spun toward Will, a menacing look on his face. Before Marian could react, he had a knife in his hand. “What has happened?”
“The prince,” Will replied flatly. Ignoring the knife, he advanced. “And you are more a fool than I believed possible.” He looked as if he was about to lunge toward the other man.
