Out in the bailey, with the sun still below the horizon, even the texture of the keep’s stones was barely visible and the yard was as quiet as it ever got-which was to say that there were only a few serfs scurrying about. The night watchmen posted above paid no heed to them and Will was glad for it. Alys did not need to be seen in his company.
She made her preparations swiftly while he looked beyond the narrow window slit, uneasy and yet acquiescing. If he could push the thoughts, the shame, the memories, from his mind for a bit, mayhap rest would clear his mind. And help prepare him for what would come.
The draught Alys pressed upon him carried the taste of chamomile and something else he could not identify. He sat on the simple bed in the small, quiet structure and found that, in doing so, it brought his face just a bit lower than Alys’s. When she turned toward him, he stilled and lowered the cup.
The look in her eyes was unmistakable and before he could rebuff her, she rested a light hand on his shoulder. And leaned forward.
The first brush of her lips was featherlight, little more than a tickle. And then she pressed harder, fitting her top-heavy mouth against his more closely. She slipped the tip of her tongue out, over the seam of his mouth. Will did not move, did not close his eyes. Did not shift closer for more.
Nor did he pull back. He would not offend her thus. Alys stepped aside, her hand falling from his shoulder. “Would that I could ease you in other ways. But it appears that I cannot. Rest you well, my lord. I pray you’ll find the ease you crave.”
She turned to go, and he stopped her. “Alys.” He groped for the words; he was unused to speaking gently, to taking care with his language. “I am most grateful.”
“Rest you well,” she said quietly again. And she left him.
He moved to lie supine, guilt-ridden, unsettled, weary.
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.
Why?
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.
