To his credit, he released her arm as soon as she was out of sight of the watchman, encompassed by shadow in the corner between the bakehouse and the alehouse. He released her arm, aye . . . but he stood so close to her, with the wall behind her, that she felt closed in. Trapped. She swallowed and pressed the pads of her fingers into the rough straw and mud wall behind her. In the near dark, she felt his gaze heavy on her, saw the faint gleam of his eyes.
“A truce?” she said, simply for something to say. Her mouth was altogether too dry, making it difficult to swallow. “Or did you wish to lure me into a dark corner for something else? Did you not learn the last time?”
“I learned how well your voice carries,” he said, and she saw the flash of white behind his beard. The contrite Robin had gone, replaced by the charming outlaw. The one who wooed lady after lady in dark corners such as this one. Who flaunted the law, and dared to show his face where it did not belong.
A wave of disgust rose anew and Alys thought for a moment she would push past him and stalk away. But then . . . she looked up consideringly. Since he’d learned naught of her the last time, mayhap she must teach him a better lesson.
The night waned, yet it still floated gray about them . . . gray and subtle, enclosing them in a sort of private fog. Too early for anyone to be up, too late for revelers to be seeking their beds. The knowledge emboldened her, and the sense of being awake at such an odd time gave her the impression of acting in a dream.
She realized he was looking at her, and that the air felt charged with the same sort of tension as a thunderstorm, jagged with lightning.
She’d done it already once this night . . . why not a second time? At the least, she knew Robin would not stand like a statue. And mayhap she remembered it wrong. Mayhap on the heels of Nottingham, it would be no great incident.
“Alys,” he began, but he never finished. For she reached up and pulled his head down to hers.
The first touch of lip to lip was not so different from moments ago when she brushed over Nottingham’s set mouth . . . but only for that first breath. Then his mouth softened in welcome and she shifted closer, felt his lips gentle and part slightly, the brush of his beard and mustache like prickling silk. She felt the whoosh of breath from him, his hands resting tremulously on her shoulders as if unwilling to pull her closer, as if he was afraid to touch her, but unable to keep from doing so. Light and tentative.
Then she became lost in the kiss, their lips forming to each other and tongues slipping between them to curl and stroke. His mouth was sleek and warm, fitting to hers, making her close her eyes, forget who this was and where they were. Her hands came to rest on the front of his chest, feeling the solidness there, the warmth, and the pounding of his heart.
It matched hers.
Now his hands moved with more freedom, his hips pressing into hers, trapping her between him and the wall. His hands at her back, pulling her close, as if he wished to draw her into his body. A sensual mouth, sliding along her jaw to kiss an ear, then down to close his lips on the soft skin of her neck, over and over, his strong tongue stroking, pushing into her sensitive skin. She gasped and seized up, arching against him at the sensation . . . the tickling pleasure that swarmed her, settling low in her belly.
“Ah, Alys,” he murmured, lifting his face away to look down at her. “I knew it. . . .”
She shoved him away, her mouth open in shock, the languid pleasure evaporating. Nay. Not him. The anger she’d felt earlier, leaving Nottingham’s side, came back in a great wave.
“Alys,” Robin said, reaching for her again, his mouth in a smile that she could suddenly discern. The sun had begun to spill its rays over the horizon, and now she could see more. . . . She saw the man who loomed over her now. His twinkling eyes, his disarming grin.
“Nay, Robin,” she said, pushing against his chest when he would have gathered her up again.
The light ebbed from his eyes, and his mouth settled. He resisted her attempts to shove him back, held steady against her effort. “Is it Nottingham?”
Nay. And that infuriated her the most. What she’d felt when she kissed the sheriff was nothing, nothing, compared with what this man did to her. This outlaw, who kissed every lady who was foolish enough to be wooed into a dark corner.
“Release me,” she said, her voice rising mayhap higher than it ought.
“Hush,” he said, looking with concern at the rising sun and the nearness of the watchman.
“Release me.” She shoved hard at his chest, frightened by the way her knees trembled and her heart raced. She would not succumb to this, to him. “I have no desire for your green ribands and your stealthy kisses. Give them to your other ladies.”
He took her at her word-or mayhap it was her strident voice that caused him to step back, eyes wide and hands outspread as though facing a spitting cat. “Alys, please-”
