“Do not come near me again,” she said, brushing past him. “If I had my wish, you’d rot in gaol.”
“You must tell me,” he said, his voice grinding after her. “Is it Nottingham?”
“I wish it were,” she said, a horrible sob catching at her voice. “Leave me be or I will call him down on you. The next time I see you, I will.” She managed to force out the threat as she picked up her skirts and ran.
Away.
Why could it not have been the sheriff?
Why did it have to be this man, this scoundrel . . . this fool, this shallow, deceitful outlaw . . . who owned her heart?
Marian woke the following morrow feeling restless.
She’d been unable to keep from reliving those moments in John’s chamber, writhing and moaning over the back of the barrel . . . and the relief and pleasure Will had given her. A combination of mortification and discomfort accompanied memories of her wantonness, yet she still felt the fulfillment of coupling with him, such as it were. That lovely, full slide of him filling her . . .
She closed her eyes fiercely. She would not think of it.
Naught changed the fact that he was a blackhearted brute, but she could not deny that he’d given her what she needed. And that he’d taken what he obviously wanted.
Or had he?
She couldn’t banish the memory of his face, his hard, tortured expression, as he moved inside her. And afterward, he’d been just as rigid, just as stoic as ever. Even . . . angry.
Marian rose and called for Ethelberga to assist her in dressing, then went belowstairs to the chapel. She was a bit surprised to find that Catherine, Joanna, and Pauletta attended Mass-although their faces and frequent yawns bespoke the lateness of their night. After all, Marian and Will had left before they did.
Although . . . it was more than possible that Will had returned after depositing her so unceremoniously in her chamber. Marian found herself eyeing Pauletta in a different light-all three of the ladies, in fact, but Pauletta most of all. Watching the woman, she noticed for the first time how sly her eyes were. And the way her mouth twitched in a feline smile.
Had Will returned to the chamber, and partaken of her offerings?
And why would it matter to Marian if he did?
It did not.
It could not.
She swept from the chapel after Mass, bestowing upon the trio of ladies what she hoped was a smile that matched theirs in smugness, and went through the great hall. She did not wish to sit at the trestle table and watch them break their fast, particularly if Will happened to be there.
She was not quite ready to face him yet.
At the back of the hall, she stopped a serf boy and bade him fetch her a piece of cheese and an apple with which to break her fast. When he returned moments later, she left the hall and went out into the bailey.
The September sun shone bright and warm this morning, and it took her a moment to adjust to the brightness. As she crunched into her apple, she saw Alys emerge from one of the smaller outbuildings.
“Good morrow,” she greeted her friend.
“Marian,” Alys said. “My goodness, the sun is high. I trow I’ve missed Mass again, haven’t I?”
“Aye, but what were you doing in there?”
“ ’ Tis the herbary, and I had prepared a draught in the night and came to see if it had taken for its patient.”
Marian fell into step next to her friend, noticing the dark circles under her eyes. “You look weary, Alys. Did your maid’s sister call you out again in the night?”
She shook her head, smiling a bit sadly. “Nay. I could not sleep and went to the chapel. There I came upon the one in need of my assistance. But now he is gone.”
At that moment, Marian realized what her friend had said, and a sudden thought . . . a wonderfully brilliant idea . . . settled into her mind. “A sleeping draught?”
“Aye.”
“Could you make one for me? One that would put a man to sleep?”
Alys looked at her shrewdly and at first, Marian thought she might decline. But then her friend nodded and said, “I could do such a thing. But mayhap you will tell me about its purpose whilst I brew it?”
Marian nodded. “I will.”
Inside the herbary, Marian found herself intrigued by the long wide table covered with neat stacks of wooden and clay bowls. Clay jars sat on shelf after shelf with markings on them, and a variety of utensils, buckets, platters, bowls, mortars, and pestles arrayed the table and another counter behind it. In a smaller room beyond, she caught sight of a narrow bed. A black cauldron hung over a happy blaze in the fireplace, steam coming from within.
“We are alone,” Alys said. “The alewife comes in to build the fire in the morning, but she has gone back to her house to check on her brew. The leechman and midwife who use these stores are busy in the village. Now tell me who it is you wish to put to sleep . . . and why.”
Marian considered for a moment whether to tell Alys the entire truth. After all, putting medicinals in the prince’s drink could be considered treason, even if it wasn’t meant to harm him.
