She held her skirts out of the way and stepped down to reach for the foundering torch. When she lifted it, the flames tipped upright and caught more strongly. Marian hurried up the steps, her knees trembling, her fingers bracing against the gritty, damp stone, but her breathing better controlled. She wasn’t certain why he’d thrust her away and run. . . . It couldn’t be that she disgusted him, could it? No, she remembered all too well his words: I do not deny ’twould please me greatly.
Nay, she did not think he found her abhorrent. He might prefer sweet, delicate Alys, or sensual, catlike Pauletta, but he was not disgusted by her. That she knew for certain.
She hurried up the stairs, and at the top of them, she came out into the darkened great hall. A few low rumbling snores met her ears, and she recognized several shapes of men slumped over the tables, well asleep. But no tall, broad-shouldered sheriff.
Disappointed, she began to walk into the hall when a shadow detached itself from the wall at the head of the stairs. “Lady Marian.”
She didn’t recognize the voice and reared back a bit, her heart pounding unpleasantly. Lifting her torch toward him, she demanded, “Who is it?”
The man stepped into her torchlight and she recognized one of Will’s men-at-arms.
“Nottingham directed me to escort you safely to your chamber,” he said with a little bow.
Marian’s mouth tightened. So he had truly run away, and left one of his own men to see to her.
What she did not know was whether ’twas cowardice or disgust that had the Sheriff of Nottinghamshire shirking his duty.
Will watched from deep in the shadows as Merle escorted Marian from the hall.
To his overwhelming relief, she did not appear to be overset. There were no tear streaks on her cheeks, and although she’d started when Merle appeared in front of her, there was no terror on her face. He’d not torn at her clothing, nor pulled her hair down.
Not that he could recall anything but her taste and softness, and his own great need, once he pulled Marian against him. A whirl of pleasure and comfort, and, damn him, hope. A moment of hope.
By the saints, his fingers still shook. His lips still throbbed from their assault on her lush pink ones. His cock felt as though it were ready to explode, as if it were as hot as the smith’s iron.
Yet a great emptiness left him cold and brittle. A familiar feeling, but more acute this night.
If he’d not come to his senses, he’d have rutted her against the wall right there. Like a whore-the whore he’d watched her-nay, forced her-to become. But this time it would have been without the bloody, lickspittle prince watching over them.
Will brought a shaking hand over his face. Was he going mad?
He’d protected her as well as he could, and damn him if he was actually considering ways to keep John from her. Forceful ways.
Treasonous ways.
Where was Richard? He’d heard naught from the king for three moons, after having regular missives and directives. Watch you over my brother. Do what you must to gain his trust. Become his closest ally. What you do, you do in loyalty to Us, and We will know this.
But for so long there’d been naught from the king. Had he forgotten his loyal man? Left him to live a life where all thought the worst of him, where he’d destroyed any chance of having the woman he loved?
Will swallowed hard, refusing to taste the bile that still churned in his belly. There was naught left to erupt but the worst of it, the acidic bitters that stung throat and mouth.
He’d believed there’d never be anything as glorious as having her, at last. And then, in all her lush, gold-brushed beauty, arched over the barrel, he could no longer find a way to avoid it.
Or so he told himself.
If he had not done so, John would have. And Ralf.
Or so he told himself.
’Twas better that he violated her than John. Or the others.
Was it not?
Or had he merely lied to himself about that too?
I don’t wish any of this-you or the prince or even to be here at Ludlow. Are you mad? I wish for none of this!
Those words burned into his brain, haunted his dreams even as he took and coaxed from her in the murkiness of sleep, in the deepest part of the night, in the depths of his mind. Those words wakened him in the blackness, leaving him dank with sweat and ripe with shame.
Will. Please.
He swallowed, hearing the low scratch of his throat convulsing, and scrubbed a hand over his face. When he removed it, he noticed quite by accident a lithe shadow moving across the nearly empty hall.
The slender shadow was a woman, and she appeared to be following a taller, more solid figure. A furtive one. If Will had not recognized the cloak she wore, or found the figure familiar in its shape and movement, he may not have investigated. But he knew who it was, and he eased from the shadows.
This caused her to stop in her tracks, rearing back at first in fear. But then she must have identified him, for she eased her stance. “Nottingham,” said Lady Alys. “Is there something I can do for you?”
