“Robin,” she said again, more urgently. “I see no need to call Nottingham down upon you if you and he have an agreement. He’ll do naught but look the other way regardless.”
Now she saw emotion in his face for the first time. Understanding and a sharpened stance. “What are you speaking of?”
“Robin . . . is that your true name?”
“Aye.”
“You and the sheriff have been working together, have you not?”
He moved away from the hole in the floor, and began to pull up the rope ladder rapidly. Without speaking, he bundled it into a corner and closed the trapdoor. At last he looked up from his crouch, capturing her with blue eyes. The sparkle was not there, the gleam of humor . . . but there was admiration. And wariness. “And you have come to determine this how?”
“Marian and I have exchanged thoughts on the matter. ’Tis the only explanation that makes sense.”
“And so now that you believe I am . . . legitimate? Is that the word? Now that you believe I am legitimate, you suddenly no longer despise me? You are willing to be here without crying down the whole of the prince’s army upon me?” His words lashed out, bitter and rapid. “Simply because Nottingham blesses me?”
Wounded by his attack, Alys stood firm, refusing to allow tears of anger to gather in her eyes. “You brought me here.”
“You could have left. But now you are naught more than the other ladies, aren’t you, Alys? The danger, the intrigue . . . all of that has attracted you against your will, but now that you see I am no danger to you, that I am sanctioned by Nottingham, now ’tis all right for you to come to me.” Disgust lined his face, yet hurt limned his eyes. She recognized it for what it was, and it gave her the courage to speak honestly. For the first time.
“Robin, the truth is . . . I could not forget you. Even when I believed the worst of you. Why do you think I had such a . . . violent reaction?”
His eyes measured her and he rose to his feet, somehow much closer to her than he was moments ago. “I’ve lost a dear friend this day, Alys. I have not thanked you for coming and for being honest. But you must go back to Ludlow now.”
“Why?”
“Because if you do not, I cannot guarantee that my actions toward you will be honorable.”
That confession, laced with a sort of despair, caused a huge warm bubble to burst inside her. Before she knew what she was doing, she stepped toward him, her fingers curling into his warm tunic, pulling him to her.
With a soft groan, Robin released himself from the frozen stance he’d assumed. His mouth crashed into hers as she lifted her face to meet it.
Ah, glorious. If she’d had any lingering doubt, it was banished by the wash of warmth and desire, of rightness, that flooded through her-from the tips of her fingers to the center of her being.
But Robin stepped back, thrusting her away. “Alys, you must go.”
“Nay,” she said, aware that her breathing had grown faster, and how his sudden absence left her utterly cold and bereft.
“Then I will leave, and John Little will escort you back.” He turned and crouched to lift the trapdoor by its heavy leather strap.
Alys moved quickly and stepped onto the wooden plank. “Robin.” She stood there until he was forced to look up at her, and when he did, the burning in his eyes sent another flash of desire through her.
“If you do not move, I cannot guarantee you will stay a maid,” he said. “Please. Alys, do not-” He swallowed and turned away.
She ignored his impassioned plea and moved closer so that the hem of her gown, edged with dirt and mud, brushed over his fingers and covered the toe of his boot. His bent knee pressed into the fall of her skirt, pushing it against her calf.
Alys felt a rush of power when she saw the desperation in his eyes, when she recognized how conflicted he was. Yet her knees trembled as she stood there; her palms grew damp.
Slowly, she moved, pulling free the string that tied her hair back and tossing it aside. Shaking her head, she combed her fingers through the long curling tresses, teasing them forward over her shoulders. “Then I shall wear my hair as a maid one last time.”
“Alys.” His voice was choked, yet he did not move except to look down. “I cannot. . . .”
But his voice trailed off when she took a deep breath and reached forward to touch the top of his head, weaving her fingers into the warmth of his thick hair, sliding them around to cup the bottom of his chin, feeling the prickle of growth there and the wild pulse thumping in his neck.
Then she released him and began to gather up the bulk of her gown, lifting it, raising it quickly before she changed her mind . . . before she realized the madness . . . and pulled it up and over her head.
Robin gasped audibly and kept his face turned away, his gaze trained on the floor. But she suspected that he must now see her slippered feet in their cotton hose in the stead of a muddied hem cascading over it. And if he looked up, he would see her simple sleeping kirtle that ended just above her ankles, and which she now removed in another flurry of cloth.
