Colette Gale - Bound by Honor

Its weakened flame danced tall shadows and a muted glow up around them as he dragged her against his chest. His fingers bit into the backs of her shoulders as he bowed toward her, his mouth covering hers as she lifted her face to meet it.

At first, she felt the desperation and drive in his kiss, the harshness. Was he trying to frighten her with brutality?

Yet after a moment, his lips softened, and he sagged against her, gathering her body up into his, loosening his grip on her torso. His mouth was no longer flat and hard but sensual and hot, his tongue sweeping the inside of her mouth as though he must taste every bit of her.

Dizzy, huddled against him, Marian closed her eyes, smelled his smoky, clean smell, felt the impossible breadth of his shoulders beneath her fingers, the pounding of his heart under her palms. She tasted wine and spice in his mouth, the soft sensual swipe of his lips as they slipped and slid and formed to hers, over and over.

Oh, aye. Oh, aye.

Except in her dreams, only once before had he kissed her . . . that first night in the hall, when he placed his claim on her. But this was nothing like that unemotional taking. This was hot and lovely, bringing her body alive and awake, making her breathless and weak.

Just as she was about to slip from the upper step into him, to lean fully against his strong body, he pulled back and fairly shoved her away. His eyes wild and dark in the sketchy light, his lips parted, breathing as if he’d just run a league, he stepped back, down, away.

“Get you away from me, Marian. Go.” Will’s voice was terrible. Low, but filled with loathing that matched the expression in his eyes. “Now.”

“Will,” she began, trying to collect her thoughts, wanting to drag him back down to her-but then he startled her, striding up the steps, brushing past her and ascending into the darkness above.

“Leave me be.” The command filtered down to her, and the sound of his boots scraping against the gritty stone faded.

Knees weak, breathing rushed and harsh, she leaned against the wall for a moment, trying to catch her breath, to assimilate the sudden change in him: from a moment of sleek passion to one of . . . disgust.

Aye, but not merely disgust.

Fear.

It had been both that sent him away, fear and loathing. There’d been real terror in his eyes, mingling with revulsion.

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?”

He glanced into the darkness where Alys’s presumed guide had melted into the shadows. He suspected he knew who it was. “Back out to the village again, to visit the sick?” he asked.

Her eyelids flickered. “Aye.”

He noticed she carried a sack that bulged awkwardly. Presumably, she carried either her medicines or her personal belongings. “Did I not offer you escort-nay, did I not insist that I provide you with a man to ensure your safety if you were thus called again?”

“Aye, my lord, but I have my own escort. I’ll come to no harm this night.” Again, her eyes flickered toward the shadows.

He recognized this gesture as her nervous sense of urgency, but he was not quite ready to allow her to pass. Not until he had his own concerns allayed. In an effort to keep his next words indistinguishable to anyone but Alys, he moved closer, but took care not to block the light from an overhead sconce. He wanted a clear view of her face.

“You are a healer,” he said, looking at her with unrelenting eyes. “Will the tainted meat cause harm to anyone?”

At once he saw that she understood what he knew, and what worried him. “Nay, my lord,” she said, reaching to close her fingers briefly onto his wrist. “I give you my word. No real ill will come of the tainted meat. Aye, some discomfort, but that is the most of it. I swear it.” She lifted a silver filigree crucifix from under her neckline, clasping her fingers about it in oath.

He searched her eyes, and saw them completely bereft of guile . . . and filled with something like understanding. Will stepped back, hooding his gaze from her knowing one, and nodded. “Aye, then, Lady Alys. You have put my fears to rest. Now, may I escort you through the bailey, at the least.”

His words were not a request but a command. And when she acquiesced, he had a clearer glimpse of her guide, who’d thus far remained in the shadows. But as they walked through the hall and out into the bailey, the other man passed beneath a torch such that Will was able to see his face.

He recognized him at once: Allan-a-Dale.

A companion of Locksley.

CHAPTER 15

“Is he badly hurt?” Alys asked as the man led her through the darkness.

She didn’t know his name. She’d awakened to her maid’s gentle shaking, and gone out to see the man, who’d said only, “We need your assistance, lady healer. Will you come?”

She’d risen hastily. She knew him to be Robin Hood’s companion, for she’d seen him during her short captivity in the tree hideaway. Some of her salves and herbs were already in the bag, but she shoved more in, along with a sharp knife and some clean linen cloth. Without knowing the nature of the problem they had called her to help with, she knew she must be as prepared as she could.

Outside the keep, her guide, who at last told her his name was Allan, walked quickly. Besides offering his name, he spoke not at all, and expected her to keep pace with him. She wasn’t certain whether it was because he did not care that her legs were shorter or because he was in a great hurry to return, but she had trouble doing so.

“Did you fetch me for Robin?” she asked finally.

“Aye,” he said, responding to her question. “We can do naught more, and he has lost much blood. The arrow slid betwixt two ribs beneath his breast and he has not been able to breathe since. ’Tis broken off inside.”

Alys increased her pace, deeply worried. “Does he sound wet when he breathes?” she asked.

“Aye, as though he is breathing through water.”

Nay. Oh, nay, that was not good. Alys’s heart sank. “Does he speak?”

“Nay. He makes no response.”

A pang struck her deep in the belly. Robin could die. He likely would. There was naught she or any leech or healer could do if the chest was pierced and the breathing was wet. And with a piece of arrow lodged within . . .

Alys drew in a deep breath, walking as quickly as her short legs would allow, her hems dragging along ground still damp from recent rain. She’d not even paused to braid her hair, merely tied it with a loose thong.

Nay. Not Robin. Not bold, foolish, grinning Robin. Robin of the kind heart and overgreat thoughts of himself. Nay.

She began to pray.

Allan led her quickly across the bridge from the bailey, down into the street of the village. Had he not brought a horse? Must they walk far into the wood? It would be hours before they arrived, and his life could be slipping away. . . . They must go faster.

A shadow pulled away from the darkness in front of them, and transformed into a man leading a horse.

“Alys,” he said as they came nearer.

“Robin?” She could not contain the leap of relief, and . . . joy. “You are not hurt?”

“Nay. Not I. I told Allan to fetch you for me, for one of my men. You came.” Gone tonight was the playful smile, the eyes gleaming with humor. Robin was sober and serious, cloaked in a dark wrap that added to his austerity.

She understood now the mistake she had made when Allan had spoken. “Aye, of course,” she said, moving toward him. She felt nothing but an odd relief beneath her continuing apprehension.

“We will go faster on the horse,” he said, as if asking permission to lift her into the saddle. His behavior was so subdued, so respectful . . . yet she sensed his underlying urgency.

“Aye, let us go quickly,” she agreed.

He lifted her into the saddle and vaulted in behind her, settling his thighs about hers and his arms around her as he reached for the reins.

“Why did you send Allan for me?” she asked. “Why did you not come yourself?”

Why did you allow me to think ’twas you who lay dying?

“When last we met, you warned me never to come to you again. I did not wish to chance that you would call the sheriff or the prince’s men down upon me. This night, I had no time to waste. Fergus is dying.” His voice remained stiff and cool, and his arms impersonal. There was no gentle brushing against her, or surreptitious fingers over her breasts or thighs.

Not even the thought of a kiss in his glance.

Alys’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. He had taken her at her word. He’d stayed away because she ordered him to, and came to her only when his friend was in dire need.

Why did she suddenly feel empty and bereft? She wanted naught to do with the outlaw.

Didn’t she?

But she was very aware of his presence behind and about her. And her relief when she saw him standing there, uncertain yet hale and well, had shocked her. Pure joy that, for a moment, had knocked away the urgency to get to the injured man.

“Hold tight,” Robin murmured into her ear, one arm closing around her belly. The horse bolted forward, leaving the village behind and tearing into the dark forest.

Alys closed her eyes and tried not to whimper. She could see very little of the half-moon once they entered the wood, for the trees were thick and they were going so very fast. Robin’s torso felt solid and steady behind her, and his legs in their tight braies kept her from tipping or sliding.

The stallion leapt and bounded and Alys clutched its mane, turning her face away so that her cheek brushed Robin’s cloak and her hood protected her face. A stick scratched her arm, and another caught at her hood and in her hair, but they kept on, Robin shifting forward or to the side to avoid as much of the brush as possible.

At last she felt him draw back on the reins and even before they were fully stopped, he slipped from the saddle. Strong hands pulled her down, and she found herself faced with the same rope ladder up which she’d been taken as a prisoner by the massive John Little.

This time, she hauled up her skirts, tucking them into her girdle, and climbed up quickly. The ladder swayed as Robin followed. Alys closed her eyes-for she could see little, as it was dark-and felt her way to the top. The soft rhythmic creaking of the rope against bark and wood guided her closer to the opening in the floor above.