Colette Gale - Bound by Honor

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.

Inside, she found it to be even worse than she’d feared. John Little and Will Scarlet, two of Robin’s other comrades, sat on small stools. The friar, whose tonsure gleamed in the candlelight as he bent his head, held prayer beads and seemed to be blessing the young man with some sort of aromatic salve. He made a cross on his forehead, and the scent of myrrh wafted through the room.

“The healer is come,” Robin said. “Make you space for her.”

Alys went to Fergus’s side and even in the dim light from the five candles, she saw death in the color of his face. Placing a gentle hand on his chest, she felt for his breathing, and could discern the heaviness of its movement. It was slow, rough, and damp.

Peeling away the shirt that had been cut through in an attempt to remove the arrow, she looked at the wound. Someone had cleaned it as well as possible, and had even placed an herbal poultice on it. She recognized the smells of woad and hyssop.

“Good,” she said, gesturing to the injury and the drying poultice. “I would have done so as well.” She looked at Robin. Her breath caught for a moment as she realized how beautiful his eyes were. Something she’d never noticed before. “But I do not think ’twill be enough.”

His face tight, he knelt next to her. “I feared you would say that. There is naught to be done?”

She shook her head. “Only to pray for him to go peacefully.”

Their eyes met and she felt her breath hitch again as she was caught by his deep blue gaze.

Then he looked away and stood abruptly. “Allan, take her back. There is naught she can do.”

“Nay.” Alys reached for him, fingers around his wrist. It was narrower and more elegant than Nottingham’s. And she felt a slender thong of leather encircling it.

He looked at her again, sorrow and apprehension in his eyes. But naught else. Nothing for her.

“I wish to stay,” she said. And as those words left her lips, she realized that she meant them.

In more ways than one.

The sun was bringing glorious pink and orange light to the world when Fergus FitzHugh breathed his last.

Alys had remained silent, kneeling in a corner of the tree house, dozing a bit during the vigil. She’d divided her time between that, praying for the soul of the young man, and watching Robin. Trying to understand why she felt such relief when she’d learned he wasn’t the injured party, while she felt remorse but no real grief for the one who was. She despised him for his lawless ways, did she not? She thought him a fool and a scoundrel.

Yet . . . her conversation with Marian rang in her head.

He does what Nottingham cannot.

Was it true? Was Robin working with the sheriff?

One thing was certain: she now saw a different side of the outlaw. One whose empathy and concern for his friend shone through, and where he did not sully it with silly flirtation or boastful claims.

He did not acknowledge her presence, and after she announced her intention of staying, he spared her not another look.

When the boy’s body was empty of its life and soul, the friar and John Little wrapped him in a cloth and carried him down from the tree. Robin and the others followed, leaving Alys without a backward glance.

She watched them go, sending prayers with them, and contemplated her choice. She could stay here, or slip back to the keep. She could find her way through the forest, for the keep’s tallest tower peeped over the tops of the trees and would give her direction.

Clearly, Robin cared not whether she stayed or left.

But something compelled her to remain. Mayhap it was the memory of the kiss she’d shared with him . . . the kisses. Or mayhap she merely wished to ask him about Nottingham.

Alys cleared away the remnants of the sickbed, taking the bloodied, soiled linens and adding them to the fire. They would not come clean, and no one would wish to sleep on death’s blankets. She found more blankets and a few furs in a small trunk and arranged them on the pallet. She could send for more of her own linens back at the keep if necessary.

This thought halted her for a moment. She didn’t mean to stay here. What would the queen say?

Nay, but she could share her comforts. She had enough in her trunks at Ludlow to furnish half the village.

The idea settled over her and Alys felt her skin prickle. Robin could distribute them if she gave them to him. He would do it, and he would not have to steal.

To take away the scent of loss, she added a handful of lavender leaves to the kettle of water simmering over the fire and tidied up the room and the four other pallets strewn about. She found a broom and swept the floor, having a moment’s pause about the events of supper the night before. This broom’s bristles were made of stiff straw and fine sticks, very different from the one she used in the herbary.

That one had been made with bristles of the herb called broom, which was commonly used for such an implement. It was also, conveniently, a medicinal plant used to help flush bad humors from the body, and it was that plant that she’d used to make the decoction for Marian last evening. By now, the prince and his companions should have flushed all the bad humors from their bodies and be sleeping quietly.

She hoped Marian had appreciated the reprieve.

No sooner had Alys replaced the broom and thought to look for a bite of cheese or piece of bread to break her fast than she heard sounds below.

The men had returned.

Her heart picked up speed and her stomach swished like a serf woman washing clothes, but she resisted the urge to rush to the window and look down. If Robin was there, he was there. If he was not, she would decide what to do then.

The now-familiar sound of the rope ladder creaking against the wood announced the arrival of someone, and Alys busied herself by stirring the fire. Then stirring the lavender water, releasing its clean, soothing scent into the air.

And not looking toward the hole in the floor from where a head would soon appear.

The sound of boots on clean-swept wood made soft, padding thumps instead of quiet grinding noises. The hair at the base of her neck prickled.

“I will take you back now.”

She was at once grateful that ’twas the voice of Robin and not one of his men sent to do the task, and yet wounded that his first thought was to take her away.

But why would it not be? Had she not made it clear to him, more than once, that she despised him? That she would do whatever she must to bring the sheriff down upon him?

She turned and noted immediately that they were alone. The forest was silent around them. Below, and here among the trees, the only noise was the rustle of leaves brushing the walls of the hideaway and the regular conversation among the grackles and sparrows.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

His eyes flickered over her, then fell away. “I did not expect you to be here when I returned.”

“Robin.” Her fingers were shaking and her stomach fluttered, and she didn’t know why.

“Shall we go? I must confess, I do not wish to take you farther than the edge of the village, Alys. I’m certain you’ll understand why. But-”

“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.

“Alys.” He said her name with reverence, and at last looked up. “Have you lost your senses?”

“Mayhap,” she replied, cradling his chin with her hands again, only a breath away from her bare belly. “But I swear I will become fully crazed if you do not smile at the woman who loves you.”

And that, it seemed, was the proper thing to say. For like the sun’s sudden rise over the horizon, spilling light as if a pair of shutters had been thrown wide, Robin’s face transformed. He smiled at her. The gleam she was used to seeing in his gaze had returned, and the roguish grin, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “I should be even more a fool than I already am to ignore such a threat.”

Then he looked away from her face and moved out of her grip, back onto his haunches, catching her hands in his. She felt the weight of his gaze over her naked torso, saw the flash of hunger in his expression and then the wicked glint of humor back in his eyes. He surged to his feet and scooped her up in his arms as if she were no more than a goose-feather pillow.

As he strode across the room to one of the pallets, he kissed her. Nay, ’twas not a kiss so much as a nibbling . . . a gentle taste of her upper lip, playing it tenderly between his teeth, slipping a sleek tongue up and under it and then fully into her mouth. “You have the most beautiful mouth,” he said against her. “ ’Tis like a juicy plum and I have dreamt on it for too many nights.”

She was lowered onto something soft, but she hardly noticed, for he stood before her and pulled his tunic off, then his shirt, and at last she saw the fine form of his lean, muscled legs . . . and the bulge between them . . . fully outlined by his braies.

Robin’s chest was fine, with wide shoulders that narrowed to a long, lean torso the color of sun-warmed honey. She’d seen bare male bodies many times as a healer, even some as well formed and muscular as this one . . . but none had made her catch her breath or wish to taste them until now. He recognized her expression, and for a moment, the cocky outlaw was back. He stilled and fisted his hands, flexing his arms in front of her so that his upper arms tightened into sleek ropes of muscle and his chest bulged.

Catching her eye, he smiled wickedly. “Aye, you like that, do you?” Then the brashness faded, replaced by something hot and liquid. “Not nearly as much as I do, Alys. I’ve not been able to stop thinking about you, my love.”

“I thought you were the one who was dying,” she said, reaching up to touch those sleek muscles. “Allan did not say who had been injured. He just told me ‘he’ needed me.”

“And so you worried that it was my deathbed you were to visit?” He moved his elegant hands to cover her uplifted breasts. “So beautiful.”