Robbin' the Rich

Nottinghamshire, England. Mid-November

The hanging had been announced for three days before the event, nearly a week after Robin had actually been caught. The Sheriff was holding a grand banquet afterward, and had invited everyone—everyone noble, of course. The hanging itself would be open to anyone who wished to watch.

The outlaws’ nerves were twanging as they slipped in among their fellow Saxons come to watch. There were rumors, of course, that Robin Hood couldn’t be killed—that he was some kind of elemental sent by the old gods of England to save her from the Normans; that his merry band of giants and spirits would come and rout the heathen enemy—protecting the poor and oppressed as always; that even though the Prince had hired Guy of Gisbourne, Robin had defeated the devil’s spawn of a man and would escape to triumph again.

Robin’s outlaws knew better, knew far too well that Robin was—while extraordinary—still only human. They were a small group—smaller now; for Robin had been sending people off left and right, some kind of sixth sense telling him that there would be danger, and after Will Scarlet died in the ill-fated rescue attempt three days earlier. There was no way that the bandits alone could rescue England…but they could help Robin, and they would rescue him, or die trying. They had already lost Will; they weren’t going to lose Robin too.

Whether or not their leader had defeated Guy of Gisbourne, however, was debatable. Much was doubtful—if Robin had been under the custody of the Prince’s dark hireling for as long as he had been, it was unlikely that he was able to even draw a bow by now. Alan and Gabe, on the other hand, were convinced that he had triumphed. The others held their own council.

Marian’s palms were sweating by the time the sun had reached its zenith. Oh, please, God, don’t let them have hurt him badly, she prayed, gripping the hilt of small dagger that Robin had left in the soldier’s back. Her long hair had been cut to her shoulders, pinned up and then covered by a cap. Young women weren’t supposed to go to hangings—they were considered far too indelicate, and Marian would’ve attracted undue attention with waist-length hair falling out of her cap.

The Sheriff had decided that Robin’s death would be a full celebration, and had moved its time to the middle of the day so that everyone who wished to see could. There was an archery contest, and stands selling food and trinkets of all shapes and sizes.

A sudden chorus of derisive noises announced his arrival—this Scot was the famous Robin Hood? Where was the Saxon they’d been promised? Who was this imposter, taking the place of their hero?
Marian nearly gasped when she saw that Robin and the Sheriff were already at the scaffold. To her dismay, she saw that his hands were bound tightly behind him, and that he stumbled up the stairs with none of the usual grace he was blessed with. The Sheriff shoved Robin forward, secure in the knowledge that his prisoner would not react to the rough handling.

Robin didn’t, hurting so badly that he merely concentrated on not falling over on his way to the noose.
The outlaws started shoving their ways forward, as close to the scaffold as possible. The noose was being settled over Robin’s head…Marian could hear the soldiers’ raucous laughter as the Prince said something derogatory, could see how pale his face was, how dark eyes and bruises showed up against the white of his skin. The drums started, counting down the seconds of Robin’s life.

The plan was for Little John, Anthony, and Much to slice through the rope with arrows before Robin strangled—it was risky, but the best they’d been able to come up with. Their first rescue attempt had gone badly awry—the Sheriff’s manor had been too well guarded against that kind of attack, and Will had paid the price. Here there were guards, but with three well-aimed arrows, everyone had a much better prospect of survival.

They had this chance and this chance only, though, and timing was everything. Two seconds…. One second…. Much and the others weren’t ready, she could see they weren’t. The people were crowding too close, blocking the way…

“No! Robin!” The Scot’s head jerked towards her before the trapdoor dropped away beneath him with a loud clack.

For a second, it seemed like the rope had broken Robin’s neck, and that he was dead. Her heart stopped beating in her chest at the moment the trapdoor dropped, and he dangled helplessly. But then the outlaw started wrenching his body around, trying to get a boot hooked up over the edge of the scaffold, fighting desperately to relieve the pressure that was cutting off the oxygen that kept him alive. Marian started to breathe again, though not well, as she continued to push through the morass of people between her and the gallows.

The hiss of arrows and the roar of the crowd told her that Little John and the others had finally succeeded. She jumped over the dividing barrier, and ducked beneath the scaffold.

Robin was already struggling to his feet. With a swift slice of his dagger, she freed his hands. He ripped the noose from around his throat with a quick, feral grin of thanks, and dragged her along with him, from under the scaffold. The guards were already starting to make their ways through the crush of furious townspeople—a Scot was better than nothing, they’d decided, as long as they weren’t expected to rescue him. And anything that thwarted the Sherriff and the Prince was to be applauded. They quickly found Little John in the fray, and Much and the other outlaws materialized out of nowhere.

“Spli’ oop—they can’na gi’ us all tha’ way. Dinna go tae camp—meet by the road, like yer headed tae Nor’am’ton,” Robin said quickly, his voice low and harsh with urgency; then jerked Marian along with him as they separated again, to meet up in the forest. The soldiers were bearing down on them now, urged on by promises of wealth and threats of pain by their respective employers: the Sheriff and the Prince.

Marian had never run as quickly as she did now, pulled onward and steadied by Robin’s tight grip on her wrist. They were stopped by only one tiny group of soldiers who, judging by their lack of alertness, were on break. They put up minimal fight, not even managing to seize their weapons before the two outlaws had burst through the cluster of them. Leaving dazed confusion in their wake, Robin and Marian kept running.

Pausing for just a second, to get their bearings and catch their breath at the edge of the trees, Robin slammed into Marian with a cry of warning, shoving her aside. She stumbled, and fell to her knees. He dropped too, briefly, taking the arrow that would have hit her straight in the heart through his shoulder for his trouble.

“What the—Robin!” Fear and shock rang clear in her voice, and he could see that her loch-colored eyes were rather wild as she reached for him.

Gritting his teeth, he snapped the arrow off, so he wouldn’t get tangled in the woods. Then he shook his head, dragged her up, and pushed them both onward. “Keep goin’—dinna stop naow.”

So they continued, with less speed, taking care to throw off their pursuers by doubling back, and using what waterways were available to them. They met the others in good time, nearly two miles away from Nottingham.

Neither Anthony nor George was with them—Much shook his head solemnly in response to Robin’s questioning glance. Marian could hear the soft, regretful curse that the Scot muttered, and an even softer blessing in a language she didn’t understand, and see the grief in his eyes, mirrored in the eyes of the others. Pain struck, twined with grief for her friends, before she pushed it down. Later would be time for grief. Now was for survival.

It would take their enemies at least an hour to organize a search, and in that hour, they would collect all they would need to flee for the various safe houses they had arranged for, scattered around the country. Fortunately, none of them as injured as Robin; Allen came close, with his hand cut near to the bone. Much was binding it tightly, trying to stop the bleeding. They could get away, safely.

The sound of hoof beats—coming from the town of Northampton—startled the outlaws. It wasn’t a large party that rode toward them, but small and well armed enough to do them serious damage. The band behind Robin started to slip into the surrounding greenery, where they would be no more visible than ghosts if they chose.

“Nay. Stand. Tha’s no’ someone tae run from,” the Scot warned, holding up a hand to halt their retreat. A grim resignation settled over him, leaving his face hard and closed. “’Tis the Lionheart, back from Germany. Ah can see ‘is standard,” Robin said, grasping the arrowhead he’d left in his shoulder to avoid leaving a trail of blood. With a sudden jerk that made Marian and a few of the others gasp, he ripped it out of his shoulder whole, ignoring the backwards facing barbs that tore at his flesh with gritted teeth. He snapped the spar in half and dropped it contemptuously to the ground.

“Trus’ the Sheriff’s men tae use shoddy craftsmanship,” the Scot muttered, tracking the party of horsemen’s progress with his eyes. They were fast, and came upon the outlaws swiftly.

“Greetin’s, Mah Laird. Nay the most beautiful welcomin’ party ye’ve had, Ah suppose, but Ah ‘ope we’ll do. Welcome tae Nottinghamshire,” Robin called to the King’s party, his voice strong, and clear of pain. Marian could see Richard, her uncle, and staved off the desire to shrink behind Robin’s broad back to avoid discovery. Richard dismounted with an easy, elegant grace that put her in mind of the outlaws’ leader, and hurried over. The King of England was tall, though he fell about an inch short of Robin’s height; he made up for it with a royal bearing. Blond hair was cut short in a very military style; his blue eyes were alert and sharp. Cat-like, with the poise and easy hauteur of any great feline, Lionheart was an accurate title for this man. He ruined the effect somewhat by staring at the rag-tag bunch—covered in blood that wasn’t entirely someone else’s, and bearing empty quivers and strung bows—quite oddly, as though they had all grown second heads.

“Robin Loxley?” He was only mildly shocked by the Scot’s presence, infinitely more shocked by the ring of raw flesh around the Scot’s throat, where a noose had ridden, and recently, by the look of it. “Bon Dieu, il est—What in the seven hells happened, man?”

He seized Robin by the shoulders, not heeding the cries raised by several of the outlaws until it was too late. A dark patch spread around where he had pressed, and Robin stiffened and went grey. The Scot swayed a bit once released, and a woman dressed in men’s clothes appeared by his side as though by magic, steadying him. Richard blinked once; certain he recognized her. Looking past the smudge of dirt on her cheek, the leaves in her recently cut hair and the men’s clothes she wore; he discovered it was his niece, Marian.

“Marian? Niece, what are you doing here? What has been happening while I was in Germany?” Marian almost winced at his tone—it was scolding, and Richard had always been frighteningly good at scolding. But she didn’t, just supported Robin, whose body had begun to shake. His hand tightened on hers, the pressure tight enough to make her fingers ache, though Robin didn’t seem conscious of the action. Richard had not yet released him, having a firm grip on his upper arm instead of his shoulder, and noticed the shivering.

“What’s happened, Marian?” he asked quickly, reverting to the French he preferred, and evidently recognizing that Robin was reacting to the wounds, in no shape to give a report. Marian explained the outlaw’s story swiftly, as abbreviating as much as she dared. Richard nodded quickly, demanded the full story the minute the time presented itself, and caught Robin by the other shoulder. Pulling out a dagger—and ignoring an alarmed shout from Much; he quickly and carefully slit the ragged tunic that Robin wore down the middle, to allow his physician a chance to get to his wound and treat it.

He’d always liked the tall Scot, and would rather Robin didn’t die until he knew what, precisely, was going on. The king had wondered if the villainous Robin Hood he’d heard so much about since landing in England was his redheaded acquaintance.

“Nay, Majesty, dinna—” It was too late. Richard and Marian saw the wounds that Guy’s lash had caused—it had taken a good deal more than eighty to finally satisfy the sadistic prince and his devilish lapdog. Marian choked in horror, and Richard blinked in shock.

“Mon Dieu! The Sheriff of Nottingham hasn’t the right to do this to anyone—criminal or not!”

“T’wasn’t the Sheriff, Laird. ‘E’s tae much a coward tae inflict a lot ‘o serious damage. ‘T’was—” Robin’s voice faltered and his face went hard with agony, as he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood to keep from crying out. The adrenaline that had numbed the pain was wearing off quickly, and now the pain was coming back in sick, greasy waves of nausea. Richard and Marian supported him as his knees buckled from under him—he could feel them vaguely, as though there were some kind of barrier between him and them—and Richard shouted for a physician as Robin’s vision went dark, and he surrendered his consciousness. Oblivion swallowed him—not for the first time since his captivity began—even as his friends held him up.

Robin blinked back the darkness, to find himself sitting astride his king’s horse, Richard behind him.

“Sit tight there; Loxley,” the Norman king said bracingly, “and we’ll have you all to Mapperley, where we can sort this mess out like civilized people.”

“Aye,” Robin murmured, and blinked again, looking around, trying to puzzle out the unreality of his surroundings. The others in his band were riding double with royal advisers, none of them looking particularly comfortable with their riding partners. Much was missing from the group, he noticed, though the others that had rescued him were all present—except Will, and Anthony, and George. The thought sent another pang through him.

Much, he soon learned, had been sent for the few outlaws who had remained at the camp. He returned not long after the band had gotten to Mapperley; bringing with him Friar Tuck, who’d insisted on coming to care for any wounds, and Sir Richard.

Mapperley stood like a mountain of grey stone, sitting high on a hill, overlooking the forest. Flags of red and gold flew from the turrets—welcoming the king and his entourage of advisors and outlaws.

The inside was equally grand, with tall, vaulting ceilings and smooth pillars thicker around than two men. Arches seemed to be the style, for there must have been dozens of them here, there, and everywhere. Little alcoves for statues and other treasures were dispersed liberally around the magnificent halls, displaying what must have been an emperor’s ransom in art and fripperies. The outlaws gawked, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, as they were led to the wing they were assigned to, where they would reside until a decision was reached regarding the consequences of their actions. Tuck, when he had arrived and was led to his law-breaking friends, was utterly appalled by the wounds that the outlaws had sustained in what he termed their ‘little jaunt to the Nottinghamshire Fair’. He bustled about industriously, binding Allen’s hand, doling out witch-hazel for bruises, and liniment for sore muscles. All in all, he growled, the outlaws had been lucky.

When the good Friar saw Robin (who had been reluctantly confined to a bed, on Maud’s orders) he nearly had a conniption fit—and went to work, ranting about how the royal healers had wanted to bleed the Scot, of all things. Hadn’t he bled enough, for God’s sake, Tuck had grumbled. Robin had decided, wisely, that it was best not to antagonize the man by answering. The friar gave him some poppy for the pain instead, and insisted that he swallow a small bundle of herbs that seemed to do nothing more than give Robin a nasty headache. Then he’d doused the various wounds and cuts Robin had collected in whiskey.

Tuck had wanted to do more, but beyond allowing himself to be bandaged, and his arm put in a sling, Robin’s willingness to cooperate had evaporated after the scene with the alcohol. Instead, they had engaged in a snarling match that resulted in Robin utterly refusing to be treated anymore, and Friar Tuck throwing up his hands in disgust. Allen’s hand was giving Friar Tuck more trouble, so the Scot was left largely to his own devices after that, grumbling about wasting perfectly good usquabae.

Robin refused to lick his wounds in public, preferring to stay on the move when he was injured. So he could be found basically anywhere in the castle or on the grounds, but rarely, if ever, in bed, where Friar Tuck and Maud were convinced he should be.

* * *

“You know what my favorite part of outlawing was?” Much inquired conversationally, leaning back against the battlement.

“Nay. Wot was yer favorite part o’ ootlawin’?” Robin was sitting—as much of a concession as he was willing to give to the interfering busybodies who would prefer he stay horizontal—perched easily in the space between two crenellations. He had his tartan back, and was grateful for it—the November winds were cold. It would snow soon, he noted idly. Already there were thick, fluffy white clouds looming, just waiting to drop their cold, wet load on the world.

“When we all came to our senses again. Robin, Mapperley has beds. Real beds. It’s wonderful.”
“Ah suppose.” Personally, Robin had yet to get used to sleeping on something so soft. He was still used to sleeping in the great oak in camp, used to its bumps and solidity, the easy swaying in a breeze and the danger of falling that made it essential to sleep sitting wedged tightly in a suitable crevice.
“Remind me why we spent two years running around in the woods, sleeping in trees when we could have slept in beds?”

Robin’s brow furrowed, and he turned his head to stare incredulously at his friend of countless years. “’Ave ye fergotten tha’ t’was ye who suggested we take t’the forest? Ah ‘ad nay problem wit’ hangin’. Ah di’ kill the man, af’er all.”

“Psh. The bastard deserved it,” Much returned good-naturedly.

“Ah’m no’ sayin’ ‘e didna, fer ‘e did. Ah’m sayin’ tha’ Ah kilt ‘im, and tha’ Ah should ’ave hung fer’t. Ah’d’ve gone ‘appily enough, kennin’ tha’ the bastard ‘ad gone wit’ me.” Though he hadn’t relished the feel of hemp around his throat, when at last he’d felt it, and he didn’t look forward to the likelihood that he’d feel it again.

Much turned to eye the Scot critically, abruptly weary of the Scot’s pessimism. “Yer in a right awful mood today, aren’t you? You know, if you’re in pain, Tuck told you that you can get something from him.”

Robin glared; irritated that Much would even suggest it. “Ah’m no’ gettin’ anathing from ‘im. Ah dinna need anathin’.”

“If you’re in pain…”

“Ah’m no’ in pain, Much!”

“Fine.” Much said, standing up straight. “Then either go eat somethin’, or take a nap. You’re touchier than a wounded bear.”

Shaking his head, he stalked away.

Puzzled by Much’s behavior, Robin got up, frowning. His temper was short, aye, but no shorter than normal. The king had yet to inform him of the decision that had been made about the outlaws’ fates, several of his people were injured, and, damn it, as gilded as the cage was, they were all still in a bloody cage. The Scot shook his head in weary bafflement. No one he knew, aside, perhaps, from Marian, could baffle him as well as his best friend.

But his ribs did hurt; and whatever Tuck had given him was making his head pound anew. Yes, lying down for an hour would probably do wonders for his temper, he conceded to himself. That nap would probably do some good, even if it only took him out of the path of other irritable people.

“No! Get away from me! Stop!” Marian screamed, praying that someone would hear her cries and help her. She struggled in the soldier’s arms, scratching, clawing, and biting—trying to escape, and wishing she hadn’t given Robin back the little dagger so soon. The soldier threw her on the bed, and pinned her to it before she could struggle away, trapping her legs with his, grabbing for her wrists with ham-sized hands. She screamed again, before he cursed and threw a pillow over her face, nearly smothering her. She could feel him rip the dress she wore, baring her to the waist. She was terrified, and galvanized by that fear, she struggled madly, despite the dizziness that was coming on from being smothered. His rough, vicious hands grabbed her breasts, punishing, while he muttered disgusting, cruel things. Her last scream was muffled.

A loud crash, and a cry like a wolf’s, feral and harsh, could be heard from somewhere very nearby; and then the soldier was ripped off her, shouting and spitting obscenities. The second his grip had loosened, Marian lashed out, and then bolted from under him, fleeing blindly. Another crash, and then a grunt of pain could be heard.

The sound of fighting quieted quickly, ending with a long, heartfelt groan of pain that made her huddle under the table she’d fled beneath, still sobbing with fear—she couldn’t get to the door, not while they were blocking it. A warm hand touched her cheek, and she flinched away, whimpering despite herself. She struck without looking, shoving against a hard male chest, and had her hand trapped there by another hand. Her face was cupped, guided up, until her eyes met gentle blue ones, framed by flaming hair.

“Marian, ‘tis jus’ me. Ah willna hurt ye, Ah promise. Ye’re alrigh’ naow, ‘e willna touch ye. Come on naow, come on oot. Shh. Dinna cry. Ye’ll be alright.”

Robin guided her out from under the table, and let her bury her face in his chest and sob. It was fortunate that Marian wasn’t shorter, he thought, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. She’d have been leaning directly against his wounds if she were shorter. As it was, they were burning like fire where blows had landed.

“I-I tried to fight him—he was too strong. I didn’t want it—I was minding my own business—he grabbed me from behind—” She couldn’t bear the thought of Robin believing she’d encouraged the soldier —not when she loved him so.

“Ah know, Marian. Ye did fine, lass, ye did fine. Ye were wonderful, Marian, love. Ach shin agad cloinn-dhìolain siùrsach cloinn cràdhadh a, a gaol…” He meant the threat, every word. The man wasn’t dead yet, after all. If he was to hang anyway for his crimes, Robin fully intended to commit at least one more murder for it.

But that would come soon enough. Right now, though, Marian was all that mattered, and he wouldn’t have her touched by more violence, not if he could spare her that.

His tone had gone harsh for a moment, as he growled what sounded like a vow for retribution in the rapid, liquid tongue that she recognized now as Highlands Gaelic. Then he stroked a hand down her back in a comforting gesture and, moving slowly, so as not to frighten her, he drew off the tartan fheilidh.

He’s been outside recently, she thought for no particular reason, as the sobs grew less harsh. The smell of winter clung to his tartan, mingling with his scent. Then she stiffened in his lap, a tiny whimper bursting free as something else occurred to her. Why is he taking it off?

He winced a bit at her whimper, but merely pulled the plaid around her instead, and he returned to using his usual, fluidly accented English.

“There naow. Ye’re cova’d, an’ all’s well. Shh,” he soothed, when she stirred and would have pulled away. “Jus’ stay still a momen’.” Robin stroked a hand down over what remained of her hair as she shuddered against him, the last of the sobs gradually giving way. “Why di’ ye cut yer ‘air, lass? ‘T’was beautiful ‘air. Ah liked it long.” He wasn’t expecting an answer, but spoke to give her the comfort of a human voice, to reassure her and draw her mind from what had just happened.

“’Ere,” he stood up when her breathing was back to normal and tears no longer threatened to start again, drawing her up with him, setting her down on her feet. He led her out of the room and back to the other rooms that the outlaws had been given; avoiding the unconscious soldier on the floor and locking the door of the room from the outside.

She was still shaking, nearly vibrating, with tension when they reached the corridor where their rooms were located. Robin hated the idea of her terrified, so he pulled her back against his chest, and let her get the rest of her tears out, half-hating that he enjoyed it so much. But it was so nice, being allowed to touch her for a legitimate reason. And at the same time, it was so horrible, that rape would be the only reason he could allow himself to hold her.

After she’d calmed down, he knew he’d have to go jump in the moat…or maybe not. He suddenly felt cold straight down to his bones. Blinking back an abrupt dizziness, he leaned back against the doorframe, thinking it’d be over in a second…whatever it was. But it wasn’t, and he felt increasingly ill.

“Robin?” He struggled to concentrate on the sound of Marian’s voice, but found it difficult.

“Jus’ dizzy, tha’s all. Ah’m fine.” Contrary to that belief, Robin was not ‘fine’. Blood had started to stain the white cloth of his tunic where wounds had reopened, and Marian could feel his fever through the bandages Friar Tuck had insisted upon and his tunic. Tuck had warned the outlaws, out of Robin’s earshot, that this might happen, that torture often caused sudden fevers in its victims.

So, rescuer turned unwilling invalid, Robin had to let her to lead him stumbling to his room. Marian had barely gotten the Scot sitting on the bed when he dropped into unconsciousness, his body weight pulling her down onto the bed as well and pinning her there in his arms. She struggled briefly, to see if she could move, and found him unmovable as stone. Unable, and not quite willing to escape his unintentional embrace, she tugged the bedclothes up around them as best she could and settled down to wait, trying to make him comfortable. No one would miss her until at least tomorrow morning, so there was no chance of discovery…err, rather, rescue. The worst thing that could happen, she decided, was that Robin would wake and treat her coldly again. That, after the kind Robin of today, would surely break her heart. For now, she would merely enjoy having his arms around her.

* * *

“Noo—no’ her—oh Laird—no’ her…” The tormented moan startled Marian out of what had been a dreamless sleep, despite the lack of volume of the sound. She turned, to see Robin beside her. He’d curled up tightly, almost into a ball. The outlaw’s knuckles were white, as was his face. But it was the expression he wore that surprised her the most. Pain, though not pleasant, wasn’t what surprised her as it washed across Robin’s face. The fear etched into the lines of his face, though, startled her. The combination of pain and fear were unpleasant to see in Robin—who so often seemed invincible. Now, in the grips of a nightmare, he seemed as human and fallible as them all.

The old dream was back again. Once more he entered his house. Once more he ran to his mother’s aid, and attacked the magistrate. Once more he was thrown back, and the man finished his nauseating business. But then it changed.

His mother’s hair wasn’t red any longer. It had turned short and chestnut-colored. Her eyes weren’t green—they were sea-blue. Robin stared in horror at Marian, her body broken and used, with tears streaming from her beautiful eyes. And the man in the doorway—it wasn’t the magistrate—it was him.
Then he was himself, with the boy he had been fifteen years before staring at him with terror and revulsion, Marian broken by his actions.

“This is your fault!”

Robin bolted upright, eyes wide and wild. Marian stared at him in shock, not expecting him to have woken so violently. The Scottish outlaw only stared at her for a moment, eyes disbelieving. Nay—Nay, Ah couldna ‘ave. Ah wouldna ‘ave…would Ah?

Mystified, Marian put a hand on his arm. Robin’s stared at her in growing horror.

“Robin?” she asked, worried now. He jerked from under her hand, jumping off the bed. Shock mingled freely with the horror in his expression as his brain registered the bruises on her face and arms and the fact that Marian wore only his tartan and the tatters of what had once been a dress.

“Robin, what’s wrong?” Concern was evident in her voice as she reached for him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He backed away, head shaking in mute denial. She rose quickly from the bed and stepped toward him, until he’d backed into a wall.

“W—wot di’ Ah do tae ye?” it came out in a hoarse whisper as his shoulders hit the wall behind him. Marian’s brow furrowed.

“What do you mean? You haven’t done anything.” Marian told him, extending her hand to touch his cheek. Robin recoiled from her, as though he expected her to strike him. Marian was bewildered.

“Robin, what on earth’s the matter? I’m not going to hit you.” The look he flashed her told her that he didn’t entirely believe her.

“Maybe ye should’ve,” his voice was brittle, hard and harsh against her ears.

“What? Why would I? What’s wrong?”

A croaky laugh forced itself from him, filled with the horror she’d seen in his eyes, and now, disgust. “H-how close ye were tae somethin’…somethin’ irreversible.” He couldn’t have done it. She wouldn’t be looking at him, much less reaching for him if he’d raped her, if he’d put those bruises on her.

But why couldn’t he remember not doing it?

He was stuttering, she marveled, and speaking nonsense. It was nearly unthinkable, Robin being so out of control. His accent had thickened, and he trembled. This was no simple nightmare. Soon he’d be speaking Gaelic, and she wouldn’t understand him at all.

“What are you talking about?” she wasn’t getting any sense out of him.

“ Ah cannae stay wit’ ye. Ye cannae be ‘ere.”

“Why?” Robin wanted her gone, and it hurt more than she cared to admit.

“B-because. Marian, there’s no’ a way this can work oot right. Ye ‘ave tae leave.”

It was as if someone was driving a heated spoon through her chest, trying to remove her heart, each word another inch toward her center. Leave? What did he mean? The room, Mapperley? The—oh, God—the group?

“I don’t understand. Why, Robin? Is it me? Is this some kind of test or something? What is—”
Panic was building up in her chest, just under her heart. Why was he trying to make her leave the band now? Why hadn’t he done it months ago, before she could fall so deeply in love with him, before she could grow to love them all?

"Nay,” he looked horrified. “Oh Laird, nay. Nay, Marian. It’s no’ ye—that Ah swear.”

“Then what is it?” she demanded, trying not to sound hysterical.

“Marian, Ah’m no’ fit tae even touch ye—Ah’ve—Oh Laird, look a’ yerself!” he took an unsteady breath, trying without much luck to stop shaking. “People git hurt aroound me, Marian—Women. An’ Ah—Ah’m a greedy bastard for wantin’ ye tae stay, fer even sayin’ yore name. Ye’ve got tae leave.”

Robin couldn’t look her in the eye. How could he look her in the eye when he couldn’t remember whether or not he’d put those bruises on her? Whether or not he’d—

He wasn’t asking her to leave the band, she realized with overwhelming relief; he wanted her to stay. But what in the world was he talking about? And where had he gotten the idea that he was greedy?

“I don’t believe you, Robin.” Marian said calmly, more calmly than she felt. “You’d never hurt a woman.”

“Ye think Ah’d lie aboot tha’? Aboot tha’?” Robin demanded, eyes suddenly hot as flame. “When yer standin’ right there in front o’ me, cova’d in marks?.”

She took a step back under his sudden attack. He jerked his head away from her, shame and horror washing through him as the outlaw recognized her retreat for what it was. What right had he to take this out on her? Gods, what had he done?

“What are you talking about? Do you even know?” she asked desperately, now frightened by the degree of agony she could see so clearly in the Scot’s eyes.

“Ah’ll hurt ye. Ah’ve already—” no, he couldn’t say it, not aloud. Coward. “—isn’t it enough tae know Ah’ll hurt ye again?” he was begging her to hate him. It would be so much easier to let her go if she would just hate him, if she would just turn away already and leave him to whatever hell it was he deserved. He would accept it—would have gladly taken it for even the thought of doing such a thing to her.

“Oh, Robin. You won’t hurt me—”

Robin laughed again, a more self-derisive, bleak sound Marian had never heard in her life; one that horrified her.

“Would ye look a’ yoreself, Marian? ‘Aven’t ye enough of an idea what happens tae me when ye’re aroound? Ah want—” You, here, now. Again. “Ah could kiss ye right naow, an’ neva stop, di’ ye understand?”

Marian shook her head, staring at him with baffled innocence. The innocence in her eyes nearly broke him. He had—had—

“I wouldn’t stop you,” Marian told him tremulously, unsure of what his reaction would be.

Robin’s body stiffened, still backed to the wall, and he had to clench his hands into fists to keep from touching her. He wouldn’t, couldn’t let hope into his heart. Couldn’t tell himself that he hadn’t—hurt her—not when he couldn’t remember it. When he spoke, his voice showed the strain.

“Nay, ye dinna understand. Ah wouldna—couldna—stop there. Ah’d push ye right daown on tha’ bed, an’ trail kisses right daown yore beautiful liddle throat.” Again.

Marian was surprised by his intentionally crude statement. But what surprised her more was the reaction her body had to his words. She could almost feel his lips on her skin, fiery need flooding through her. Gooseflesh spread up her arms and down her back, somehow erotic, like thousands of tiny needles struck her.

“An’ tha’ cloth yer wearing? Tha’ would stop me as much as a babe kin stop a runaway Clydesdale. Ah’d kiss evra damn inch o’ ye, ‘til ye couldna remember yore own name, much less try tae stop me.”
Robin shuddered again, fighting to contain the desire that was flooding him. Would he ever be able to not want her? Was the possibility that he’d raped her, hurt her, not enough to quell the desire?

It vaguely occurred to her that she could barely remember her own name now. Marian was still quivering from the sound of Robin’s voice telling her what he would do, might still do, would give almost anything to do, to her.

“A-and then what would you do?” She asked, voice quavering, staring up at him. She could almost feel him shaking, not even three inches away. Robin’s eyes, dark with desire and fierce self-loathing, narrowed. He was shaking from a strange mixture of passion and abhorrence now. If he even so much as brushed against her, his fragile control would shatter, and he would take her, despite everything that had happened.

“Ye wan’ tae punish me, dinna ye?” The Scot asked harshly, before continuing in a ruthless whisper. “Bu’ Ah’ll tell ye. Once ye were all aquiver from the kisses, Ah’d push ye daown flat and cover ye wit’ mahself. Then, oh-so-slowly, Ah’d press intae ye. Ah’d relish evra single damn second o’ takin’ ye for mahself. Ah’d fuck ye, Marian—like a bluidy animal.”

His breathing was ragged as Robin glared down at her, his belly roiling with the effort to keep from being ill. “An’ ’ow d’ye feel aboo’ tha’, Marian? Ah want tae keep ye tied tae mah bed until Ah kin get ye out o’ mah head. Ah want ye ana way Ah kin get ye, Marian,” he growled. “An’ obviously Ah’ve no qualms aboout takin’ ye, wit’ or wit’oout yer consent.” Why wouldn’t she run? He was trying to chase her away—why wouldn’t she run, like a sensible person?

Marian merely stared up at him, eyes wide with the shock that had cut through the pleasure haze that his terse words had produced. He thought—he thought he’d hurt her, thought that he’d done what the soldier—

“No, Robin—You—”

“An’ Ah’ve frightened ye,” Robin snarled, mistaking the shock for fear. Self-loathing and suffering were clear in his face and voice. Then the anger fell away, and only weary despair was left in his face.

“Ahh, damn me tae hell anaway,” he sighed. The Scot seized her upper arms, as though he would set her away from him, and instead dragged her against him so he could savage her mouth with his.

Hot. It was all she could think—hot and wild and breathtaking. And then his tongue touched her lips tentatively, startling her into opening her mouth. It swept in, invading her mouth with the devastating skill of a veteran campaigner.

As suddenly as he had grabbed her, he pushed her back, holding her at arm’s length from him.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t touch her, couldn’t knowingly force her, not again.

“Stay away from me, Marian. Fer both our sakes, stay the ‘ell away from me!” And he fled past her, like a coward, seeking the safety of the battlements.

The door slammed behind him, leaving Marian with tears threatening to overcome her.

He thought—he thought he’d raped her, thought—oh, who knows what he thought himself capable of? He had ripped himself away from her, had hurt her, and insulted them both with his words.