Robbin' the Rich

Mapperley Castle, England. Mid-November

Much found Robin standing on the battlements outside, staring across the scenery without seeing any of it, hands fisted tightly at his sides. Nevertheless, he turned around when Much approached, and the Saxon decided that that was a good thing. He wasn’t so absorbed in his thoughts that his instincts had been dulled. Much boosted himself into one of the crenellations next to him, looking out over the trees and fields. It would snow soon, he saw, tonight, perhaps, maybe tomorrow.

“That was a nasty row you had with Marian,” He remarked, noticing how Robin flinched at her name. He didn’t know what had happened—he had been walking by when Robin had slammed out of his room and escaped to the battlements. Worried, he had followed the Scot.

“Ah—Much—Ah canna remember. Ah acted like an ass,” the Scot said, panic staining his words. “Ah shouldna ‘ave yelled at her, or treated her like tha’, but Ah canna remember.”

“What? What do you mean?” Much asked.

“Earlier. Ah canna remember.” Several emotions flashed over the Scot’s face, ranging from panic to despair. “Ah can’na remember half o’ t’night, an’ Marian—Much, she’s cova’d in bruises.”

Bruises? Much nodded, baffled. God knew it wasn’t Robin who’d put these bruises on Marian. “Aye?”

His friend turned disgust-filled eyes on him, lifted his hands as if they were foreign to him. “She was in mah bed, ‘er dress torn tae bits, cova’d in bruises.”

Much blinked. “You don’t think you did it? Robin, you great idiot, you could no more rape a woman than fly to the moon,” he exclaimed.

“Much,” the Scot said, shaking his head. He seemed almost dazed with horror, startlingly helpless with the thought that he could have done such a thing. “Ah canna remember. Who’s tae say what Ah did or no’?”

“Marian!” Much cried. “She’d know, wouldn’t she, if you tried any such thing?”

“Aye, an’ Ah’ve frightened ‘er already, even if Ah didna take ‘er.” Would he get used to it? Robin wondered. The greasy horror that knotted in his belly—would he live with it for the rest of his life?

“Robin, she wouldn’t have just lain there and taken it. She’d have fought, screamed. Someone would’ve heard, and come.”

Robin frowned suddenly. “There was a soldier. Damn’t, why won’t ‘t come clear? Ah remember a soldier, an’ Marian—Jesus God, Marian was cryin’.”

“I’ll bet you anything you ask that t’was the soldier who put those bruises on her, not you,” Much muttered. “Look, it’s easy enough a thing to find out.”

He took one long look at the Scot, saw that his friend was remembering at last, saw the hellish, bone-deep rage in his eyes as it erupted, and hopped down from his perch. “I’ll talk to Marian, then, and leave the soldier to you.”

Robin looked over at him, eyes flat with murder. “Mah thanks, Much.”

“The moat’s probably deep enough to stash the body,” the Saxon murmured speculatively. “And there’s always the forest, if it comes to that.”

“Nay need. Ah’m thinkin’ the Lionheart t’will take an interestin th’ bastard, an’ take tha’ problem off our ‘ands,” Robin replied, striding away with the cold look of death in his eye.

“Marian?” Much asked, two minutes later, knocking on the door Robin had slammed less than ten minutes before. “Marian, are you alright?” The door opened, revealing Marian. Her hair was disheveled and her eyes were suspiciously bright, and she clutched Robin’s tartan to her body. Much suspected that it was Robin’s tunic she wore as well. And her bruises… Well, now. No wonder Robin had immediately thought the worst of himself. She was sight enough to make the best of men doubt themselves, much less the scarred Robin.

“Much.” She sounded surprised.

“Aye. I’ve just talked to Robin. Are you alright?” he asked. Robin hadn’t touched her, but Marian almost certainly didn’t understand why Robin had reacted as he had.

“He—he didn’t touch me. Much, he thinks—he thinks he—”

“I know, Marian. It’s all right. He’s remembered.”

Good Lord, Much reflected, Robin’s done it this time. Fool.

Why did he have to play nursemaid to these two? He wondered privately. They were adults, perfectly capable of sorting themselves out. So why couldn’t they situate themselves in such a way as to make everyone happy, instead of stalking around, snarling because they were both too boneheaded to take what they wanted? For that matter, why couldn’t he have found some other bandit gang to join? The drama of this one was driving him mad.

But Robin and Marian’s children will be adorable, he consoled himself, if they ever get past this damnable period of indecision.

“What happened last night?” Much asked, redirecting his thoughts back to the matter at hand.

“Here, come in. It may not be my room, but I don’t think Robin will mind much,” Marian said, standing aside to let him enter.

“What happened?” Much asked again, when she had turned around.

“One of the Sheriff’s men tried to—” she shuddered, and forced her voice to stay strong. “Tried to force himself on me. Robin saved me. Afterwards, he developed a fever and passed out on top of me. When he woke up,” she shrugged helplessly, “he jumped up, and we fought. Then he ran.” She frowned, worry making a line between her brows.

“He said…said he’d hurt women before—that’s not true, is it?” Marian hadn’t believed it before—not with Robin standing in front of her—but now doubt was worming its way into Marian’s mind, forming a tight little knot in her stomach.

“What do you think? Robin would never intentionally hurt any woman, an’ you know it.” Much said, sounding weary. “He got a nasty shock, I wager, waking up to find you covered in bruises, looking—well, looking as you do.” He smiled apologetically. “You don’t inspire confidence, Marian. And he’s reasons of his own for reacting how he did.”

She frowned. “What—”

“It’s not for me to say. He’ll tell you in his own time.”

“He won’t tell me, Much. He was so angry when he left, he won’t tell me anything.”

“Nonsense. He wasn’t angry with you, Marian. It’s never even crossed his mind to be angry with you. You scared him, is all, with your bruises. He couldn’t remember what had happened.”

“He could barely look at me, Much.”

“I believe you. Robin was horrified, Marian. He honestly thought he’d raped you, put those bruises on you. He loves you,” he watched as she scoffed, and frowned slightly at her. “As difficult as that may be to believe. That and a fever? He wasn’t thinking clearly,” Much explained.

“He had just woken up from a nightmare,” Marian offered. “But Much, he said horrible things—insulting things.”

Much sighed, shaking his head at the inability of such an intelligent woman to see the depth of the man’s terror of rejection by those he loved. Better, he knew, to reject first, rather than be pushed away.

“He’ll regret it, believe me.” Already did. “And his nightmares are bad ones. They bring back memories for him…and he’s not good at waking up from them immediately.”

“He seems to think that he’s going to hurt me.”

“I think it’s safe to say he’d never do that intentionally.” And if you make a liar of me, Robin, Much thought, I’m coming after you myself.

* * *

A knock at his chamber’s door disturbed the King from the business of ruling. He looked up from the velum before him, blinking a few times, to clear his eyes. Between the flickering of candles and the damned English language, he’d go mad within a fortnight, he was sure.

“My lord?” questioned his clerk, the invaluable Samson. He nodded, giving the man leave to let in whoever was outside.

“Mah Laird.” The Scot stepped into the room. His face was grim—as grim and fierce as it had been the first time the King had seen him, back in Palestine.

“Robin,” Richard greeted, and sat back in his chair. “What brings you to my room so late? Please,” he nodded to another chair, indicating the Scot should sit.

“Nay, Ah thank ye,” Robin replied. He shifted once, ill at ease. He didn't seem to know how to start. The Lionheart sensed that he needed privacy for whatever it was, and signaled Samson to leave them. The short, slender man slipped out, shutting the door gently behind him.

“Thank ye,” Robin murmured. But still, he hesitated, fighting briefly with himself before he finally started. “It’s...Marian, Mah Laird. She’s a’right,” he promised quickly, when Richard jerked in his chair. “She’s fine, save fer a few bruises.”

“Bruises?” The Lionheart thundered, springing up. “What do you mean, bruises?”

“Aye.” Robin didn’t flinch when his monarch seized him by the shirtfront, shook him like a doll. “She was attacked, by a guard. One o’ the Sherriff’s, Ah believe.”

“Where is he?”

“Ah took the liberty tae detain ‘im in the same chamber whiles Ah—” passed oout next tae yer niece. “—took Marian back tae the chambers we were giv’n.” He waited a beat, until the Lionheart had released him. “Ah took the liberty tae beat the shit oout o’ ‘im first. ‘e’s still in tha’ room. Ah thought ye’d want tae talk tae ‘im, a’fore Ah kil’t ‘im.”

“Indeed.” The King’s voice was ice-cold. His eyes sharpened on Robin’s. “Who gave you leave to kill him?”

Robin's eyes went to ice as well. “A man attacked one o’ mine, Mah Laird. Tha’ means ‘e’s mine tae deal wit’. ‘e tried tae rape ‘er,” the Scot continued harshly. “Ah gave mahself leave tae kill ‘im.”

“You’ve no right,” Richard said, watching him closely. His own rage was boiling, but something about Loxley that overshadowed that. The man would have done the same for any female—had, he knew, back in Palestine. He couldn’t fault Robin for it. But there was something about Loxley’s eyes right now…something deeper, infinitely more dangerous than the simple rage of a protective leader, or even the sick, fear-spawned rage that Richard was feeling for his niece.

“Ah’m no’ in’eres’d in rights,” Robin replied, cold as a winter in the Highlands. But under the ice, Richard saw the heat, and wondered. “No’ when’t comes tae this.”

He’s in love with her, Richard decided. He might not have known Robin well, but it didn’t take a genius to see that the man was sick with love.

“And if I don’t give you leave, you’ll kill him yourself, will you?"

“Aye.”

“Take me to him. I’ll have a word with this soldier. And then, Robin, we will see.”

The Scot's eyes narrowed, but he didn't argue. “Come wit’ me, then. Mah Laird.”

* * *

He determinedly avoided her for two solid days after, going out of his way to elude her. It went far beyond what small efforts he’d taken in the forest, but he couldn’t go anywhere near her. Robin knew his own weaknesses, and if he was alone with Marian for more than a few moments, he’d probably pin her to the nearest surface and take her. Already he tortured himself with the bittersweet pleasure of the kiss he’d stolen. The memories of her mouth, sweet and soft and untutored were enough to bring him to aching hardness. The knowledge that he’d never taste her again was its own hell.

No better than the soldier he’d saved her from, he thought, disgusted. He had noticed her freezing suddenly in the middle of whatever she’d been doing, her face growing pale around the vicious bruises as she remembered the traumatic moment in the spare bedroom. It only served to make him feel worse. She was scared stiff, and all he wanted to do was push her down and…could he even call it ‘making love’ to her? Would she ever see it that way? He wondered. He hadn’t—thank God—raped her, and neither had the soldier, who’d never get the chance to touch another woman. But he couldn’t seem to rid himself of the feeling that he’d sullied something precious by touching her at all. And he couldn’t help but want her with all he was.

She didn’t just need protection from the lecherous soldiers, Robin mused bitterly from across the room, silently watching Marian’s skin whiten and her eyes go dark as she determinedly refused to freeze into stillness while she helped Maud into a chair—she needed protection from him too.

Marian quickly grew tired of being evaded by Robin. She was nearly positive that he had some kind of feelings for her—hell, she thought angrily, she knew that he had some kind of feelings for her. Lust was one, and she knew he cared at least a little. Didn’t he watch her, his eyes dark with worry and want? Weren’t there other things, darker, fiercer things, beneath the worry and the wanting? Marian was determined to find out what kind of feelings the others were; and if they were negative, change them.

How to do it, though?

She thought back to their…argument, for want of a better word. However one would describe it, Robin had put her weapon in her hands. He wanted. The outlaw had told her exactly what he wanted to do, even if he would never let himself do it under ordinary circumstances…

Well, she thought, pleased and disgusted with how easily a solution had come to her, then I’ll just have to set up some extraordinary circumstances, won’t I? That thought in mind, Marian set off to find the man she loved.

* * *

“Marian—ye canna do this,” he whispered, moments before her mouth claimed his. “Nay—dinna!”
Her eyebrows lifted in surprise for half a second. Marian had never heard Robin beg anyone to do anything. He wasn’t a man who made a habit of pleading. The tone of Robin’s voice was strained and his eyes revealed the fear he felt.

Not fear for himself, she understood with a jolt, but for her—for what he was afraid she would bring out in him, what he might do to her when that happened.

It was gratifying that he cared so much. And infuriating that he’d pushed her away instead of pulling her closer.

The damnable woman had backed him up against a wall, cornered him in his own room. They both knew he was trapped, that the only way out was through her. Robin sucked in a desperate breath of air, recognizing the gleam in her eye a second before she kissed him. Marian’s lips touched his tentatively, unsure of what to do.

It terrified Robin that she had such power over him, that she could arouse him merely by looking at him, how Marian pervaded through his thoughts like a poison gas. Robin had never wanted a woman so badly in his life; not just in his bed, but as his wife, bearing his children. He wanted her to love him back with the same intensity that he loved her.

The Scot cut off that rein of thought. Not only did he have no right to want her like this, but it hurt like a knife to the gut, knowing that he wouldn’t ever have her, right or no.

What could he offer her? Marian was the niece of the King of England—the granddaughter of old Henry II. A princess.

He, on the other hand, in the best light, was only the son of a second-son merchant, unable to even keep his holdings in his own hands. He had only the clothes on his back and his knives. Even his bow was gone, broken to the point of uselessness until he had the chance to make a new one. Soon, he was likely not to have his life. He was an outlaw, wanted for robbery and banditry…and the murder of several Norman citizens.

The king was still deciding what was to be done with them while they nursed their wounds, but Richard wouldn’t overlook those transgressions—couldn’t, not as King. Never mind that Robin had saved his life. No one life could take the place of another.

And even as the sane part of his mind told him these things were true, and that he shouldn’t touch her, Robin’s disloyal arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, crushing her to his lean body; and his traitorous tongue was deepening the kiss. It might be wrong of him, and he’d probably go straight to Hell for it—but, God, did he want her.

The outlaw clung to Marian desperately, like a man drowning, ignoring the outcry his healing wounds were raising when her weight pressed against them. He needed her, so badly he could weep from the wanting, and by God, he was going to steal this moment of her, consequences be damned.

Due to their proximity, Marian could tell just how awfully he wanted her, just how much he was sacrificing by not acting on the almost overwhelming desire that roared through them both. The hard ridge that pressed against her belly complained of and demanded things that Robin would never allow to be verbalized—was, she realized, too much the gentleman to verbalize—no matter his state of agitation. Marian knew very little about what went on between a man and a woman, but she was observant, and the maids had always gossiped far too much amongst themselves for her not to understand that part. Growing up on one of the largest farming estates in the country had left very little to the imagination, over-all. It was just the finer points that escaped her.

The kiss broke for air, and Robin surprised her again by trailing kisses up her jawbone, and sucking at her earlobe; making Marian go limp for a moment with a cry. Robin’s heartbeat was erratic under her palm and his breaths whispered unsteadily past her ear as his passion choked him. One of his hands reached up to tangle in her hair, caressing her face first; while the other arm remained firmly around her, holding her close, like he needed her for continued survival.

Marian soon found that she needed the support his arm gave her, because Robin’s lips left off tormenting her ear and reached her throat instead, making her knees go weak beneath her. She writhed under his touch as his tongue caressed and his teeth nipped gently at her skin; never hard enough to leave a mark.

“Ye like tha’, do ye? Ah’ll remember tha’,” he promised into the hollow of her throat, no longer caring that it would hurt a thousand times more when he had to stop. He would take this moment she had offered him and wrap it close, against the chill of solitude. Marian’s hands unconsciously weaved themselves in his hair, pulling it free of its binding; tugging him closer still, and urging him on. Robin’s lips traveled the length of her long, graceful neck, running over her collarbones with feather lightness and agonizing care, until they traced down over the fabric of her gown. Fumbling with it, he freed one of her breasts of the confining material. Ignoring her chemise, the outlaw continued to leave kisses around the whole of it, making Marian moan again from the pleasure. Infinitely patient, knowing this was all he would ever be allowed to do, he allowed his tongue to caress the already hardening peak, taking it to an almost painful tightness. When Marian thought she couldn’t possibly experience any more bliss, Robin took her breast into his mouth, suckling it through the thin cloth that separated them, leaving it damp. Finishing with that side of her, he slid her dress back up and turned his attentions on its twin.

“Marian—mi fhìn gaol a —a leithid … a leithid e ciùrr ...” his voice was soft, stumbling over the words, the Gaelic liltingly gentle this time, more of a caress than actual words.

Marian moaned his name, snapping him back to his sensibilities more effectively than a bucket of cold water to the face. He pulled away from her silk-soft skin, yanked her dress back to its proper position, knowing and damning himself for going a good deal too far. He’d been so thoroughly intoxicated that he’d started to do exactly what he’d sworn he wouldn’t do—ruin her.

“Wh-why did you stop?” Marian asked, bewildered.

“Ah cannae give ye wot ye deserve,” Robin said in response. Here was the longing, the angry desolation, the denial, coming back to his blue eyes as he shifted back, away from her, his arms slipping from around her. “Ye deserve someone who cannae cause ye harm,” He winced, as though struck for the impudence of even thinking it, “…who can give ye a home, an’ a family.” He shook his head sadly. The thought of a family, a home, with Marian…subtle torture. He wanted it so badly, and he knew that he would never have it. Even if the King spared him the hangman’s noose, Robin imagined he would be back to Palestine before he knew what hit him. Back to war, back to hell. “Ah cannae. So Ah cannae touch ye, either.”

“But I don’t want that now…I want you,” Marian said softly, reaching up to weave her hands into Robin’s long freed hair again.

He caught her hands by the wrists, tugged them away. If he let her touch, he’d go crazy with the wanting. What, after all, wouldn’t he give to have her?

The possibility of the stigma of bearing a bastard, his bastard, and knowing that having her would steal from her one of her most precious bargaining tools for getting a respectable husband: her virginity.

That’s what he wouldn’t give, wouldn’t risk.

And God, what kind of masochist was he, wanting what he couldn’t have, and more, what he knew he couldn’t have?

“Why?

“Ah’m naught but an ooutlaw. Ah’ve kilt men, stolen their baubles. Ah’m goin’ nowhere but th’ gallows, lassie.” And, thank God she was who she was, so that he wasn’t taking her with him. His conscience would remain clear of that, at least.

Marian looked up at him, meeting the hopeless, angry eyes with her own. Her fingers itched to tangle in his red mane. He didn’t seem to realize his own worth.

The idiot.

“Why do I want you?” She asked. “Because even though you’re an outlaw, you’re still a good man,” Robin started to protest, but was silenced by the rest of her sentence. “Besides, I’m in love with you. And I’ll remind you that I’m an outlaw too.”

Robin Hood showed no sign he heard the last, instead, he stared, disbelief warring with amazement.
Marian loved him back. The thought of it was astounding, like some shiny gift suddenly handed over after he’d been told he couldn’t have it.

He didn’t quite know what to make of it.

She watched his face. There was blank shock there, and…nothing. She saw none of the joy that was bubbling up inside him.

Bastard! She had summoned up all of her courage to tell him that, all of her love, all of her hope. Refusal was excruciatingly painful, especially when he didn’t even make the effort to say anything, only stared. Bastard, she thought again, and wanted to scream it.

Dignity, though, was infinitely better than anger or, god forbid, hurt.

“Never mind, then. A slip of the tongue,” she said grandly, trying to find the door blindly as she fought back tears. Oh, she could hate him for doing this to her, for making her love him and not having the courtesy of loving her back. And that’s what she would do. She would hate him until she could feel nothing again—it was only a broken heart, after all. What was a broken heart but one more challenge to overcome?

And why didn’t that help?

“Marian, wait, Ah—” he caught her only with the tips of his fingers as she flung open the door. His grip
was pitiably weak at best, and she could have easily pulled away from him and left the room. Panic flitted through him, and she had broken the wall of ice he had been trying to nurture for months—she couldn’t say such a thing and leave!

But she didn’t. Despite herself, despite the hurt she intended to nurse into a good, fiery hatred, she paused, hearing desperation in his voice.

Robin found some hope in that, though he didn’t try to pull her to him, or take a firmer grasp on her hand. He simply held onto her hand and watched her with those piercing blue eyes of his.

“Did ye mean it? Ye—” he could scarcely believe he was getting this chance to ask this of her. “Ye love me?” He wanted to brush away her tears. And kiss her, hold her so that she’d never go away. He didn’t—not before she’d answered.

But those tears…they were enough to break any man’s heart on the spot.

“Of course I do. You think I’d lie about that?” She asked in horror, staring at his face, closely echoing his words to her. This time, though, she saw the fierce, desperate need that shone in his eyes. Hope lit them at her words, and depthless, nameless joy. He yanked her against him, roped his arms around her as though he thought she might run. He needed only a step back to have the bed hit his knees and he sank onto it, drawing her to stand between his thighs.

“Nay, Ah knew ye’d no’ lie tae me,” he growled tenderly, and drew her head down and kissed her, wiping away her tears lovingly. “An’ Ah’ll no’ lie to ye. Ah do love ye. Damnable though t’is, Ah do. Ye dinna speak Gaelic, or ye’d know.”

He kissed her again, before resting his forehead against hers briefly. “But ye dinna know evrathing aboout me, lass. Ah’m no’ a—a safe man tae be wit’, Marian. Ah meant it when Ah said women git’ ‘urt aroound me. Ah canna risk ye.”

“Tell me. Tell me what you mean by that,” she demanded, seeing the hell in his eyes.

He sat for a moment, frowning, and for a moment, she thought he’d deny her. Then he pulled her gently onto his lap and, slowly, quietly, he began. “Mah mither was Scottish, the daughter o’ Laird Malcolm o’ Dhu Lairg. Mah father was Saxon. Tha’s why Ah’ve Loxley as a las’ name.

“’E was a second son, turned tae the sea tae make ‘is fortune. ‘e died there. Slaughter’d by pirates.” Robin shrugged. “There wasna a lot o’ money left. Ah met Much when Ah was aboout six. We became mates, both o’ us lurkin’ aroound daown in the slums o’ Nottingham. There’s work there, if’n yer quick. We were verra quick.” He grinned, the flash of teeth feral before it faded.

“Mum worked as a seamstress. We lived in a liddle cottage near the fores’. After mah father died, she ‘ad troubles wit’ the Magistrate. ‘e was the Sheriff’s brother, an’ God, di’ we all ‘ate ‘im.” Anger flashed, lightning-keen, through his voice. “’E took evrathing mah mum made sewin’. Said t’was fer taxes,” he spat the words. “We both went wit’oout food more’n once, an’ she made sure Ah ate, even if’t meant she wouldna. Ah dinna know ‘ow long’t went on, a few years a’ leas’, ’til we finally couldna raise enough. So ‘e jus’ took ‘er, instead.”

“What?”

“’E raped ‘er, Marian. Ambushed ‘er in ‘er own ‘ouse—a woman ‘alf ‘is size, beat an’ raped ‘er.”

“Oh, God.”

“Aye. Ah came in as ‘e finished wit’ ‘er, tried tae stop ‘im. ‘e took evrathin’ from ‘er—even ‘er dignity. She slit ‘er wrists in despair, so they buried ‘er on unconsecrat’d groound. Ah couldna stop tha’, either.”

“Robin—”

“Nay, if’n ye stop me, Ah’ll neva finish it. Mah gran’father took me in, oop in the ‘ighlands. Ah was eight, or so, Ah think. ‘e gave me an education, an’ kept me there ‘til Ah was seventeen. Les’ see, t’was aboout six years ago, when ‘e disowned me.”

“Disowned you? Why?”

He smiled at the anger in her voice, and firing her eyes. “Easy, lass, nay need tae rile yerself. T’ain’t disowning, so much—Ah dinna know ‘ow tae translate ‘t. Bu’ Ah knew all the while tha’s wot ‘e’d do. Tae keep ‘t in the family, ye ken? T’was an honor, really. Means ‘e didna think Ah’d need the ‘elp tae survive. No’ an insult a’ all. Ah’d ‘ave in’erited from mah father’s side anaway—mah gran’parents on tha’ side’d died, as ‘ad mah uncle. But Malcolm promised me a place, if’n Ah needed it.”

“Why haven’t you gone there before now?”

“Ah dinna want tae bring this trouble daown on them—wot sort o’ thanks would tha’ be? Ah left Scotland fer the ‘oly Land, tae follow the Lionheart. Ah met Much again there. T’was ‘ell, tho’, Ah kin tell ye—worse, after Ah lost mah taste fer the cause. We took Jerusalem, and the men…t’was as tho’ they forgot their wives an’ sweet’earts an’ mithers a’ home. They jis’ went af’er evra women they saw, willin’ or no’.” He shook his head, his anger baffled this time, but no less horrified.

“They—”

“Aye. Bought the ones tha’ could be bought, raped the res’. Ah tried, an’ Much tae…bu’ wha’ could we do? Two aginst ‘ow mana hundred? There was one lass—Liviona, ‘er name was. ‘er mither spoke a bit o’ Latin, an’ Ah kin the same. She asked me tae keep ‘er lass safe.”

“Oh no. Robin—”

Robin’s voice went flat. “Barrat o’ Fairbrook got ‘er while Ah was on sentry duty.”

Marian moaned, hurting for him. He wrapped his arms around her, recognizing her need to offer comfort even though he couldn’t bring himself to take it. “Ah forced ‘im oout o’ the army, but t’was tae late fer Liviona—t’is the only way a lass kin git a decent ‘usband there, apparen’ly. She was shamed fer somethin’ she couldna stop—somethin’ Ah didna stop. She was only twelve.

“Aboout two weeks after, Much an’ Ah stopped six o’ Saladin’s men from takin’ the Lionheart, so we came ‘ome early a bit early.”

“Why?”

“’E asked wot we wanted fer a reward,” he replied with a shrug. “Anaone’d ‘ave done the same, reward or no’. Ah ‘ad mah estate, Much was goin’ tae be seneschal fer me. Bu’ they were gone.”

“Gone?”

“Aye. Gone. The Sherriff took ‘em when ‘e heard Ah went tae Scotland, Ah suppose.”

“But that’s—”

“Illegal? Nay, no’ the way ‘e did’t. Claimed Ah wasna a citizen. Ah am, bu’ Ah was in Scotland then, an’ tae young tae fight’t. Ah couldna claim ‘em. So Ah star’ed the process tae git ‘em back.

“Aboout a year an’ a half later, tho’, ‘alf-way through the legal battle, Ah saw the Magistrate. Jist walkin’ daown the street, ‘e was, right in front o’ me. Much was wit’ me, an’ we followed ‘im.” Robin paused, made her look him in the eye with a hand on her chin.

“Ah kilt ‘im, Marian, walked right intae tha’ big ‘ouse o’ ‘is, and kilt ‘im. Ah’m no’ sorry fer’t. Ah’d’ve hung fer’t gladly, but Much tugged me intae the forest. An’ then people star’ed comin’, like Ah was some sort o’…Ah canna tell ye wot they thought Ah was. Ah’m a murderer, an’ a thief. Tha’s wot Ah am, Marian. A murderer an’ a thief. Christ, Ah couldna even keep ‘em safe—Maud’s eyes, Will an’ George an’ Anthony—God, even ye.” Robin spoke flatly, but his face was full of emotion—regret, pain. Disgust and grief for the losses. “Guy o’ Gisbourne stabbed ye tha’ night, a’ the contest. Ye took a blade meant fer me, Marian,” he shook her a little, eyes bright with rage. Rage, she knew now, fueled by old terror and self-blame, kept locked tightly inside him.

“Robin—”

“An’ all Ah could think,” he continued furiously, “was tha’ Ah’d lost ye, tha’ ye were goin’ tae die.”

“Robin!”

He blinked at her, sure that he’d never heard that mixture of impatience and irritation in her voice before.

“Aye?” The heat of his anger drained—she was, after all, safe here in his arms. And then cold drenched what was left of the heat. He was suddenly afraid—terrified. He’d gone a very long time without the words she’d given him. Robin wasn’t sure if he could go back to living without them, now that they’d been said to him. What would he do, if she took them away?

“It’s not your fault.” Her tone was as direct as her eyes, so empty of blame or disgust that for a moment he didn’t understand.

“Wot?”

“You never touched the women, right? And you did the best you could to protect them, yes?”

“Aye, bu’—” Didn’t she see? He hadn’t protected them—he’d failed, and they had gone away.

As, he suspected, she would.

“You did everything you could. It isn’t your fault that you couldn’t save them all.” How many had he helped, had benefited from his presence? she wondered. How many, throughout his life, had he stood for without even realizing it? Marian hugged him tight. “Robin, you’ve saved them simply by remembering. So many others would have ignored it—you’ve started a campaign against injustice.”

“Ah wouldna go tha’ far,” he muttered, flushing, feeling relief roar through him in ridiculous amounts. He hoped she never realized how terrified he had been that she would spring away from him, horrified.

“I love you.” How could she help but say it again, with it flooding through her like a bright river, tumbling and powerful?

“Ahh, brèagha agam . Ye’ll turn mah ‘ead wit’ yer flirtin’ if yer no’ careful.” He was a poor excuse for a sweetheart, certainly not a match her uncle would approve in marriage. But, and he smiled a bit, if it meant that he had some right to feel the happiness that currently sang through his veins, it would do. Anything that gave him even the slightest bit of an excuse to hold Marian close would do. “Mo ghràidh .”

“What did you say? Mow gh-rad-eh?”

He chuckled—he couldn’t help it. “Mo ghràidh,” Robin corrected. “Beloved. Brèagha agam. Mah lovely.”

She blinked. She hadn’t expected pretty words—not from him, not now. So she melted a little, loving the beautiful, incomprehensible language he gave them to her in.

A knock sounded at the open door. Neither of them had remembered to close it, but Robin found that he didn’t care who saw them—with the possible exception of the Lionheart. He had no desire to tangle with a man who would be well within his rights to have Robin executed on the spot for touching his niece.

Instead, it was Much. He had an eyebrow raised at them, a speculative expression on his face, brazenly wondering just how far they’d gotten. Robin never would’ve let her sit in his lap if he hadn’t told her what happened, and the fact that her hair and his hair had been loosed and tousled was always suggestive…

“Well, now. Am I interrupting something?” he asked, a wicked grin gracing his face. He rather hoped he’d interrupted something.

“Nay,” Robin replied, knowing full-well that Much would have liked nothing better. “Nothin’ o’ interest. Ah jus’ finished tellin’ a wee storie, Much. Are ye disappointed tha’ Ah didna invite ye tae the tellin’?” Robin’s voice was light, cheerful as he mocked his friend.

Much grinned unrepentantly. How long had it been since Robin had last spoke without the awful weariness in his voice, in his eyes?

“Nay. We both know I’d have driven you mad, filling in the details. Did he bore you overmuch, Marian?”

“No, he didn’t bore me,” Marian said softly, holding her man tightly. His arms were strong, and still wrapped close around her. Robin tightened his grip around her for a second, sending a warm thrill down her spine. No, nothing about him could have bored her.

“Gaol .”

Much knew the word, knew that Robin meant it, and he smiled again, then left, closing the door behind him, some impertinent comment flung over his shoulder as he left.

Robin ignored him—he’d deal with Much later. He had much more important things to do.

“Wot aboot ye, Marian? Ah know yer the Lionheart’s niece an’ ward, an’ tha’ yer family wanted ye tae marry yon Sheriff, but tha’s all Ah know aboot yer past. Will ye tell me?”

She sighed, snuggled closer against him. “Only if you tell me what you said.”

“Love,” he murmured, giving in to the urge to indulge himself, and drawing in the sweet scent of her hair. Lord, she smelled good. “’t means love. Tell me.”

“Fine.” But she didn’t start immediately. “Where to start?”

“The beginnin’.”

“Well…okay. My father was the fourth boy, Uncle Richard’s younger brother.”

“Geoffrey.”

“Yes. He was a good father, I suppose. He let me do mostly as I pleased, so I was quite the hoyden as a child.”

“Yer mither?”

“She was a Saxon woman he met, fell in love with. He married her within the month, against the family’s wishes. She was Johanna—I don’t know her last name. She died when I was born, and everyone I talked to only ever called her Johanna.”

“Wheel, mah God,” he muttered, and pulled back to look at her face again. “Much was right. Yer Johanna’s daughter. Ye didna know ye where a Whitewell?”

“What?”

He laughed, the rich sound beautiful to her ears. “Gaol, yer Much’s…cousin. We’ll call’t tha’ fer naow. Yer mum was ‘is cousin. Di’ ye neva know?”

She blinked. “No, I didn’t know. Did he?”

“Aye, ‘e suspected. But finish yer tale.”

“Well, he remarried, according to Grandfather’s wishes. She was…difficult. Very difficult. But she gave him two more daughters and finally a son, so Father was happy enough. But she wanted me to be her idea of a lady, and,” she smiled. “Let’s say her idea and mine were different.”

“Ye made ‘er life ‘ell, didna ye?” he chuckled at the thought.

“Yes. But then Father died, when I was ten. She tried to make me mind her, after she found out that she couldn’t get to the inheritance my father had left me. My uncle stepped in as my guardian, and he let me do as I wished, or I found a way to do it anyway. So she tried to make me marry the Sheriff of Nottingham. I assume she made some kind of deal with him. I don’t know why—she had more money then she could have spent in three lifetimes.”

“Ye ken as well as Ah that some cannae have enough.”

“Yes,” Marian sighed. “I ran away. I didn’t think anyone would look at Nottingham—why would I have gone to the same place that the man I didn’t want to marry lived? I would have had to go to a covenant, but I didn’t want to have to before I, well, had to. So I disguised myself, and found work. I was used to living off meager funds; Constance had control of the allowance I was to receive until I married.”

“An’ then Ah kidnapped ye, an’ dragged ye off intae the wilderness.”

“Yes, then you kidnapped me, and dragged me off into the wilderness. And Constance and Arthur were killed in a carriage accident two months ago. So I have what’s left of the estates and two foolish half-sisters to take care of.”

“Ye’ll do’t, an’ whell, tae. T’is a kind lass Ah love, an’ clever, comin’ ’ere. Does yer uncle know ye’ve a head fer strategy? ‘e ought tae consult ye fer battle plans,” Robin murmured into her hair, silently thanking any listening gods—Gaelic or Christian. The stepmother may have been a bitch in nearly every sense of the word, but he’d met Marian because of her. He smiled, and ran a calloused hand down lightly over her hair. She smiled too at the touch.

“I would hope so. He’s the one that taught it to me. He never would teach me how to fight with swords or daggers, though.” She seemed oddly disappointed.

“Ah’m no’ sure ye could lift a sword, lass.” Robin’s eyes were alight with humor and delight, “They’re a mite heavy—a’ least the ones Ah know. Ah’ll teach ye a dirk, tho’, if ye like.”

She smiled beautifully at him, her whole face lighting up. He felt it send warmth through him like a wave.

God, he loved her.

So full of the love that he felt he’d burst, he cradled her face, tilting her head back so that he could rest his forehead against hers.

“Ah love ye. Ah canna tell ye ana more than tha’, Ah’ve no’ the words. But Gods, ‘ow Ah love ye.” He kissed her, lightly, sweetly. And then again, deeper.

“Show me, then,” she urged, threading her fingers through his hair. “Show me what you can’t say.”

He shook his head, denying her. “Ah’ll no’ take ye—no’ when we’re no’ married. Marian, Ah can’na,” but his hands ran restlessly up and down her spine, from the flare of her hips to the nape of her neck. And wanted her, more than he thought he could bear.

“Yes, you can. Robin, I want you,” she murmured, arching to his hands. “I want this.” Strange, she thought fuzzily, that she didn’t fear it, the first time. He wouldn’t hurt her, she was certain. His harsh groan was her reward.

“Nay, nay, Marian, Ah’ll no’ take ye naow. But Ah kin give ye what ye want,” he rumbled suddenly, a devilish smile lighting his face. “Aye, Ah can do tha’, luv. D’ye trust me?”

“Yes.” She didn’t feel helpless, giving herself. She felt strong, impossibly strong. “Yes,” she repeated, pressing another kiss to his mouth. Heat coiled in her belly, burning and tightening.

He groaned again, and twisted so that they tumbled over onto the mussed bed. “We kin stop at ana time, luv. Jus’ say the word.”

“I won’t,” she whispered back, “now love me—please, Robin, I can’t stand it any longer.” She writhed beneath him, wanting the contact, wanting the strange tension that knotted in her belly to ease.

“Easy, mah love, easy. Ah’ll take care o’ ye,” he promised, shifting off of her and to the side, so that he could touch her all the more easily. The outlaw bent his head, taking her lips, seducing with tenderness, and then scorching with heat and light and power. His hands ran along her body, lighting fires within her as he brushed aside her clothes. It wasn’t until she was fully naked, and he had looked his fill of her that he made his next move.

Slowly, intolerably slowly, he kissed her face—cheeks, forehead, eyelids, jaw-line. He moved relentlessly down her throat, lingering here and there, lapping and sucking against her skin until she was panting, certain that she’d go mad from the wonder of it.

A strong, hard hand lit upon her breast like a dragonfly, so light and gentle she arched to increase the contact. But he denied her again, easing back until she gave up struggling.

“Nay, luv, none ‘o tha’,” he whispered against her flesh. “Patience, tha’s the key.”

She wanted to scream. Instead, a whimper came out, needy and thin.

He caressed her breast again, flicking lightly over her nipple so that she gave a gasp. It responded immediately, tightening to a hard little point. He did the same with its twin, tormenting her with the slow, airy brushes of hand against skin until Marian squirmed with the unbearable agony of pleasure.

“So beautiful, gaol. Ye bewitch me, Marian.”

He didn’t give her a chance to respond, but bent his head again and pulled one of her tightened nipples into his mouth. She nearly choked with the pleasure it sent spiraling through her, her hands flying up to grip his hair and hold him to her. It was glorious—the hot, wet roughness of his tongue against her sensitive breast. His hand coasted down her soft, lithe body, enjoying the satiny smoothness of her skin, to rest against her hip.

She was prefect, he marveled, perfect in every way. Perfect for her imperfections, perfect for her strength and bravery and for just for being her. Robin left her nipple and went to the other, lavishing the same treatment on it until she did cry out, and shuddered against him. He enjoyed her pleasure—enjoyed knowing that he was the first to give it to her.

“Robin—Robin, please—”

“Ah know, lass, dinna worry, Ah willna leave ye like this,” he assured her, and brushed his hand over the triangle of golden curls that guarded her femininity.

She jolted, sea-green eyes snapping open to stare at him with shock and pleasure and a very innate, very innocent fear.

“Nay, Marian, ye’ve no’ tae fear from me. Ye ken tha’, aye? There will be nay ana pain, no’ t’night. Nay ana pain,” he murmured, kissing her again. “Trust me, Marian-love. Ah’d soon’r die than hurt ye,” he whispered, and carefully, gently, cupped her warmth. He parted the petals of her tenderly, and slipped one finger into her. God Almighty, she was so hot, so soft. Already, she was wet, and so incredibly, stunningly tight that it made his head spin.

She jerked from the sensation, whimpering with the pleasure, and clutched at him when he tried to move away, thinking he had scared or hurt her.

“No. Do it again,” she demanded on a breathless sob. The coil of heated need was threatening to explode within her—it was so very near pain that she wanted the explosion, or anything to relieve the endless waiting. Robin smiled, a flash of understanding brightening his eyes, and did as she bid him to, fingering her until she was begging for him.

He shifted then, kissing his way down her body, so the combined touches of his hand and mouth made her ache to be filled, until he finally lowered his head a third time and kissed her in the most intimate way of all, covering her entrance with his mouth and caressing with his tongue.

She cried out, trying to find her balance on a high, narrow pinnacle of pleasure, and wobbling like a top. It was sensual torture, the same heat that had assaulted her breasts now there, where she barely dared to touch. His tongue slid into her, tasting her and flicked against the inside of her core.

“Let go, lass. Dinna fight this, jus’ let it go,” he murmured as she cried out again, and bucked under him. He withdrew a bit, and slipped a finger into her, easing it in and then out again. He felt her tighten, and nearly groaned as his own arousal became painfully insistent. She was so sweet, so wonderful; he wondered what he could possibly have done to deserve this chance with her.

Then he touched a tiny little point of her body, one she hadn’t known existed. It was an electric shock, roaring like fire through her, and sent her up in a blaze, knocking her headfirst off the peak, and into what had to be Heaven.

Robin watched as her back arched, and her eyes went blind; heard the satisfaction in her voice as she spilled into his hand.

Though his own body went unfulfilled, he was oddly content with that, content simply to be with her. The outlaw moved to lie beside her, drawing the tangled linen sheet up to cover her bare body. He hadn’t anticipated the wave of aching tenderness that would swamp him after this, hadn’t expected the love that had plagued him for months to deepen and intensify with their lovemaking. He hadn’t realized that what he felt could get any stronger, but it had. And now he knew—he wouldn’t be able to let her go, regardless of what stood in his way.

She felt him move, felt him cover her with the blanket. She was enveloped by Robin’s lanky frame; his heat warmed her side, his arm slipping beneath her head, the other resting on her abdomen, and her legs tangled with his. Marian could sense his eyes on her, as blatant as a caress against her skin, and opened hers to meet his stare. There was strain on his face, and satisfaction.

“Yer alright?” his voice was husky, the Scottish burr deeper than ever.

She smiled, very nearly purred in contentment. “Yes. It was beautiful, Robin. I didn’t realize—” Then she blinked, frowned. “What about you?”

He chuckled, the sound slightly ragged. “Ah plan tae go’n jump intae the moat in jus’ a few minutes, lass. ‘Til then, Ah’ll make do wit’ Latin conjugations.”

“Latin conjugations?” she repeated, completely baffled by him. “Why?”

“So Ah dinna break mah word, an’ take ye like’n animal, Marian. Ah’ve gotten verra gud a’ mah conjugations recen’ly, lass,” he murmured suggestively, then groaned as though in pain. “Ah’ve got tae go naow, love.”

He left her there, naked beneath the sheets, with a nearly chaste kiss on the mouth, feeling both loved and utterly bemused.