Robin Hood Trilogy

by Canham, Marsha

  This one was too damned clever for her own good and had suspected he was not what he appeared to be from the outset.

  Mercenary. How she had spat the word off her tongue as if the mere saying of it tainted her. Since it was not likely she had had to beg for anything more serious than a second helping of sweetmeats, it was no wonder she could only look down her decidedly uptilted nose at someone who fell measurably short of her impression of what a noble, valorous knight should be. Perhaps it was just as well she continued to think of him with such disdain and contempt, for he had come to Amboise as a dispassionate observer with never an intention of getting any closer to any member of the family than was absolutely necessary.

  He had originally planned to approach the chateau on his own, but a brief foray into the village of Amboise had told him it would be nearly impossible to pass through the gates without drawing attention. Unlike some castles, where the sentries were so lax a man could live within the walls for months without anyone questioning his business there, it was obvious the Black Wolf guarded his privacy and took his family’s safety seriously.

  Griffyn had just returned to his campsite, just caught his evening meal when a bronzed forest nymph in the guise of Brenna Wardieu had stepped into the setting sun and insisted he accompany her to the chateau. Lucky for him he had held his instincts in check, for she had caused all manner of unforeseen reactions in his body—reactions he could not afford to let distract him.

  She was not going to come to the archery run and for that he had the sense to be grateful. Experience had taught him harsh lessons against ever letting emotion govern his actions, and with Brenna Wardieu, the warning bells had gone off in his mind the first moment he had set eyes on her. They had gone off again, nearly deafening him, when the feel of her hands gliding over his oil-slicked body had all but caused him to explode into the furs. He had deliberately tried to frighten her then, to bring her to her senses and warn her away, but it had not exactly worked out the way he had anticipated. He had not expected her to taste so sweet and warm, or to have melted in his arms like a woman who had no inkling of the powers of her own sensuality. Angry with himself, he had returned to the keep and drunk himself stupid trying to clear the taste of her out of his mouth. He had diced with the brothers and won the eager services of a lusty wench, but the act had been perfunctory and unsatisfactory. Worse, the ache had still been with him, tight and fisted around his groin, when he had seen Brenna stride into the bailey that morning.

  Madness had prompted him follow her to the archery run and madness had made him take up the bow and accept the smug challenge in the wide violet eyes. At least he could be thankful one of them had come to their senses and he would be able to put her out of his mind the way he put most things that spelled trouble and confusion out of his mind—things like a conscience, a soul, loyalty to anything or anyone other than himself. He needed to stay clearheaded and focused if he was going to succeed where others had failed with Robert Wardieu.

  He needed to keep that bitter taste of revenge in his mouth if he was going to succeed in destroying the champion of Amboise.

  To that end, he had watched Wardieu practicing in the yards today and had studied his every move. He was not deluding himself that it would be easy work or entirely without risk to his own neck. Wardieu’s style of sitting, of leaning slightly forward and to the right, twisting at the last moment, had not changed much over the past five years, but Griffyn had been surprised to see how easily the champion tired, and he did not think it was all due to the quantity of ale and wine they had consumed last night.

  Conversely, Wardieu would have only his memories to prepare him and five years eroded a good deal of sharpness from any man’s mind, sometimes even adding embellishments that were never there. That was where Griffyn would have the distinct advantage for he had spent those same five years honing and sharpening his skills, learning to change his stance, to alter his attack to counter anything an opponent could throw at him. He could predict, just by studying the way a challenger sat in the saddle and how he held his lance, where the blow would come and how much conviction would be behind it, and after today’s display, he was satisfied that Wardieu was good, but he was not unbeatable.

  Griffyn looked down at the pale outline of his hand and flexed the scarred fingers, crushing them around the piece of straw he had been shredding to pass the time. She was not coming. He knew she was not coming, so why was he still out here in the damp midnight air leaning on a bale of hay contemplating his own foolishness?

  He tossed the scrap aside and pushed away from the bale but he only managed a step or two before he stopped again.

  Someone was coming across the green, staying close to the wall to avoid the sharp eyes of the sentries. Griffyn had deliberately positioned himself in the deepest shadows by a small storage hut so he could see without being seen, and he melted back against the wall now even though the slivered moon was hidden behind mist and low, heavy clouds. Instinct sent his fist curling around the hilt of a knife he had not been generous enough to hand over to Littlejohn at the gates, and he slipped down into a crouch, his muscles tensed and poised to spring.

  Brenna kept her head down and the hood of her cloak pulled low over her forehead. She had decided, firmly and adamantly, not to meet Griffyn Renaud in the archery run as he had ordered. She had decided it at least a dozen times throughout the afternoon and long, endless evening. How could anyone expect her to honor such an outlandish, outrageous wager? How could a treacherous, conniving, deceitful mercenary expect the daughter of one of the most noble and feared barons on the continent to … to lay herself naked in the grass and let him do what he would to her?

  It was ridiculous. Ludicrous. Insane. It was in no sense of the word an honest wager made to an honest man who had in any way represented himself honestly. Certes, she was under no obligation to honor any oath given under such dubious circumstances, not when he had deliberately manipulated and maneuvered her into thinking him a bumpkin with a bow. Brave words indeed. Tricked out of her by a low-bellied worm who sat at their table, ate and drank their food, wenched with their serving girls, then strove to repay their hospitality by humiliating the daughter of the household.

  She owed him nothing.

  She would give him nothing but an ultimatum to leave Amboise before morning else she would go to her father and denounce him for his crimes of treachery and deceit.

  If he dared show his face.

  The archery run was deserted, an empty stretch of grass broken only by the ghostly silhouettes of the butts. She turned full circle but there were no other shadows leaning insolently on the barricade; no vile laughter mocked her, no sound intruded on her solitude other than a faint quarrel between two dogs in the stables.

  “A cowardly low-bellied worm,” she muttered aloud, pushing her hood off her head. “Lacking even the decency to acknowledge my willingness to comply.”

  She turned another circle but she was alone. The mist made it difficult to see more than shadows upon shadows; the only lights were the distant flaring torches that marked the barbican gates and they were muted to a dull, watery yellow haze.

  “Damned bloody coward,” she muttered again. “I should have known he only wanted to torment me.”

  “Did I succeed?”

  Brenna gasped and whirled around. The whispery voice had come out of the darkness behind her, so close it sounded like a shout. Moreover, the quickness of her spin, combined with the quantity of wine she had consumed since dusk, left her swaying slightly while the two sets of sheds, barricades, and benches melded back together as one.

  “Where are you? Show yourself.”

  A tall black shadow straightened and detached itself from the side of the bothy. “I had just about given up on you, my lady. ’Tis well past midnight, by the watch bells.”

  “’Tis well past the limit of my patience,” she snapped. “And I am only come to tell you your presence is no longer welcome at Amboise.”

  “Why? B
ecause I pricked your vanity this morning?”

  “You tricked me. You feigned ignorance of the longbow when all along you knew damned well how to use one.”

  “Truly, demoiselle.” He gave a wry laugh. “What manner of sword for hire would I be if I were not at least passingly familiar with so magnificent and deadly a weapon?”

  “Passingly familiar?” Her shoulders dropped a moment. “You made me look like a boastful child.”

  “That was not my intention.”

  “Was it not?”

  “Would you rather I had bowed to the dictates of chivalry and deliberately missed the shot so as not to offend the sensibilities of a female competitor?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “Well then?”

  Well then, indeed. He had effectively defused her argument, for it was the last thing she wanted on this earth, to think any man patronized her in any way just because of some foolish notion of chivalry.

  “If it is any consolation,” he said, taking a step closer, “I have never seen another archer with such a steady hand or keen eye—man or woman. I have never had to take such care with my own shot.”

  The wine swam around her head for a moment, mellowing her to the compliment, but then she remembered the last split second before he loosed the arrow. He had looked away from the target. He had looked away as coolly and calmly as if he knew precisely where the arrow was going and what her reaction would be.

  “Never?” she spat. “Not in all your years of selling your sword for profit?”

  He sighed. “Believe me, there is little profit in selling anything, except perhaps your soul.”

  “Hah! Then you admit it! You admit you ply your trade as a mercenary!”

  “I admit nothing. Only that I am surprised to see you here tonight.”

  “Why should it surprise you? I gave my word.”

  “And is that the only reason you came?”

  “What other reason would you suppose, sirrah? That I wanted to come?”

  His laugh was low and husky. “I was hoping it might have counted for a little.”

  “Not the smallest part,” she insisted. “Not with a pin spot, rapine trickster the likes of you.”

  “You wrong me, demoiselle. I have not raped anyone of your acquaintance that you should slander me so.” He took another step and something metallic on his belt caught a reflection of light from the distant torches. “And unless your education has been sadly lacking about what a man and woman do together, you cannot possibly think I raped you last night. Teased you, perhaps. Possibly even gave you a taste of the pleasures you might encounter if you shed your tunics and boots and loosened your skirts a little.”

  “Pleasure?” She tensed and eased back a step, and although she could not see it clearly, a slow, wide grin spread across his face as he smelled the false courage on her breath. “You call pinning me up against a wall, threatening me, and frightening me half to death pleasure?”

  “Did I frighten you? If I did, you will have to forgive me. I have been absent from courtly circles too long and my … manners … have suffered for it.”

  “A forced absence, or a voluntary one?”

  “Tut-tut.” He lifted a finger and wagged it. “I am not the one who lost the wager, remember, therefore I owe you no answers. You, on the other hand, owe me—”

  “Nothing,” she snapped. “I owe you nothing.”

  He bowed his head a moment and clasped his hands behind his back. “Ah, well, I confess you have me truly confused now. The chivalrous thing for me to have done this morning was to throw my shot and let you win—yet you disdain the notion. At the same time, had I done so, I would also have been expected to do the honorable thing by baring my soul and answering the thousands of questions fermenting in the back of your mind. But because you lost, and in spite of an oath of honor given freely and boldly, you expect chivalry to come to your rescue now, that I might release you from your bond and send you on your way with naught but a gallant bow. Do I have that clear in my mind?”

  Brenna’s cheeks flared red and her hands balled into fists by her sides. A mottling of small purple dots distorted her vision for a moment, rushed there by the anger boiling in her veins. The inner curtain wall was behind him and above, the darker jumble of towers and battlements were etched black against the midnight sky, shrouded in mist. She could see very little of his face, no more than a pale bluish smear slashed with the line of his black eyebrows and framed by black hair. Something hot and liquid and stinging flushed away the purple pin spots, but her anger remained, causing her to square her shoulders and hold her chin high.

  “Have you chosen your square of grass, sirrah, or will any bed of thatch do?”

  It was Griffyn’s turn to stare. He had excellent night vision and saw more than just the pale blot of her face. He saw the dark stain on her cheeks and the silvery liquid rim forming along her lower lashes. He saw her fists and the tremors that shook the folds of her cloak and the pride that kept her back straight and her eyes fierce.

  She was magnificent, and the simple truth was that he wanted her. That was why he had followed her onto the field that morning and why he had taken up her challenge. It was why he had stood out here in the dark for two hours shredding enough stalks of hay to build a nest. He wanted her … and at this moment, with his heart pounding and his blood raging … he wanted her badly enough to break every rule he had set for himself, shatter every barrier it had taken him so long to erect around his emotions.

  “I would gladly lay you down in the grass, my lady.” He reached over with a surprisingly steady hand and lifted a single long, loose curl, drawing it out from beneath the wool of her cloak. “I would gladly do a thousand things to you that would have you begging me to do a thousand more.” He toyed with the sleek, tawny spiral and watched it slither through his fingers. “On the other hand, I am not going to hold you to something you have no wish to do. The devil may have cursed me into accepting many things I would not have thought of doing at one time; but I am no despoiler of unwilling virgins. The effort is too great,” he added, hoping his sigh sounded casual, “and the satisfaction too fleeting.”

  Brenna’s own heart was beating like a wild thing. She was prepared to honor her oath. She was prepared to shame and curse and denigrate him all the while he had his lusty way with her, but she was prepared, nonetheless, to see this thing through and emerge with her pride and honor intact. She was not prepared for the icy, prickling frissons of sensation washing across her nape and rippling down her spine with each gentle stroke and tug of his fingers on her hair. Nor was she expecting this eleventh-hour gesture of nobility regardless of how tartly it dripped with sarcasm.

  She forced herself to look up, not certain she had heard him correctly. “You are … letting me go?”

  “Alas, I neglected to bring my manacles and chains.”

  He dropped the silky curl and clasped his hands behind his back again, wondering at his own madness. Wondering at hers for continuing to stand there staring up at him like a trapped doe that does not understand a hunter’s reprieve.

  “Is … my virginity the only reason?”

  “Not entirely.” He chucked quietly. “But then you are not just any virgin either, my lady, but the daughter of the Black Wolf of Amboise. I would not want to speculate over the number of knives I would find stuck in my gullet come morning should the happy denouement take place and my part in it be discovered.”

  She did not know where the next question came from, but it stumbled off her tongue anyway. “No … other reason?”

  His head tilted to one side. “Such as?”

  “Such as my … fondness for tunics and leggings over loose silk skirts.”

  If the ache in his groin was not so overwhelming, he might have laughed. If the note of uncertainty in her voice had been any less compelling, he might have cursed his noble intentions to hell and thrown her on the ground then and there. As it was, he was forced to stare long and hard, and to recall a similarly
faint air of aspersion at the supper table the previous night when her father had remarked on how lovely she looked.

  Was it possible she did not know how beautiful she was? How desirable? How the mere thought of lying with her anywhere—in the grass, in the bath house, in the weeds by the river—was putting such an unprecedented strain on his willpower, he was nearly coming out of his skin?

  “No other reason,” he said evenly. “On my oath.”

  Her head dipped down and he could see the sheen of mist droplets sparkling on her hair. “Given on the safe assumption you will not have to act upon it.”

  This was too much. He clamped his teeth together so hard his jaw made a grinding sound and when he did laugh, purely out of desperation, it sounded coarse and lusty and darkened the stains on her cheeks.

  “Very well, my lady. Since you are so insistent, shall we strike a compromise? Comply with the original terms of the wager and we may both claim honor has been served.”

  “The original terms?”

  “A kiss,” he said brusquely. “Long and sweet and freely given … unlike your squirming, missish efforts from last night.”

  She looked up at him through the darkness. The wine was muddling her senses, spinning them from one extreme to the other, but they were clear enough to know he was making fun of her, mocking the frightened, trembling woman he had sent running out of the bath house, terrified as much by the responses he had roused in her as she was by his offer to introduce her to still more. He was cynical and unfeeling and would likely laugh all the harder even if she did kiss him and it failed to measure up against his talents as a debaucher of household servants. On the other hand, did she really care what he thought of her? He was arrogant and crude and ill-mannered, and if a kiss was needed to prove she was no country simpleton who would default on the demands of her honor, a kiss was what he would get.