by Lisa Hendrix
The sudden contact made Steinarr glance up. She was right there, so close he could feel her breath on his face, her hand gripping his shoulder as though she were comforting him. And, oh, how he needed the kind of comfort she could offer. Needed softness and smooth skin and the warmth of another human body. Needed a woman. This woman. Now. Her eyes, level with his because of the way he was bent, widened, and suddenly he was floating in their green depths, cool as a woodland pool on a summer’s day. All he had to do was drown himself in that pool, in her, and it would all be washed away, all the empty years. As if in a dream, he swayed toward her.
Somewhere far above, Robin cleared his throat. Marian blinked and jerked her hand away, and the connection between them snapped like spider silk. A sudden loneliness welled up at the loss, so thick it made Steinarr’s chest ache. He swallowed it back and worked to make his voice sound normal. “Let us try that again.”
She nodded, and he handed her up onto the mare without further trouble, though a pang of unreasoned envy twisted through him as she wrapped her arms around the boy’s waist. Steinarr let one hand linger on her foot, using that last fragment of contact, of warmth, to steady himself as he turned his attention to Robin, “I intend to move quickly. Keep up.”
It took an act of will to move his hand, to force himself away and onto his horse, but soon they were off, the rouncey trotting along behind on its lead while the mare brought up the rear. The narrow forest paths forced them to ride single file, thank the gods. It gave Steinarr the time he needed to consider what had happened.
It wasn’t Marian in particular, he decided, but the simple fact that she was female and that it had been so long. Too many months had passed since he’d had a little spare coin to throw at a whore—better than two years, now that he thought about it. Two years without human contact beyond the occasional marketplace handshake. No wonder he’d reacted so violently to that simple touch. Still reacted—for he could still feel the weight of her hand on his flesh. He needed a woman, for certs.
Well, that was something that could be dealt with just as soon as he collected the bounty on Long Tom. Even with the saddle pads and arrow points and flour and salt, there should be a few pence left for him and Torvald each to have a woman. He would make certain there was.
By the time they reached the great road and could ride abreast, he would have been fine, except that the breeze kept wafting the scent of Marian toward him—the intoxicating combination of woman overlain with the aroma of her simple cooking. And then there was the way she kept eyeing him, like she wanted to say something.
He finally had enough of it. “What? ”
She started at his abrupt demand. “Nothing, my lord.”
“Then why are you staring at me?”
“Was I? I was only thinking of how much you enjoyed the cheese and bread. You must have been in the forest a long while to take so much pleasure in such simple fare.”
“It has been some time,” he admitted. “My business keeps me to the wilds.”
“Are you a spy? ”
She asked so bluntly, he almost laughed. “Why would you think that?”
“Because I have never heard speech like yours, my lord, nor the name Steinarr. But I have heard that the Welsh and the Scots and others send spies against England who creep through our countryside looking to know the strength of our armies.”
“A spy would gain more knowledge in the cities than in the depths of the forest.”
“Perhaps. But your name is odd, my lord.”
“It is an ancient name, from a time before the Conqueror. It is common enough in the north.” All of which was truer than either of them could imagine. “Never fear. I am no spy.”
“Are you an outlaw, then? ” asked Marian.
He did chuckle this time. “Must a man be a spy or outlaw to pass his days in the woods? ”
“Or forester or woodward or charcoal burner. But you are too clean for the last and not furnished for the first. You do not even wear a proper baldric.”
“I might yet be a woodward. Or a huntsman for some noble house.”
She looked him up and down and said confidently, “No. Your gear is old and worn, but it is a knight’s gear. I think you are of noble birth, and that you are outlawed.”
His amusement faded. “Then you are mistaken. I hunt outlaws—for the bounty. Outlaws hide in the forest, so I follow them to find them.”
“You make it sound simple, but surely it is a dangerous way to earn your silver,” she said.
“Less so than you might think.” He left it at that, not wanting to encourage further prying. He could never explain that he could not be killed.
But Robin suddenly grew a tongue. “Do you go to hunt outlaws after you leave us, my lord? ”
“Aye. I would likely have one in hand already if not for those reavers.”
“If not for us, you mean.” Robin twisted to give his cousin a significant look, then turned back to Steinarr. “Forgive us, my lord. We should have done as you said and gone back.”
“No, we should not.” A breeze whipped a loose strand of hair across Marian’s cheek and she brushed it away impatiently. “Our task is equally important. More so.”
“But we have kept this man from his living,” argued Robin. “And from the king’s duty.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” She glared at Steinarr, challenging him. “If you hunt outlaws, my lord, why did you not ride down the men who killed John Little? ”
“You think one man could so easily capture three?”
“You drove them off easily enough.”
“Driving off and capturing are two different things. However, if I find there are bounties to be had, I may eventually track them. Otherwise, I spend my time where I will see sure reward … unless stray puppies come whining after me and I must do otherwise.”
She had nothing to say to that beyond an outraged huff, and her silence influenced Robin, so the peace lasted the rest of the morning. That was both good and bad. Good, in that she wasn’t prying anymore, and bad, in that in the process of not prying, she kept those full lips of hers pressed into a thin, stubborn line that taunted Steinarr with the thought of kissing them soft. He contemplated the notion for miles. It was pointless, but it occupied him nonetheless, and by the time they rode out of the trees into the outlying fields of Maltby, he had devised at least a half-dozen ways he might make it happen before they parted, none of which he intended to act on. He wanted to be shed of these two, not further entangled with them.
Marian had apparently been thinking as well, for as they reached the first cottages, she mused aloud, “The bounty on a thief is ten shillings, is it not? ”
“Aye,” he said warily.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I will see you receive five shillings if you will escort us on our journey.”
“Maud!” exclaimed Robert, then, “Ow!”
Had she just pinched him? Something about that name, Maud, displeased her; Steinarr had noticed her sour look earlier when the boy had used it, but had dismissed it, thinking it was simply an eke name she didn’t like. But perhaps not. Perhaps it was her true name, or gave away her true name, for he was as certain as ever that she was not really called Marian, as Robin was not really called Robin. So what was the long form of Maud? He spent so little time among the English that he wasn’t certain. It was difficult enough to keep up with their ever-changing language without worrying about their names in all their forms.
No matter. He was about to be rid of both of them, whatever they called themselves. He shook his head. “I would be a fool to take five shillings in place of ten.”
“And I would be a fool to offer it,” said Marian. “The five are not meant to replace the ten, my lord, but to add to them. You will still be able to hunt your thief and collect your bounty afterward, but you will have five shillings more in your purse, while Robin and I will travel quickly and in safety. It will be a benefit to all of us.”
Robin nodded his ap
proval. “A sound idea, Mau—, er, Marian.” He clamped his elbows down to protect his sides before she could do more damage.
Steinarr considered the offer for a moment. Odin knew, the additional coin would be welcome. The saddles were nearly as worn as the pads beneath them, and he and Torvald both needed warm new cloaks and gloves for next winter. But … He shook his head firmly. “No.”
“But why, my lord?” she asked.
“I told you, I am no shepherd.” He should have left it at that, but he couldn’t resist pointing out, “Besides, your purses are as flat as mine. Where would you get five shillings?”
“You will have it when you deliver us safely at the end, my lord. I give my word.”
“I add my word as well, my lord,” volunteered Robin, as though his word might mean something. “There will be money at the end for you.”
“The answer is still no.”
“But my lord …” she began.
“No,” he repeated in a tone that made it clear he would suffer no further argument. “Now, let us find the priest so I can—”
“Confess your many sins?” she asked tartly
“Have him give you lessons in manners,” he snapped back. “And tell him where to find John Little’s body.”
She had the grace to blush, but her lips clamped shut on whatever apology she might have offered.
They reached the church, a sturdy little stone chapel surrounded by graves and a wall, and found the young priest inside, supervising the filling of the font. Marian and Robin both kept silent as Steinarr explained what had happened. Only when the priest began questioning Steinarr too closely about the circumstances of John’s death did they speak up.
“This good man tried to save John Little, Father,” said Marian. “And he did save Robin and me.”
“It is he who first said we must come to you to see John properly buried,” said Robin.
The priest nodded. “Good. Forgive me, my lord, but it is necessary in such cases to be sure the man who carries the news of a violent death is not the one who did the violence. John was a good Christian, I trust?”
“He was at Mass only yesterday morning, Father, before we set out for the day,” said Marian.
“Good. Good. Then we can see him buried in our yard. I will go to the manor and ask Sir Matthew to send a cart to fetch the poor man and send for the gravedigger.” He led them out into the churchyard. “Will you go with me, my lord, and give your regards to our Sir Matthew? ”
“No. I must ride on. But Robin and Marian, here, will stay behind to wait for other travelers to pass through. They are on pilgrimage.”
“Where are you bound, my children? ”
Robin looked at his feet, clearly uncomfortable, but Marian met the priest’s curiosity directly. “In the end, Lincoln, Father, but we would stop first at a certain Lady Well east of Retford to pray. We would be most grateful for your kind aid while we wait for companions.”
“You will need very little of my aid, my children. As we speak, a party of charcoal burners makes camp nearby, preparing to leave on the morrow for that very place. Lord Matthew offered them in loan to the abbess of Kirklees, and she has asked for them to be sent to the abbey lands at Headon in Bersetelowe, east of Retford. I think your Lady Well must be very near to there.”
“Aye,” said Marian, but she looked unhappy. “Charcoal burners?”
“And a grimier lot I have seldom seen, but good men and women nonetheless,” said the priest. “They have been in the forest nearby for these past months and have been at Mass every Sunday despite the distance. You will be safe with them. I will take you to meet with them after I see Sir Matthew about the body.”
“We need to buy food before we set out, Father,” said Robin. “Is there someone with bread and cheese to spare?”
“You can have them at the manor. Come, I will see the steward gives you good value.” He held open the gate and waited while Marian pulled a few farthings from her purse.
She pressed them into Robin’s hand. “Be certain to strike a good price.”
“Are you not coming with us? ”
She shook her head. “I must have a word with Sir Steinarr before he rides on. Go on, Robin. I will come anon.”
Robin looked to her, then to Steinarr, and back again to her, as if some thought perched on the tip of his tongue and he couldn’t decide whether to let it fly. In the end he only nodded and headed off after the priest.
“You may as well go with your cousin and see that he doesn’t pay too dearly,” said Steinarr as he walked out into the lane. “Further argument will do you no good.”
She stopped in the archway of the gate. “I do not wish to argue, my lord. I only wish to double my offer. Ten shillings for your aid on our journey.”
Steinarr snorted. “You do not have ten shillings.”
“Not with me, no.”
“Not at all. You pinched those farthings you gave Robin as though you hoped they would give milk.”
“We must make what coin we brought last the entire way, but I promise you, my lord, there is money to be had at the end.”
“Money or not, my answer is still no.” He started for the horses.
“Twice ten.”
Startled, he looked back at her, standing there by the churchyard gate. By the gods, she was serious. Where would a peasant girl get a full pound of silver? No, curse it. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t helping her—couldn’t help her.
“You grow tiresome, maid. I said no.”
He stepped around to check the rouncey’s girth, taking his time in the hope she would, for once, remember her place and obey. But when he turned to check the stallion’s saddle, he almost tripped over her, she was so close—an arm’s length away, perhaps less, one hand resting on each of the horses to let them know she was there and her jaw so stubbornly set it all but shouted that she intended to keep at him until he found it impossible to refuse. He had to find some way to make her stop, lest she follow him right out of Maltby and down the road, still bargaining.
“What would it take, my lord? ” She stepped closer still, resolve evident in the determined line of her mouth. “What can I offer that will convince you?”
He found his way in those lips, once more begging to be eased. Softened. Kissed. Yes.
“This.” His arms went around her before he could think it through; his lips covered hers before she could protest. For a heartbeat she stilled in his arms; her lips went soft and pliant and opened, just enough. The rich, female taste of her flooded his mouth, and the hunger rose in him. More. With a growl, he gathered her closer, lifting her, shaping her to his body so her warmth eased the growing ache of arousal. His tongue plunged into her mouth as he showed her what he wanted to do, how he wanted to join with her, how he would like to push her down and make her his, right there on the village green. Right now …
Suddenly she stiffened and twisted, wrenching away as if he’d hurt her, though he knew he hadn’t. He released her, and she skittered back out of reach. Eyes full of accusation, she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. “What are you doing?”
“Even a maiden must know the answer to that.” He struggled to keep his voice cool when all he could think of was how her lips looked now, all swollen from his mouth. Why had he kissed her? Ah, yes. “You asked my price. That is it: a pound of silver … and you. I’ll take you wherever you wish, so long as I can take you whenever I wish.”
“Take—You cannot think I would …”
“I will make it pleasant for you.” He gave her body a raking gaze—by the gods, she was a ripe thing—and took a step toward her. “Very pleasant. I promise you will enjoy it as much as I.” Her eyes widened. He took another step and she turned and fled, pelting toward the manor like the very ghosts of the churchyard were after her.
There. She’d never follow him now.
Somehow, that didn’t seem as satisfying as he’d thought. Frowning, he checked the saddles again and fiddled with the baggage while the heavines
s in his groin eased. It took a while, what with thoughts of her creeping back every heartbeat or two. When he checked the girth for the third time, the stallion turned and looked back at him.
“Shut up,” said Steinarr. He flipped the stirrup down and swung up into the saddle.
She was standing by the manor gate as he passed a few moments later. He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “A safe journey to you and your cousin, Maid Marian.”
“The Devil take you, monsire,” she said quite clearly. The guards at the gate sucked in their breaths at her boldness, then let them out as laughter when Steinarr didn’t turn on her. He should, just to remind her of her place, but it mattered little at this point. He was rid of her, her and her cousin who was no cousin and their false names and falser pilgrimage. That was what mattered. He ignored the way her eyes burned into his back and rode on.
What he couldn’t ignore, however, was the knowledge of what he’d felt as he kissed her, of what he’d seen as she’d backed away from him, just before she’d turned and run. Fear, yes. But awareness, as well—the same awareness that had been there earlier when he’d almost drowned in the green pools of those eyes.
He could have had her, if he’d cared to woo her, if he’d been willing—able—to spend the time.
He could have had her.
And he had no doubt that the knowledge of that fact was going to ride with him for a very long time.
MATILDA FITZWALTER STOOD at the edge of the charcoal burners’ camp and tried to pretend she was happy to be there.
She was not—except that it meant she was well away from him.
The Devil take the man. Even now, she could feel him—not just his body, but him.
It had begun this morning, in that moment when she’d been about to mount. Their eyes had met and his need had poured into her like water, swamping her, stirring her own desires. It still ached, deep within her. She’d been trying to get rid of him all day.
She could hardly blame him for it, though, when she’d done it, when she was the one with the gift.
It was her benison and her bane. From the time she’d been able to toddle down into the hall, she’d had some strange connection with the animals of the manor: first the cats, then the dogs and horses, the sheep, and even the hens in their coop. She had known their minds—not read their thoughts, precisely, but understood their feelings. No one else saw it as a gift, though, and Father, frightened by the strange pronouncements coming from the mouth of his child, had taken the priests’ advice and set out to beat the devil out of her. She’d quickly learned to hide her abilities, even to laugh at them as a childish fancy.
