“From what did you run?” he asked gently.
“My father plans to marry me to one of his foresters, a brute called Roderick Havers. He thinks that will put an end to my disobedience. Havers will discipline me, right enough. He means to use a strap.”
Curlew felt the impact of those words all through his body. That anyone should harm one precious hair of her, or one freckle—nay, and it would not be, not while he drew breath.
Defiance and triumph mixed together in her face. “Havers said he would not have me if I came to our marriage bed ruined.”
“Ah, and so you chose me for the job.”
“The darkness chose you, and blessed good fortune. I would not change a thing.”
Aye, Curlew thought ruefully, and she could not be ruined more completely than at his hands last night. And if he sent her home with his child in her belly, what then? He realized, with a shock, he did not even know her given name.
A bit brusquely he said, “Gather up your clothing, lass. Cover yourself. You must go home.”
“Nay.”
“Do not be daft. Of course you must. Your father will be beside himself.”
“You promised.”
“Eh?”
Stubborn light flashed in her eyes. “You gave a vow last night that you would never send me away from you.”
Had he? Dismay crashed down upon Curlew like a hurled stone. But he had thought she was the Lady, asking from him a vow of devotion. He did not know he spoke words to a mortal woman.
He got to his feet, heedless of his nakedness, and began collecting her shed garments and thrusting them at her.
“To be sure, you will go home.”
“Nottingham is not my home.” She tipped back her head to look at him. “I belong nowhere, except maybe here with you.”
Curlew shook his head violently. He turned from her and took up his own clothing, pulled his sark over his head even as she watched, donned his leather tunic, then slid into his leather leggings.
“Master Curlew?”
He turned back to her swiftly. She sat with her chemise clutched to those tantalizing breasts, her eyes wide with inquiry.
“Listen to me, Mistress Montfort. You are not for me, nor I for you.”
“But last night—”
“Despite last night.” In spite of the wonder and magic of it, the undeniable sense of rightness. “For I have a destiny before me, one I cannot escape, and would not if I could. I regret, but you have chosen the wrong man.”
She got to her feet, her clothing still caught against her. The autumn sun, filtering through the leaves, warmed her hair to amber-gold. “I do not believe that.”
“You must. Now dress yourself. I will see you safe to the edge of the forest.”
She did not move. Like a goddess she stood and looked at him with defiance.
Curlew felt an unexpected twinge of sympathy for Montfort. Who could fail to love this lass, or be driven beyond endurance by her?
“Please,” he said.
The corners of her mouth twitched. “I regret, my lord, I would do most anything to please you. Anything but that.”
Chapter Fourteen
“You are angered with me.” Anwyn directed a searching look at the man who strode beside her. Each time she so much as glanced at him, she saw him again standing naked in the forest, strong and proud with the leaves dancing behind him and the light in his eyes. She could not identify the source of that light, did not understand it, but it drew her irresistibly.
She still tingled all over from his touch—and ached in a few places, if she were honest. She had never imagined lying with a man could be like that. Aye, and she had come close before, but she did not deceive herself that lying with anyone else could affect her so, could claim and consume her. Only this man. She did not comprehend it, but she knew it to her very soul.
And now she had annoyed him, even as she always annoyed her Da. Aye, and she regretted that but could find it in her to rue nothing else that had taken place between them. A miracle had brought her through the dark to his arms, the one place she needed to be.
She would do it all again. Indeed, she longed to.
A small smile curved her lips. He turned his head sharply and looked at her.
“Why do you smile? Do you not see the trouble you are in?”
“I see it,” she told him comfortably. Trouble could blow right past her, now she was at his side. “Where do you take me?”
“To Oakham.” He scowled as he said it. A village, she presumed, though the name meant nothing to her.
“Is that where you live?”
“I live here.” He lifted his hands in an encompassing gesture.
“Aye, well, since you told my father you are a forester, it seems I am not the only one who utters lies.”
His eyes flashed silver fire. Beautiful eyes they were, full of bright intelligence and, she thought, more than a hint of magic. Aye, but he was beautiful withal, from that mane of chestnut brown hair to those wide shoulders, those narrow hips, and the glorious endowment with which she had become so well acquainted last night. She might never look enough.
“I am a steward of Sherwood,” he told her, “a guardian—that was truth.”
She nodded. Had he told her he was a hobgoblin, she would have accepted it. “A lord of Sherwood.”
His step faltered. They both stopped walking and faced one another.
As if he could not help himself, he reached out and brushed the hair from her shoulder. His fingers lingered, and everything in her leaped toward his touch. “You must return to Nottingham, you know,” he told her almost regretfully. “You cannot stay here.”
“I will not marry that hulking, stinking brute.”
His lips twitched. “You said he would not take you ruined. Lady, you are most surely ruined.”
“I am.” She fought the desire to lean up and press her lips to his. She craved the taste of him, burned into her last night.
“Then what need you fear?”
Being away from you, her heart cried, though she did not say it. Not being able to watch the light dance in your eyes. Not being at liberty to reach for your hand. She could not live so.
“Surely,” she proposed, “folk flee to Sherwood every day and seek refuge. My Da says that is whence half the outlaws come.”
“True.”
“Then why not me?”
“Because you have someone fretting over you, and he is not a man I would have for an enemy.”
“He is already your enemy, so it seems. You stand on opposite sides of the King’s law.”
“But I would not give him the cause of his daughter’s virtue over which to contest me.”
“Too late,” she reminded him blithely. “You should have thought of that last night.”
“I did not know who you were, last night.” But a spark of mischief appeared in his eyes, and the corners of his mouth twitched again.
“We can go round and round it, or you can take me to Oakham and give me breakfast. I am perished.”
“Aye?” He quirked a brow. “And will you partake of the King’s deer?”
“Gladly.”
“Then come along.”
Had he given in? Not so easily, Anwyn thought. She guessed he just bided his time. They turned and resumed walking, she smiling all the more to herself.
“Tell me of this brute your father would have you marry.”
“Ah, well—he is squat and rancid, wide as he is tall.”
“Rancid?” She could hear the smile in his voice.
“He stinks like a boar, has little eyes like a boar also, and is every bit as mean. He believes in keeping his wife well-beaten and heavy with child. He has two vile children—”
“This paragon has been married before?”
“Aye, and killed his first wife with cruelty, no doubt. The daughter is a sad, morose creature with the look of her father, the son far worse—sharp and sly. Havers wishes a new wife to raise these two cubs.”
“A fate worse than death.”
“Far worse.” She directed her most beguiling look at him. “You would not send me back to that?”
He smiled, and this time it reached his eyes. By God, but they stole the breath from her, so full of quick wit and that indefinable light. “Surely ’twould be a shame to do so.”
She slanted another glance at him. “Keep me with you and we can do what we did last night again—and again.”
“Nay.” All the humor fled from him. “I told you, I am not at liberty, child, to be with you that way.”
“I am no child. If what we shared together failed to convince you of that—”
“Aye so, but I am not free to be with anyone.”
Anwyn’s heart sank in her breast. For an instant she felt as if she could not breathe. She fought the terrible feeling. “Are you promised to another, Curlew Champion?”
“Nay.”
“Then—”
“But I am promised to duty.”
“Does this duty preclude you ever taking a woman to wife?”
He paused and stared at her in bemusement. “It does not. But she must be the right woman, one to fill a particular place.”
Anwyn resolved at that moment to be that perfect woman, no matter what it required. She would trade whatever she must.
“’Tis a difficult thing to explain,” he went on. “I and another, my cousin, hold a kind of trust.”
“This cousin—male or female?”
“Heron is male.”
“Heron? It is an odd name. Can he not choose whomever he wishes to wed, either?”
Curlew shot her another measuring glance. “The trust is to be held by three. The third of our number will be a woman, and she has yet to make herself known. She will bond with both of us and wed with one of us—how can we say which, yet?”
“And you will keep yourself free, unclaimed, for this?” Ah, but she had claimed him for hers last night, in her heart, each time he entered her. “It sounds daft.”
“Aye, so it must. Yet ’tis for this I was born.” His tone told her there could be no argument. Yet her whole being wanted to argue it. She wanted to claw and thrash, to fight for him.
“How come you to be an outlaw?” she ventured to ask.
“Not an outlaw. A free man, rather, living on what Sherwood provides.”
Anwyn looked away from him. “There were many such ‘free’ men in the Welsh borders where I grew. They, too, thought themselves masters of their own lives. King Henry teaches them differently now, though.”
“The Welsh will not fold. They are brave, strong fighters, as well as good bowmen.”
“My Da says they fly to the hills when the King’s forces come—melt away like the snow in springtime. But he is not willing to wager who will win in the end. He did not wish to be caught in the midst of the fight, so when his old friend Simon de Asselacton offered this place, he decided we should come.”
“And your mother, lass?”
“She died some years ago of the fever.” The pain of that still caused Anwyn’s eyes to fill with tears. “He has not been the same since.”
“I am sorry.” A faraway look settled over Curlew’s features, as if he thought of something grave and troubling. “A hard loss to bear.”
“She was a kind woman, warm and beautiful.”
He nodded. “Is that not all the more reason for you to go home? If your father has lost her, will you make him bear the loss of his daughter, as well?”
“In due time I will send him word that I am alive and well and mean to stay in Sherwood.” She hesitated. “Do I need your permission to stay?”
“Nay, lass, not mine. You might ask permission of the headman of Oakham. He is my uncle, one Falcon Scarlet.” He stopped suddenly, as if struck. “By the light, I do not even know your given name, Mistress Montfort.”
“It is Anwyn.” She bade him, “Pray you call me by it.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Hie, Curlew! How went your pilgrimage?”
The cry met Anwyn and Curlew as they entered the village, and stopped them in their tracks. Anwyn turned her head sharply to locate the speaker, and her eyes widened.
The most beautiful man ever she had beheld strode toward them. Beautiful, aye—it was not a description she ordinarily applied to males she encountered, but this man deserved no other. Golden he was, from his head to his feet, tall and slender, and lithe in his movements. Tawny yellow hair flowed over his shoulders, and his face might easily grace one of God’s angels. He wore leggings and a tunic of golden deer hide, and the laces on his high boots only served to show the length and grace of his limbs.
“Heron,” Curlew said.
Ah, so this was Heron, the cousin somehow linked with Curlew in this mysterious duty of which he spoke. Anwyn could only stand and stare as he approached.
Curlew slanted a rueful look at her. “Aye—Heron affects most maids so, at first sight.”
The beautiful man even had golden eyes, set like jewels between deeply-fringed lashes. They regarded Anwyn and warmed when he smiled. “Well, cousin, I knew you went to meet a lady in Sherwood but, faith, I did not expect you to bring her back with you.”
Anwyn’s heart sank once again. Curlew had gone to the forest to meet someone? Was that why he had seemed so unsurprised when she fell into his arms? Was it why he had loved her so eagerly, because he thought she was someone else? Dismay tasted bitter in her mouth.
Curlew did not answer directly. “This is Mistress Montfort, who is fleeing Nottingham for the refuge of the forest.”
“Montfort?” Heron tipped his head. Light shimmered around him like fractured radiance. “Is that not the name of de Asselacton’s new head forester?”
“He is my father.” Anwyn spoke with only a slight tremor in her voice and held out her hand. “I am Anwyn, and most pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Heron fairly shone with delight. He made an obeisance worthy of King Henry’s court, and his lips brushed her fingers. Anwyn felt that touch reach inside her, like the toll of a bell.
“Most pleased to meet you, Mistress Anwyn. I am Heron Scarlet. Welcome to Oakham.”
Curlew cleared his throat. “She cannot stay but for breakfast. She will have to be sent back to Nottingham.”
You promised you would never send me away from you, Anwyn protested silently, and Curlew twitched, almost as if he heard.
“Well, we will speak of that anon,” Heron said soothingly. “Meanwhile, you will break your fast on bread baked by these hands.”
“You know how to bake?” Anwyn could not help but ask.
Curlew snorted. “He cooks astonishingly well—manages most things well, does my cousin.”
Anwyn sensed sincere affection between the two men. Close as brothers they must be, possibly closer. Oh, she thought wistfully, to be part of something like that.
Heron led them to a hut, one among the others. It had the figure of a stag carved above the door—nay, it was a man with antlers on his head.
“Any word?” Curlew asked his cousin as they went.
“Your sisters have both been and gone. They brought word of no change.”
“And your parents?”
“Remain with her. We will need to go, the two of us, and make our attempt.” Heron’s eyes slid to Anwyn. “Just as soon as matters here are attended.”
She felt instantly in the way, as if she did not belong. But Curlew only nodded, and Heron pushed wide the wooden door of the hut and invited her in.
The interior of the place felt cool and smelled wonderfully of things Anwyn could not begin to identify—herbs, possibly. The hearth took up most of the space in the small room. To the right Anwyn saw stools and a bench, to the left a narrow bed. Only one window opened onto the autumn light, but Heron left the door standing wide.
Anwyn had been in similar dwellings in the Welsh borders, had played with and been invited home by children who lived there. She had seen desperate poverty but did not sense
that here. The room, though spare, gave off an air of comfort.
“Please, Mistress Anwyn, sit. Will you take some ale?”
“Aye, thank you.” Whatever this beautiful man offered her, she would gratefully accept.
He poured three mugs of frothy ale and placed one at her hand. When he bent over her, she caught a hint of his scent, very similar to that of the house, and beguiling.
He brought a basket of bread and a pot of honey, then sat down between Anwyn and Curlew.
“So, Mistress Anwyn, tell us why you have fled Nottingham.”
She froze with her mug halfway to her lips. Parched, and hungry as well, she nevertheless hesitated. “Do I need your permission to stay here?”
He lifted arched brows. “Nay, but I promise you I can put in a very good word with our headman. He is my father.”
“Then, please.” She slid forward and touched his hand. “I pray you will convince him to let me stay.”
****
Yet another woman fallen victim to Heron’s redoubtable charms, Curlew thought sourly as he watched the smiles his cousin and the lass, Anwyn, traded to one another. He wondered why the idea made him ache inside. He barely knew her. Well, aye, he knew her in the carnal sense, right enough. His flesh still leaped for hers every time he looked at her, and to save his life he could not keep from looking. Even now, as she leaned toward Heron and touched his hand, he saw how her breasts pushed against the fabric of her bodice. He knew those breasts as well—the size and taste of them. He knew her sweetness and her heat.
But he should be used to coming second to Heron. Had he not done so all his life? Truly, never before had he resented it. The only thing at which he excelled was the longbow—there, at least, he knew himself unmatched.
He could not deny the two of them made a bright picture together, all ashen and golden like the autumn day outside. ’Twas as if they brought its beauty inside with them, to light this ordinary place.
“Only tell me your circumstances,” Heron bade with an interested look, “and I will gladly speak to my parents on your behalf.”
“My father has made a marriage agreement very little to my liking.” She bit into her crust of bread with her white teeth; Curlew could not but remember them also, sliding over his flesh.
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