by Mimi Riser
Chapter 5
She will…
It sounded like a death sentence. Worse. Marian’s ears still rang with the words.
She will…
Father Boniface never should have accepted it, but the old priest obviously knew which side his bread was buttered on.
She will… She will…
She had, anyway. And digging in her heels hadn’t helped one blessed bit. Godgifu had pushed her straight to the door of the chapel like she’d been on greased skids. So much for rebellion. All her protests fell on deaf ears. The ceremony was short and to the point—the abridged version apparently, made up in honor of the occasion.
Roland kept waving his hand at the priest and saying, “We can dispense with that part. Move on.”
Marian wasn’t sure why her own presence had even been needed. When they got to the vows, Roland answered hers before she could open her mouth and scream.
“She will,” he’d said. Just like that. “She will.”
“No, I won’t!” she’d hollered. Too late. Father Boniface had already declared them wed.
“You may kiss your wife, my son.”
“We can dispense with that part,” Marian had choked out. Fortunately, Roland hadn’t pressed the issue, had even allowed her to leave the scene of the crime under her own power, with some small degree of dignity. Unfortunately, she’d been escorted to his bedchamber immediately thereafter. There was nothing dignified about her position now.
Huddled naked under the covers of a massive canopied bed, hidden behind tapestry bed curtains, she listened to Roland enter the room and dismiss a giggling young woman named Solemnia of all things. She was Isolde’s personal attendant, but until they could find her a chamberer of her own, Marian would be sharing her. Earl’s ladies had to be attended, of course; there was no escaping it. The giggles were grating, but the only alternative would have meant sharing Godgifu with Cymrica, and Marian had had enough of Nurse Godzilla for one night.
There sounded low, masculine murmurs as a stocky, fair-haired youth called Hodge performed the same services for Roland that Mistress Giggles had just completed for her. The boy looked a tad dull-witted, but obviously devoted to his lord. Marian supposed someone had to be. Through a crack in the bed curtains she watched him laboriously smooth the creases out of the brown robe, then fold and lay it in a carved oak chest. She couldn’t see what the robe’s owner was doing and didn’t want to. She focused on Hodge instead, tried to use his slow plodding movements to lull her into lethargy, tried to detach, go numb. Tried to not care.
Failed miserably.
She did care, damn it—always had, always would. But it was no use. She couldn’t stop what was coming. She’d been taught too early to lie still and take it, that fighting only made things worse. Old training died hard.
A shudder racked through her. Tears filled her eyes as the memories filled her head. Feeling like an open wound, she lay there shivering and waiting, hating her weakness. Wouldn’t Orlando be disgusted if he could see her like this. Wherever he was right now, she felt like she was letting him down, knew she was letting herself down. Knew even better there wasn’t a thing in hell she could do about it. There never had been. Self-defense was a grand concept, but there wasn’t much a little girl could do against a grown man.
Swallowed up in the big bed, Marian felt like a little girl again, felt filthy inside, helpless all over. A long, hard, brutally strange day, with the recent rebellion such a ridiculous flop, she couldn’t think what else to try, could hardly think at all. Wouldn’t think. She’d just hope that Roland would be fast, and that she wouldn’t disgrace herself anymore than necessary. She had a little pride left. Not much, but some—a tiny ragged shred. She’d cling to that.
The chamber door clicked shut with Hodge’s departure. Marian blinked back the tears, braced herself. No crying, no begging, no struggling. No response, period. Don’t give him the satisfaction. She’d just grit her teeth and concentrate on surviving this connubial farce as best she could. Afterward…
She squeezed her eyes shut. Afterward, maybe she could escape into sleep, if he’d let her. And dream, if she was lucky. God, how she’d need a good dream tonight. Her dream. She needed Robin now more than ever.
The swish of the bed curtains being drawn back brought her eyes flying open. She found herself staring at a taut-muscled male torso that rippled like molten copper in the soft glow of the bedside candle. Her breath hitched. He looked like a Greek statue, utterly motionless, shocking in his physical perfection. Then the candle was snuffed and he was only a moonlit silhouette with a rich velvet voice.
“You are on my side of the bed.”
Huh? She blinked. Was that supposed to be funny?
“I need the side closest to the door,” he explained, “in case, ah, a crisis should arise during the night.”
Oh. As far as Marian was concerned this night was already a crisis, but she wasn’t about to argue the point. After that single shattering glimpse of him she doubted she could make a sound anyway. Doubted, too, that simply gritting her teeth would get her through the coming ordeal. He’d looked dangerous enough dressed. Naked, he looked lethal. Her breath snagging in her throat, she rolled to the far side of the four-poster, in her haste dragging most of the covers with her.
Without comment Roland slid into bed and methodically hauled everything back into place. Blankets, sheet…and Marian, her fingernails clawing at the mattress the whole way. She ended on her side, trapped in the curve of his body, her back to his front. His arms wrapped around her middle, his thighs pressed up behind hers, and only a few folds of the sheet stood between her and the dreaded inevitable. She felt his heart beating into her spine, his skin hot and smooth against hers. Her body tensed. Suddenly she couldn’t stop shivering.
The arms around her tightened. “Lady, you are trembling.”
Perceptive, wasn’t he? Why did he sound so surprised?
“Is the room too cold for you?”
Actually, it was starting to feel like an oven, but she was damned if she’d tell him that.
“You are…nervous perhaps?”
Hah. Guess again.
“Frightened?”
Try terrified.
“Not of me, surely?”
Is there anyone else here?
His breath released in a small sigh. “I think there are a few things we had best discuss.”
Marian bit her tongue to keep from strangling on it. She’d been braced for sexual assault, not conversation. This was absolutely depraved.
“I don’t want to talk. If you’re going to rape me, I’d prefer that we get it over with as quickly as possible, if you don’t mind.”
With an agonized groan Roland heaved away from her onto his back. “God’s blood, lady, what kind of a monster do you think I am?”
“You don’t really want me to answer that, do you?”
“No, I suppose I don’t.” Throwing back the covers, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “And I fear anything else I might say or do this night would but lower me further in your esteem.”
Marian yanked the covers back up to her chin. “Not really. You’re already about as low as you can get.”
“Indeed.” Without warning he turned and captured her face between his hands. “Since I’ve nothing to lose then, I’ll be damned if I’ll not even get a kiss for my trouble.”
She stiffened. Sudden panic locked her lips tight against the expected invasion. His mouth pressed down warm and soft on her brow instead. Then he was out of the bed, back into his robe, and striding for the door.
“Rest you well, my lady. No one shall disturb you tonight. You have my word on it.” The door closed quietly behind him.
Marian lay stunned, eyes wide, staring into the darkness, all the wind sucked out of her sails by his departure. He’s gone? She strained her ears, listening for his return even while knowing he wouldn’t. He’d given his word. Why she should believe him, she had no idea, but she did. H
e could have forced himself on her so easily. She’d expected it, expected the worst. Yet he’d left her with no more than a kiss.
On the forehead.
Good lord.
He’d left her alone! Why? Because he didn’t want her to think badly of him? Because he’d realized she was frightened? Why on earth should he care about that? No one else ever had. Even worse, why should she care that he did?
A sharp smack broke the silence of the room—Marian slapping herself in the head. Why the hell was she lying here like an idiot when she finally had a chance to escape? If she wanted out, now was the time to run.
There was just one slight problem.
“I don’t know where to escape to. Or how.” Her voice sounded small in the shadows. With another groan she sat up in the center of the bed, feeling dwarfed by its size and the magnitude of her own predicament.
Something creaked. Either her brain was cracking from the strain, or the door was opening.
Marian’s breath released in what was almost a sigh of relief. Roland. He’d returned, had he? And here she’d been worrying that she might actually be starting to like him. Hah. Well, it saved her the trouble of trying to decide what to do next. On with the wedding night frolics. Bastard.
Her faith in his rottenness restored, she sank back into the pillows and waited, listened to him padding across the floor…heard the lid of the oak chest squeak open…heard the rustle of fabrics…metallic clinks…
Coins?
The lid dropped shut again with a hollow thud and she could no longer stand the suspense. What was he doing? Counting his money? Now?
Suddenly more irritated than frightened, Marian scooted to the edge of the mattress and peeked out through a crack in the bed curtains. Her eyes widened. Moonlight filtered in through the window, illuminating the chest and the figure crouched in profile before it, dark curls peeking out the rim of his tunic’s hood. The scene overlapped in her mind with the image of a boy in a bookstore, stealing paperbacks out of a bin. Same pose, same boy, same basic activity. Too shocked to speak, she watched him stuff a leather pouch down the front of his tunic, rise, and tiptoe to the door.
“Orlando?” she finally managed to rasp out.
Her whisper coincided with the sound of the door shutting.
He was gone.
Damn.
Marian flew out of bed and fumbled for clothes. Her undergarment, a white shift, lay neatly on a carved stool. She yanked it over her head, not knowing if she put it on frontward or backward, not caring. Slippers and stockings lay beneath the stool. She skipped the stockings and shoved her feet into the shoes. The blue silk gown was nowhere to be seen. Off for cleaning? Fine. She hated that gown—bad memories—but she needed something besides the shift. She spied the green gown she’d arrived in hanging on a hook in the corner. It had some unsettling memories attached to it, too, but she scrambled into it, regardless, then darted out the door.
Groping her way through the dark outer chamber, she nearly stumbled over Hodge asleep on a pallet by the exit to the courtyard stairs. He grunted as her foot bumped him. Marian caught her breath, froze in mid-step.
Hodge rolled groggily to his side and was snoring again in seconds. No problems with insomnia for that boy. She released the breath she’d been holding, pushed opened the door, and stared down into the moonlit courtyard with its scattered shrubs and benches, its cobbled well…
And not a soul in sight.
Her skin prickled into gooseflesh. What the heck was going on? She had just seen Orlando, hadn’t she? But he couldn’t know she was here, too, or he wouldn’t have been—her stomach turned over—robbing the Earl of Hunterdon, for heaven’s sake. How did he get into the house? How did he know where to look for loot? She’d known the kid was resourceful, but not this resourceful.
A hundred questions tumbled through her mind. Half of her thrilled at the knowledge he was all right; the rest teetered on the edge of panic wondering how long he’d stay that way. Lord have mercy, he hadn’t wasted any time, had he? Just what was he up to? Who had he gotten himself involved with? Someone put him up to this—some outlaw—she was sure of it. A medieval band of thieves would probably love to have a clever kid they could slip through windows and such. Did Orlando have any idea how harshly crimes were punished in this era?
Crap. She had to find him before he got himself captured and killed.
As she stood shivering and staring, debating what to do, a flash of movement caught her eye. A boyish figure in hose and hooded tunic slipped out of the shadows at the base of the stairs and hurried across the courtyard in a semi-crouch.
The little imp.
Like a silent shot, Marian was down the stairs and after him. She didn’t dare call out for fear of waking the household. Racing diagonally to cut him off, she came within reach as he rounded the yard’s central well. A forward lunge—a grab—and she had him.
Yes!
Or maybe no. Too late she realized the boy she’d caught was taller than Orlando. When straight he was a bit taller than she. As they stumbled to a halt his hood flew back and two raven dark braids tumbled out.
“Cymrica!” Marian let go as though burnt. “What are you doing here?”
Furious, the girl whirled to confront her. “I might ask you the same thing. Looking for Roland? What a pity. My brother seems well finished with you this night. I watched him ride out a short while hence. He’ll be petting his little Tabby cat by now.” Her lips curled in contempt. “So much for his fear of a night chill.”
Marian felt a suspicious chill of her own. “A cat?”
“Aye. A two-legged one.” Cymrica grinned like a cat herself. “The widow Tabitha. Her cottage lies in the forest.” The girl’s eyes glittered in the moonlight as she glared down her nose at Marian. “You’d best accustom yourself to sleeping alone. Your lord spends most nights in that trollop’s bed. She’s been his whore for years. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.”
I’ll just bet you are.
Marian forced a smile onto her lips. “That’s his business, not mine.”
This was hardly disturbing news. It might have been nice to think Roland’s earlier gesture had been pure gallantry, but she’d never really believed it was. And the truth of the situation certainly took part of the pressure off her. Didn’t it?
“I’m glad he has someone else,” she said, while telling herself she honestly meant it. “I never wanted to marry him to begin with—in case you didn’t notice. I don’t want to be here at all.”
“Truly?” The concept seemed a perplexing one to Cymrica. She wrinkled her brow in thought. Her eyes narrowed, then suddenly opened wide. “’Tis good! Then you’ll not mind going to Sir Guy’s instead, will you?”
Before Marian could draw breath enough to gasp, she was spun round, with Cymrica’s left hand buried in her hair and a dagger pricking her throat.
“One sound, sister, and I’ll slit you where you stand.”
Oh, honestly… The “sister” bit back a surge of hysterical laughter. Poor Cymrica was an amateur at this; she couldn’t know how ridiculous she sounded to someone who’d been threatened by pros.
“If you’re planning on delivering me to Sir Guy, what makes you think I wouldn’t prefer to just be killed right now?” A strangled gulp sounded behind Marian and she knew her point had hit home. To anyone familiar with Guy of Gisbourne, the logic was, of course, irrefutable.
The gulps became muffled sobs, the dagger dropped, and Marian was released as quickly as she’d been captured. Turning with a sigh, she stared at Cymrica who sat crumpled in a dejected heap on the ground, mopping at her tears with the hem of her knee-length wool tunic.
“I should be horsewhipped.” The girl’s gaze lifted to Marian’s, her eyes large and dark, overflowing with despair. “Forgive me. I did not truly wish to harm you. ’Tis just that I am so…so d-d-desperate to save Allan!” she moaned. “I…I’d planned on bribing the guards to release him to me. But my purse may not be heavy enough. Roland r
arely gives me money of mine own. So I thought mayhap ’twould be better to…” Her eyes lowered in shame. “To bribe Gisbourne himself.”
“By trading him me for Allan?”
The teary gaze flashed up again. “’Twould not have been for long. Roland would have ransomed you back swiftly, I am sure.”
Oh, really? Where the enigmatic Earl of Hunterdon was concerned, Marian doubted one could be sure of anything. Besides…
“If I’m already m-married”—she tried not to choke on the word—“why would Sir Guy want me?”
Slowly Cymrica pulled to her feet, moving like a weary old woman instead of an active eighteen-year-old. She sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “You are right. ’Twas a foolish plan.”
Marian stood without speaking a long moment, her eyes closed in concentration, trying to see some reason to not do what she was about to. But all she could see was Allan’s bruised face as they’d lashed him on his horse like a beast being carted off to slaughter. And only because he’d tried to help her.
“Yes, foolish. Very foolish,” she agreed, not sure if she was referring to Allan, Cymrica, or herself. All three probably. Her eyes opened and she met Cymrica’s hopeless stare. “But it’s still the best plan we have.”
They didn’t have to tell Sir Guy she was married.
The sniffles stopped. Cymrica’s gaze locked onto Marian’s. “You…you’d do that for me?”
“No. Frankly, Cymrica, I’m not even sure I like you. I’m doing it for Allan, of course.”
“Why?” The girl’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Are you in love with him?”
What? Jealous little twit, wasn’t she? Marian just looked at her. They didn’t have time for stupid games. “Don’t be ridiculous. I feel responsible is all. It’s my fault he’s in trouble. I owe it to him to help if I can.”
“Oh.” Cymrica chewed on that, her brow wrinkling anew. “That’s what I thought, too,” she muttered, seemingly to herself. “But I ne’re thought a weak little poppet like Elaine would feel the same.”
She peered at Marian as though seeing her for the first time. Slowly her lips curled into a small smile. “You are not Elaine, are you.”
It was a statement, not a question.
To Marian, it was simply a relief. She answered Cymrica’s smile with a tiny, tired one of her own. “No, I’m not.”
“So Elaine did have a sister? You are her twin?”
Marian’s smile faded. She was no good at subterfuge was what she was. “No, not that either. But please don’t ask who I really am. It would take too long to explain, and…” She sighed. “You wouldn’t understand it. I don’t understand it myself.”
She turned away to stand by the well, rested her hands on the cool stone rim, and stared down into its inky dark depths, trying not to think. She didn’t bother to glance up when Cymrica moved to join her.
Without preamble the girl reached out and placed her hand over Marian’s on the rim. “I know who you are. You’re my sister now, and I already like you far better than I like most people—certainly better than I liked Elaine. I’m glad you’re here, howe’er it came to be.”
Marian heaved another sigh. It probably made no difference—with what lay ahead, she doubted she’d live much longer anyway—but between Roland not forcing the wedding night issue, regardless of his reasons, and Cymrica’s easy acceptance of her, these Hunterdons were making it very difficult for her to continue hating them. Damn it.
Cymrica’s fingers closed warmly around hers and squeezed.
Unable to stop herself, Marian squeezed back.
