Bound by Honor

Upon his knock, the door opened to reveal the oft-missing maid, who looked up at him with fearful, large eyes. That was naught new, and it didn’t disturb him in the least. But what disturbed him was having no idea why Marian could have sent for him.

“Your lady has called for me,” he said shortly. “Is she ill?”

The maid seemed unable to find her tongue, and by way of response stepped back from the door and allowed him to enter. The antechamber was empty but for the maid’s pallet and a small trunk, as well as a few neatly folded items of clothing.

Will hesitated, unsure whether Marian would come to him or whether he was to go to her, through the door and into her private chamber. But the maid gestured for him to go beyond, and with damp palms and an unsettled stomach, he moved toward the door.

Marian was within, standing as though she’d been waiting for him. Standing, not ill in bed as he’d imagined. He took in the details of the chamber and her appearance with one quick scan, his apprehension growing.

Dear God, why do you tempt me?

She was alone, and dressed simply in a white undergown so thin and delicate that he saw the shadowy curves under her breasts and the darkness at the juncture of her thighs. The tie that gathered it about her neck hung loose, leaving a good bit of skin, brushed with golden freckles, exposed. Candles lit the chamber, a variety of them on a table giving off nearly as much light as a noonday sun, and the fire burned sedately in its alcove. The scent of violets clung to the air, which was warm and humid, as though she’d bathed recently.

All her magnificent hair was unbound but for two slender braids that came from her temples and were drawn to the back of her crown. Her feet were bare. Tension emanated from her, flowing across the room as if the air vibrated. But he saw the purpose in her eyes, the determination.

His heart was pounding now, and he realized what he’d walked into. His first reaction was one of disgust and fury, but it was closely followed by the wave of desire flushing over him, sending hot blood trammeling through his body.

Nay, fool.

Curling his fingers into the sides of his simple linen shirt, he drew in a calm breath and gritted his teeth.

“What do you require, my lady?” he asked, keeping his face and voice expressionless. “My performance, I presume?”

She looked confused, but recovered. “If you wish to consider it that, then so be it.”

The hope that he’d been wrong faded and Will glanced toward the tapestry, resignation washing over him, along with anger, and if he was brutally honest, he must admit there burned deep inside him that great need . . . that incessant desire that could no longer be denied. He should walk out, but he could not. He hadn’t the strength.

She stepped toward him, shaking her hair out so that it fell in lustrous waves over her shoulders, glinting copper and ruby and garnet in the candlelight. But when she noticed that he was looking at the tapestry, she paused.

Comprehension flooded her face and she looked up at him, eyes wide and face serious. “Will. There is no one behind the tapestry.”

As he watched her, stunned, feeling as if the breath had been knocked from him, Marian walked over to the woven picture of the knight and his horse. As he watched, she pulled up a corner of the large hanging cloth and stuffed a piece of cloth into the peephole, blocking both sight and sound. She turned back to him, raising both brows in silent question.

Flushed with shame, he stepped back, feeling his face go blank and hard. “I am sorry, Marian,” he began.

“Will.” She said his name desperately. He couldn’t read her face any longer; he couldn’t trust what he thought he saw there. “Don’t.”

“What do you want from me?” he snapped, angry with himself for the moment of hope, the flash of light in a dark world.

“I want you.”

At first he didn’t comprehend, for her response was so foreign, so impossible.

But then she said it again. “I want to be with you, Will. . . . I choose to be with you.”

As her words penetrated, he felt as though he’d been submerged into a rush of hot water, then cold . . . and then hot again. Everything slowed and grayed and became murky and warm. He couldn’t react, but she was already coming toward him and he could barely grasp the concept that she wanted him to touch her until she brushed against his body.

Some sort of trick. It must be. John must-

But she flowed into his arms . . . soft and warm, smelling of violets, smooth and rounded and woman . . . Marian . . . and in spite of the warning bells, he gathered her up against him, feeling the delicious press of her against his chest and the brush of her leg against the raging erection now filling out his braies. She pulled his face down and he devoured her lips, fingers sliding into the deep warmth of her hair to cup the back of her skull.

Ah, Marian. Marian.