Bound by Honor

The next thing she knew, the world changed: his hands closed over her shoulders and his mouth descended. The wall pushed into her from behind, and his powerful body pressed against hers from the front, one knee shifting to push between her legs. Will’s lips covered hers before she could react or twist away, and his fingers moved to grasp her chin, curving over the front of her throat. Not hard enough to choke her, praise God, but enough that she dared not move.

She realized her eyes had closed, and her hands had gone convulsively toward his chest, her fingers closing over his embroidered tunic, grasping at the heavy stitching as she tried to push him away. He was as immovable as his mouth was skillful, and Marian tasted the heavy wine on his lips and tongue as she gave in to the kiss.

It caught her by surprise, the intensity of his mouth pressed to hers, lips and tongue slipping and sliding in an angry dance. Her breath caught and she became aware of the pounding of his heart beneath her hands, and the matching stampede of her own pulse.

But when she realized what was happening, she pulled her lips, her face, away angrily. His fingers fell from her chin, and before he could fully release her, she whipped her palm back. Will’s hand shot up and caught her wrist before she could slap his face.

“How dare you?” she whispered, fighting to pull free.

His half smile was back, arrogant and powerful and humorless, as he held her wrist with angry fingers.

“Oh, I dare. Do you not know to whom you speak? The fearsome Sheriff of Nottinghamshire.” His lips twisted in a parody of a smile.

“I know who you are,” Marian responded, her heart pounding. “Now take your hands from me, Will.”

“I cannot in conscience do that, my lady. For it’s to be me,” he said, leaning down into her face, crowding his hip against her belly, “or the prince.” He slipped his other hand back up to cup her chin again, forcing her to look at him, up into those hard eyes, flat and dark. “And I won’t draw blood. Or leave bruises.”

CHAPTER 3

R obin eased back into the shadows.

From his vantage point high up in Ludlow’s great hall, he had a clear view of the diners below. After his men had distracted one of the men-at-arms standing watch, Robin had nimbly climbed the bailey’s wall. A corner window slit had allowed him to slip into the hall unnoticed. Now he stood on one of the narrow balconies, hidden behind a tapestry.

The air up here was hot and dull, and his eyes stung from the rising smoke. But not so much that he missed the way the Sheriff of Nottinghamshire had made his way to Lady Marian of Leaford, backed her up against the wall, and fairly rutted with her right in the midst of the hall. ’Twas hard to mistake Nottingham’s height and unrelieved dark tunic pressed up near Marian’s blazing hair, set even more afire by the rich golden clothing she wore.

A lovely lady Marian had become. So much that it had taken him by surprise when he accosted her wagon earlier today. Of course, he’d known it was hers, but he hadn’t expected to find such a pleasant surprise within. A gangly girl with pale skin and an overload of freckles, Marian had always had the beacon-bright hair, as well as the stubborn chin . . . but now all that had melded into a very lovely woman.

By all rights, Robin should have been down below, on the rush-covered floor, with all the other vassals of King Richard, sitting at the trestle tables and slamming fair maidens up against the wall for a kiss-or more.

When he was Lord Robin of Locksley, he had been a favorite with the ladies for his charm, wit, and skill on the lute. He had been counted one of the favorites of the ladies of the royal court, who’d enjoyed the tradition begun in Queen Eleanor’s Court of Love, wherein the knights and lords worshipped them from afar (and sometimes from very intimate proximity). In the old days, Robin had little difficulty moving from that pose of distant worship to a closer hold beneath the laces of those tight-fitting undertunics . . . to the mutual pleasure of all parties.

And then the old king had died, and his son decided to go on Crusade, and everything had changed.

Now Robin of Locksley had become Robin of the Hood, an outlaw who ranged throughout Sherwood Forest, terrorizing those who passed through. And who must remain on the periphery of the court, no longer lord of his own fief. There were benefits to his situation, but at this moment, Robin found them little compensation.

He watched as William de Wendeval seized Marian’s hand when she raised it to strike him, and held it steady as he leaned down into her face. The man appeared unruffled as he spoke with obvious intensity.