Bound by Honor

Robin gritted his teeth as he watched. His father had thought years ago of betrothing his son to Marian, and had even gone so far as to speak to her father about it. At the time, Robin had little interest in the pale, skinny girl who always wanted to follow him around and who beat him at archery contests more often than he liked to admit. But now he realized he didn’t like watching Nottingham pushing himself upon her, not one whit. And he wasn’t going to allow it to happen.

’Twould be a simple task to put an end to it, for one of the benefits of being an outrageously charming and handsome outlaw, he’d discovered, was that the women found him dangerously fascinating. Marian had been no exception today in the woods.

And there were plenty of other beautiful women, lush and ripe for the plucking, if that was what Nottingham had a mind to do. Many of whom Robin himself had already had the pleasure of meeting. And plucking.

As the sheriff led Marian out of the hall, Robin scanned the remaining ladies for a potential replacement for the sheriff ’s interest.

Pauletta of Yarnley was comely enough, but she kissed like a fish. Of course, one could get beyond that easily if one had a mind to. Lady Elizabeth de Guildern had fairly melted in his arms when he slipped up behind her in one of the keep’s torchlit hallways last sennight. She was an eager partner, and in fact, her hands had been quite busy during their brief interlude behind a tapestry. Robin grinned at the memory and felt his cock lift in its own salutation. Lady Elizabeth would most certainly be worth another visit.

He shifted slightly, adjusting the crotch of his braies as he considered the other candidates. Joanna of Wardhamshire . . . Catherine de Meauville . . . Hie! Who was the wench?

Robin eased the slightest bit forward, risking a bit more illumination, as he peered down. He’d never seen her before. Petite with blond hair . . . mayhap it was Henriette de Hulvasen. . . .

She turned her head slightly, looking up at Roderick of Treyvern, who was much taller than she, and Robin saw her young, heart-shaped face. That was most definitely not Henriette of the knife-blade nose and abundant bosom.

A new female addition to John’s court meant more than a chance to steal kisses in dark corners. It meant yet another source of information, another opportunity to learn who was traveling to and from Ludlow and what they might be bringing that Robin might find worth relieving them of.

Of course, Robin already had a variety of sources, including one that was very close to the prince.

And Nottingham and Marian had disappeared from the hall.

Together.

His lips pursed thoughtfully, Robin made his decision, and pulling the hood of his dark green cloak up and over his head, he eased from the shadows.

Nottingham had disrupted Robin’s playtime this afternoon. Now ’twas time for his own entertainment to be aborted.

“Where are you taking me?” Marian demanded, trying to drag her arm away from Will’s grip.

His face appeared even more dark and forbidding than before. They’d come to a narrow flight of steps and he stopped at its base. “Your presence is requested by His Highness,” he said in a low, tight voice. “In his private solar.”

Marian’s belly fell to her knees. Oh God, already? “The prince?” Then she drew in a deep breath and straightened. It would do no good to show fear. Especially to one as formidable as the man before her.

Who was taking her to the prince.

“Nay, Will.” Her voice came out in a gust of breath. “Not tonight. Please.” She reached for him, her fingers tight.

Will looked down at her, standing so that his head blocked the merry flames of the sconce behind him. The details of his face were thus obscured by shadow, but she saw his jaw move, and his lips tighten into a line so thin it was probably white. “You must make your choice, Marian, for he will not be put off.” His voice was not so harsh as it had been in the hall.

“Choice?” she responded, tamping back the wail that threatened to erupt. By the holy cross, she was Lady Marian of Morlaix, and she would swallow her weakness. Even though she’d fairly begged a moment earlier.

By her own example, Eleanor of Aquitaine had instilled in Marian the responsibility of duty and honor. And if one did not have honor, one had nothing.

“I have no choice, according to you,” she said. “The prince wishes my presence and you are to deliver me to him.” Now it was her turn to clamp her lips tightly, for fear that he might see them tremble.

In truth, what was the worst that could happen? Prince John might wish to tup her, and, well, she was no virginal maid. She’d endured Harold’s attentions as his wife. ’T could be no worse under . . . dear God, under . . . the prince.

“Your choice is to submit either to the prince . . . or to me.”

Marian looked up at him, feeling her jaw sag slightly. It’s either him or me . . . and I won’t draw blood.