Bound by Honor

“Oh.” Joanna’s voice held a different note now . . . one of curiosity and fascination. “A green ribbon?” Ah. At last a multi-syllabic word from her lips, albeit an echo of his own speech.

“Would you like to have it?” he asked meaningfully.

“Are you . . . ?” Her voice trailed off, but she looked neither frightened nor skittish. Rather, delight seemed to have sparked to life in her eyes. And taken control of her tongue.

Robin was certain he could remedy that.

He moved toward her, the ribbon dangling from his fingers, and eased her back into a little notch in the brick wall. Her breathing came faster, and her hands clasped his shoulders.

“You’re . . . ,” she began, but he covered her mouth with his.

Ah. Nothing like the feel of warm, slick lips, and the press of womanly curves. Robin molded himself to her as she kissed him back-her tongue was working perfectly now-and allowed his hands to curve over the swell of her hips. She tasted a bit like smoke from the great hall, and rose, and woman, and he nibbled on her ear. The soft mewling noises she made had his eyes closing and his hands moving more boldly.

Not to mention his cock lifting in salute.

He pressed closer, feeling for the juncture of her thighs through the layers of undergown and tunic. His palms held her breasts, found the thrusting nipples, and rubbed over them as she moved against him in pleasurable little circles. ’Twould be no problem to lift her skirts and slide right home, here against the damp stone wall. She was more than willing.

He’d just begun to gather up the woolen fabric between them when he stopped, pulling away to listen intently.

’Sblood, that was Marian’s voice.

Joanna opened her mouth to protest his retreat, and he covered her lips with two fingers. “We cannot be seen,” he murmured, fainter than a whisper, and brushed his fingertips over her soft mouth to seal it closed. “I vow, I’ll come to you again. Take you this,” he added, pressing the green ribbon into her hand, curling her fingers over it. He gently but firmly pulled her out of the corner. “Go, quickly, before you are seen.”

“But . . .” She looked at him with full lips and shining eyes, and Robin smiled back.

“You’ll keep my secret, will you not?”

“Aye,” she breathed, clutching the ribbon that dangled from her fist.

“Now go,” he said, half-listening behind him. He heard nothing. Had he been wrong? Still, he’d nearly forgotten his resolve to find Marian in the heat of this moment of pleasure.

If it had been so delightful to pull Joanna of Wardhamshire into the shadows, it would be that much more so to have his hands full of the lovely Marian. All that fiery red hair and those snapping green eyes and lush curves.

“I’m well able to find my own chamber,” she was saying. And she sounded displeased.

There. It was Marian, and her voice was closer.

“I will escort you,” came Nottingham’s deep voice, equally flat and hard.

“Have you not escorted me enough this night?”

“I will see you to your chamber,” the sheriff said again, and they were nearly upon Robin’s hiding place.

Peste. He flattened himself against the wall, wishing for a deeper alcove. If the sheriff found him lurking about, ’twould be the end of his pleasant evening. Not that his childhood rival’s attendance on the lovely Marian wasn’t enough to ruin the night anyway.

Yet, through the risk, it appeared he would have the unexpected pleasure of learning which chamber Marian had been assigned to. Robin had been known to slip into a room filled with sleeping ladies and locate the one he sought . . . even if she was double or triple bunked. All without making a sound. The liberties he’d enjoyed as an outlaw were, at times, greater than those he’d enjoyed as the lord of a manor.

Marian and de Wendeval walked past him and Robin observed from his corner. The lady walked erect and stiffly, apart from her companion, and the sheriff made no move to take her arm or otherwise touch her.

Robin smoothed his hand over the beard and mustache he’d taken to wearing and smiled. The language of their bodies told him all he needed to know. Nottingham was no closer to wooing Lady Marian than Robin was to walking freely into Ludlow Keep and supping with the prince.

Not that he would wish to, but he sorely missed the opportunity to play his lute for the ladies. They became all moony-eyed and fell into his hands like ripe plums. Or apples. Or, in some cases, small pumpkins. With nipples that begged to be sucked and licked, and quims that ached for his fingers.