Bound by Honor

Marian whirled to see a powerful black horse standing at the edge of the clearing. Atop it sat an equally powerful-looking man, dressed in equally dark clothing, holding a sword at his side. She stepped back automatically, but he inclined his head regally to her.

“Lady Marian.” He urged his horse into the grassy clearing.

Robin released her, fairly shoving her away so that she stumbled with the force as he moved quickly away from her, gathering up his reins. “Ah, so to speak of the devil himself,” he said, launching into his saddle. “Sheriff.” He nodded. “I trust you’ll see my lady to the keep.”

These last words floated back behind him as he bolted off into the wood, leaving Marian standing in the center of the grass, suddenly alone, and feeling more than a bit disheveled.

Marian turned to look up at the man who remained astride his mount, edging his horse toward her, but not, thankfully, chasing after Robin. She was grateful for his restraint, for he would have had to fairly run over her to go after the bandit.

The sheriff sheathed his sword, but still held the reins in one gloved hand. The hooves on the majestic animal were larger than the trencher plates at a court dinner, and he was pure coal black from hoof to mane to wild, flaring nose.

The man himself had dark hair that fell in thick curls onto his forehead and brushed the sides of his neck, and he was clean-shaven but for the shadow that comes late in the day after a morning’s shave. His mouth might have been considered sensual if it weren’t settled and thin-and the same could be said for his face, dark with tan as well as obvious annoyance. As she gazed upon the Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, Marian was overcome by the sense of expectancy, and indeed, when she looked up into those shaded eyes, she felt set off-balance again, as if she were mistaken about something.

“I trust you are unharmed, Lady Marian,” he said at last. “I apologize for the delay in coming to your aid, but we had heard your caravan was held up and thought to provide an escort at Revelstown.”

“Delayed for a broken wheel, aye, but ’twas fixed readily,” she replied, realizing with a start that he would indeed think she’d been in need of rescue. And, truth be told, if it had been anyone but Robin of Locksley, he would have had the right of it. But Marian had no fear of her childhood friend Robin, outlaw or no. In fact, she’d already decided that she must find a way to enlist the queen to help rid him of the charge of treason.

“Have I changed so much, then?” the sheriff said, sliding abruptly from the saddle. He landed on two steady feet next to her, and the destrier shimmied and snorted at the loss of his master’s weight. “Marian.”

She looked up at him again, closely this time, and recognition washed over her. “Will?” Perhaps it was the way he’d said her name, or that he now stood on the ground next to her-still much taller, but at least not towering so from the saddle.

Aye, indeed it was William de Wendeval before her now. The boy who’d grown up with her and Robin of Locksley on her father’s estate.

But a boy Will was no longer. Just as Robin had grown broader and taller than she remembered from the summer she’d seen them last, nearly ten years ago, so had Will.

Taller, aye, and broad of shoulder . . . but he had not lost the sharp edges of his cheeks and jaw, and the reserved chill of his gaze. A handsome man he might be if the tension and reserve left his face and stance. But that had always been his way. While Robin had the lighter hair and dancing sapphire eyes, and personality to match, Will had been the quieter, more thoughtful, and, at times, gloomier of the pair.

And as their personalities tended to clash like oil and water, so had the two young men. Competitive and intense, they’d been rivals serving the same master, with their differences buried beneath civility and honor.

Will bowed again, peremptorily but correctly. “It is I.”

“The Sheriff of Nottinghamshire?” Marian supposed she could be forgiven for the note of surprise in her voice. The last she’d known of Will, he’d been knighted and under service to old King Henry’s confidant William Marshal, but no other news had reached her ears in Morlaix, across the Channel. Will had been a landless youth, the son of one of Marshal’s seneschals. For him to have risen as high as sheriff of a shire was surprising, as was his ability to pay the fees that were required to buy such a post. She wondered what he’d done to deserve such an honor, and whereby he’d acquired the funds.

“And Robin of the Hood’s sworn enemy,” he said briskly. “Shall we be on our way?” Before she could reply, he grasped her by the waist and lifted her into the saddle. The destrier, unused to such insubstantial weight on its back, shuddered and pranced. But before his ire could rise dangerously, Will launched into the saddle behind Marian.