The Archer (The Blood Realm Series Book 3) (15 page)

The soft thud of the horses’ hooves on the dirt road gave way to the sharp clack of horseshoes against stone. The gardener looked up just in time for Mac’s shadow to fall over her face, shielding her eyes from the sun.

The dirt-encrusted laborer eyed Mac and Glen for less than ten seconds before returning her attention to the weed at hand. “I’m paid up through Saturday.”

Mac rolled his eyes. “I am not here for tax collection. What is your name?”

“Why are you here if not for taxes?” The woman leaned over, peering around Mac to the guard. “Besides chipping away at our good
walking
path. And what do you need an escort for?”

“Your name, woman!”

The gardener narrowed her eyes and slowly sat back on her heels. “Ermentrude O’Leary. What is this about, anyway?” She looked back and forth from Mac to Glen, a sudden tension creeping up her spine. “Is this about Patrick? He’s just a boy, he doesn’t mean any harm.” A storm cloud rolled over her face and she gripped the gardening spade tighter in her hand. “If that old bat Mrs. Lonnegan’s been complaining again—”

“Lady Marian came into town today with a gentleman escort,” Mac interrupted, fighting the urge to rub his temples to soothe the headache that was quickly forming there. “Who is he?”

Ermentrude’s shoulders slumped briefly only to stiffen again almost immediately. “What concern is that of the law?”

Mac dropped his hands, gripping his saddle so he could lean forward to pin the gardener with one of his darker stares. “At the moment, it is a distraction. Something to keep my mind from other matters—such as young Patrick and the rather serious trouble he’s found himself in.”

He had no idea who this Patrick was, or what sort of shenanigans he was prone to that so concerned Ermentrude, but his stab in the dark struck home. The gardener’s face lost its superior air and the spade sagged to the ground. “He’s only sixteen.”

“Old enough to be locked up if Mrs. Lonnegan has her way,” Mac said evenly. “Unless of course I am too preoccupied with other matters to bother…?”

“I don’t know anything about the gentleman.” Ermentrude held the spade in both hands now, twisting the gardening implement until it creaked. “I never met him before today.”

There was a distinct hesitation in her voice—a common trait of witnesses who knew more than they wanted to say. Mac sat straighter in his saddle and raised the reins as if preparing to leave. “If you have no pertinent information to share regarding Lady Marian and her new companion, then perhaps our time would be better spent discussing young Patrick’s fate. I don’t suppose you have the funds to pay his rather considerable
eric
?”

“She called him up to her bedroom,” Ermentrude blurted out. Her face went beet red, but it was difficult to tell if it was scandal, embarrassment, or anger. “And he… He kissed her. Right here in the garden.”

Mac’s eyebrows met his hairline and the guard behind him made a strange sound in his throat. “They are…romantically involved?”

The gardener shot to her feet, her face still a rather unflattering mottled red. “I don’t know. And that’s the truth of it!”

“Well then, I suppose I’ll have to chat with the Lady Marian herself.” He gathered the reins more firmly in his grip and prepared to turn his horse toward the main house.

“You won’t do it now, she’s not in.”

“She’s…” Mac sat back in his saddle, blinking as the implication of the gardener’s news sunk in. “She’s…still with him?”

Ermentrude pressed her lips together, obviously realizing she’d volunteered more information.

Mac’s brain whirled. How quickly things had changed. If this gardener was correct and there was something more between Robin Hood and Lady Marian than the usual thief and beneficiary…

“You have been most helpful, Miss O’Leary. I trust you’re capable of keeping my little visit between us? And in consideration for your contribution to my pursuit of justice, I will put young Patrick from my mind…for now.”

Something flared in Ermentrude’s eyes, anger or defiance, perhaps. It didn’t escape his notice that she’d clenched her hands into fists, that one foot had moved forward as if she would knock him from his horse. Mac waited, held her gaze. Strong women were like any wild animal. If you allowed them to intimidate you, then you were lost and they would eat you alive. It was important to set the tone of the relationship early.

Bit by bit, Ermentrude’s temper waned, her shoulders sliding down, the set of her jaw sagging. Finally she dropped her gaze to the ground.

Mac nodded slowly, firmly. “Good day, Ermentrude.”

“Good day, sheriff.”

Her tone did not match the sentiment, but she didn’t spit on him either, so perhaps a win. Regardless, Mac had no more time for a battle of wills.

Robin Hood has a lady love.

The possibilities swarmed him in a chaotic mass, one thought following another so closely he could scarcely think straight. He needed more information, needed clarity. And there was only one way to get it.

As soon as he and the guard had moved out of hearing distance, he spoke to Glen out of the corner of his mouth. “Remain in the forest at the edge of the property and keep yourself out of sight. I want to know when Lady Marian returns and what she does—whether she’s alone. Remain here until she retires for the night and you are certain she will not leave again, then come and report directly to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Glen’s face was smooth and composed, but there was a heavy tension in his voice and the horse's reins whined in his white-knuckled grip.

“Do not confront Lady Marian or the fey under any circumstances,” Mac added meaningfully.

Glen’s shoulders sagged in obvious relief. “Yes, sir.”

Mac nodded and turned his attention to the road ahead, urging his horse to a canter. He had to get back to his home, back to the wolves.

He had a job for them.

Chapter Eleven

Marian slowly opened her eyes. The last rays of the sun were trailing fingers of orange and pink across the sky, every beam chased by the growing shadows of the night. The thick, strong branches of a tree stretched over her head, shading her from the first silvery touch of the moon.

Her body weighed a thousand pounds. She blinked and felt the sandpapery burn of many tears cried. She hadn’t cried in a very long time. Not since the night she’d sneaked back into the house after an impromptu midnight hunt and overheard her mother crying and her father trying to soothe her.

“We’ve failed, love. We’ve failed her.”

“Ach, don’t cry, love. It might not be as bad as all that. She’s just at that age. It’s a rebellious phase, it will pass. You’ll see. Soon she’ll pitch that awful bow of hers and she’ll be there in the fields with us. The call of the land is strong, especially to the fey.”

“Not all the fey, love, and well you know it. I’ve had the nightmares again. She shot young Todd two weeks ago, could have killed him. What if she hears them some night? What if she joins them?”

“She’s not joined them yet. There’s still hope. Until then, best not to worry. Keep faith in the land, and in us. We’ve raised her right. It’ll win out. It has to.”

She could still feel her bow in her hand, feel how heavy it had grown in the wake of her parents’ conversation. Like an anchor, dragging her down into the dark depths, away from the light—away from them. Their voices had followed her back to her room, haunted her the rest of that night and many others. It had been confirmation of what she’d feared since the day she’d discovered she wasn’t their blood, discovered she was…other. They loved her like a daughter, yes. But deep down, they feared her.

Seeing them again had brought it all crashing back. She—

Seeing them again.

They were dead.

Robin
.

Fury traveled like a spark down her spine, sizzling as if chasing the dry lead of a fuse. Her brain ceased its emotional introspection and performed a lightning fast inventory of her circumstances.

Her head wasn’t resting on the ground, but rather on something warm, sculpted, thick with muscle.

A thigh.

Holding very, very still, Marian strained to listen for sounds of breathing, concentrated on the thigh beneath her head, tuned in to any movement. Robin was still, perhaps he was asleep. She slid one hand over the ground, trying not to move any more than absolutely necessary as she searched for something she could use as a weapon.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Robin’s voice held a gruff edge that suggested he’d fallen asleep at some point, but unfortunately he was awake. Stealth held little value now, so Marian hefted herself into a sitting position and twisted to face him. She froze as she noticed her own bow in his hand, held loosely in the reclining fey’s long fingers. Green eyes narrowed at her from a chiseled, pale face.

“If you try to hit me again, I’ll hit you back, chivalry be hanged.”

“Hit you?” Marian frowned, then noticed for the first time that the skin around one of Robin’s green eyes was a little puffy, just enough to suggest that it had been blackened not long ago. “Again?”

“That’s what I get though, isn’t it? Trying to comfort a sobbing woman. Nothing but a fist to my eye.” He snorted and rolled his head from side to side, his long blond hair catching against the rough bark of the tree he leaned against.

Slowly the events of the day came back to Marian. The trip to the courthouse, the glamour of a prisoner and guard, the bleeding sheriff. Then the argument as they’d left. She’d broken his ankle, had been about to shoot him, rid herself of him for good and he’d…

Her mother and father’s voices echoed back to her, but she shoved them away with a mental scream.
That wasn’t them!

Something of what she was thinking must have showed on her face because Robin tightened his grip on the bow, his expression wary. She swallowed the lump trying to form in her throat and glared at him as if that alone could destroy him.

“You bastard. I wish I’d shot you when I had the chance. How could you…” Her throat threatened to close, the emotion he’d called up inside her still far too close to the surface to speak of.

“You broke my ankle,” Robin pointed out, arching an eyebrow. He gestured briefly with the arrow to his now bare foot nestled in a soft bed of leaves and grass. The skin was still a mottled purple, but the swelling was nowhere near what it should have been. “I hardly think you’re in a position to chastise me for cruelty.”

Marian weighed her chances of reaching his ankle for another twist before he could swing her bow around like a club, but reluctantly dismissed it. Even if he were incompetent, they were far too close together for him to miss, and his reflexes were beyond a mere mortal. She forced herself to settle back on the ground, but she put every violent urge she had into her face, let him see how she truly felt about him.

“You think a broken ankle is comparable to what you did to me?” She had to speak in a whisper to keep her voice from breaking into a sob. She could still see the faces of her foster parents, still hear the weight of disappointment in their voices, the sadness in their eyes when they looked at her. She’d never thought to feel that pain again.

Robin’s face remained composed, as smooth and perfect as fresh snowfall—except for the slight swelling around his eye. Green eyes studied her and she felt every line of her face being scrutinized, every lingering trace of salt from her tears examined. Finally, he let out a long, slow breath through his nose.

“Perhaps not.”

His words were a balm against the fury rising inside her, the need she felt to lash out, to hurt him as badly as he’d hurt her. She wanted to hold onto the rage, the comfort it offered, the protection. But another part of her, a part deep inside where she hardly ever dared to look, wanted something more.

“How did you know?” she asked quietly.

Robin settled the bow on the ground, trading it for a blade of grass that he proceeded to roll between his fingers. “I heard enough conversations between you and that gardener to get the gist of it. Your foster parents were peaceful sorts who lived to work the land. You have the temper of a sober
clurichaun
and never look more alive than when you’re pursing the death of another creature. It wasn’t difficult to deduce that such a difference in outlook may have strained your relationship with your foster parents.”

Marian dropped her eyes to the ground, remembering what he’d said about her expressive face and not wanting him to see the chaos raging inside her right now. “You spied on me for a long time, then.” She tried to sound angry, tried to be angry, but she was suddenly very tired. Exhausted down to her bones and beyond.

“Yes.”

The fresh scent of pulverized greenery filled the air as Robin continued to toy with the blade of grass. The scent reminded her of her mother. She’d always smelled of fresh greenery after coming in from the fields.

“Why?” Her voice wobbled, a wet sound that promised more tears. She cleared her throat, groped for the thread of the temper that had always been her curse. “Why spy on me? What did I ever do to earn such attention?”

For a moment, she was certain he wouldn’t answer. Or worse, he would answer, but in a manner that muddied the question more than answered it. He surprised her by dropping the now-limp blade of grass and meeting her eyes.

“A witch told me you would interest me. I watched you to see if she was right.”

“A…a witch?” She braced an arm against the ground, holding herself up as she stared, brow furrowed in confusion. “A witch told you to watch me?”

Robin drummed his fingers against the ground. “Well, sort of. She didn’t call herself a witch, she called herself something else. Hoodoo something, I think. And it wasn’t really her, now that I think about it, it was some sort of god. Not
the
god, she was quite clear about there only being one god. A strange notion, but then, what do you expect from that corner of Sanguennay?”

“A… Wait a minute. You’re telling me that a witch from Sanguennay told you that I would be interesting to you?” Marian clenched her hands into fists, fingers digging muddy furrows into the ground. “I’ve never even been to Sanguennay! Why would this…god, sic you on me like that?”