The Archer (The Blood Realm Series Book 3) (43 page)

He didn’t.

He kissed her like he needed her air to breathe. His lips slid over hers, teased her, leaned closer, then back, making her chase him. She grabbed his shirt, hauled him closer, anchored him to her. She kissed him with an abandon she’d never allowed herself, holding nothing back. When it ended, both were breathing heavily, and Marian’s head spun with a delirious rush of hope. Robin gathered her into his arms and she tucked her face against his chest, breathed in the scent of him.

“Does this mean I can leave with you?” she whispered.

His arms tightened. A cold wash of fear poured over her, his body language telling her what the answer was before a single sound passed his lips.

“No.”

That one word was pained, but that was little comfort. “What?” She pulled back, looked at Robin’s face, saw it twisted with frustration. She turned, stared at Dubheasa. “You mean… I still have to stay here?”

The Unseelie Queen’s face was serious, but there was a twinkle in her eye. “If that is Herne’s will, then yes.” She smiled. “But if he does insist you stay here, he will have to acknowledge Robin’s right to stay here with you.”

“Stay here with me? But…”

Marian trailed off as Dubheasa turned her head to face Herne. She followed the queen’s stare and took a stumbling step back.

Herne’s face was twisted in pure, unmitigated fury. His tan skin was three shades darker, blood filling his face, giving it a red tint that made his eyes blacker somehow. He looked from Marian to Robin and back. Then his gaze landed on Dubheasa. “You…you…”

Dubheasa beamed at him, twirling her spear like a parasol. “I am something, aren’t I? You can thank me later. I’m sure you’ll have all manner of fun with my foster son. Of course, I’ll be visiting more too, you know we’re very close. You’ll have to join us for tea.”

The creatures in the room were still silent, but the weight of their attention pressed against Marian like a physical weight. She blinked, realizing that at some point she’d started holding her breath. She was watching Herne, watching the vein in his temple bulge, his jaw so tight she was certain she’d hear his teeth shatter at any moment. She took a step, angling her and Robin’s bodies so that she was between him and the Master of the Hunt.

The gesture wasn’t lost on Herne. That furious black-eyed gaze landed on her, stole her breath for one agonizing second. Then he glowered at Robin. “Think hard on this, boy. If you end this marriage for any reason, if you dishonor this marriage in any way, she will be mine again.” He smiled, but unlike Dubheasa’s grin, this expression held no humor. “Forever is a long time,
sidhe
. I will be waiting.”

“You will wait a long time then,” Robin said easily, his grip on Marian’s hips tightening. “You will die waiting.”

Herne slid his attention to Marian. The anger faded then, leaving his face haggard and…sad. “And you, my child. You’ve only just tasted the life you would have here in my court. I know the loneliness you’ve felt, the restlessness. You felt that way because you had no pack, because you were alone. You would have been happy here if you’d only given it a chance.” He took a step forward, but there was no threat this time. “You are always welcome here. Remember that when you find yourself circling, spiraling, searching for your pack.”

Now it was Robin’s turn to put himself between Marian and Herne. He looked down into her eyes and she looked away from the grand hunter to face the man she’d taken as her husband.

“We will be your pack, Marian.” He brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, caressed her jaw. “If you let us in, we will be there for you. And I will never try to make your choices for you again.”

She stared at him for a long time. Then, slowly, she draped her arms around his neck, pulled his head down to hers. He tasted like home.

“Get out,” Herne said, his voice thick with disgust. “All of you. Get out of my court.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

“Oak leaf, cypress needle, rowan.”

Robin held his breath, watching Marian’s bare breasts shift as she drew back her arrow. The moonlight bathed her pale skin in the most becoming, come-hither way. It wasn’t the glow of a
sidhe’s
skin, but somehow the extra brush of shadows only seemed to outline every curve, create interesting little patterns that just begged for more…focused attention.

He sat up from where he’d been lying in the grass, edged closer to the large rock that was currently serving as his wife’s perch for tonight’s archery face-off. The cool grey stone was a shock against the growing heat of his skin, but he ignored it. He braced one hand on the rock and stretched out the other to trace one particularly promising slash of shadow—

The bottom curve of Marian’s bow jerked sharply in his direction, making sudden and painful contact with his temple. The nerves on his scalp shrieked in protest and he snatched his hand back, nearly slipping off the rock in the process. He recovered his balance and fixed his wife with a reproachful glare.

“What was that for?” he demanded.

Marian narrowed her eyes, already settling her bow and arrow back into position to take her shot. “Were you even listening?”

No.
“Yes, but it’s awfully hard to hear you when you’re mumbling and facing the opposite direction.”

The arch of one red eyebrow told him just how much water his excuse held, but he didn’t let being caught in a lie affect his confidence. He eyed her bare breasts again, tilting his head as he noticed the way she worked her right arm, trying to get the bow at the perfect angle despite the pressing curve of her breast.

“It never occurred to me they might get in the way.”

Marian let out a frustrated huff and looked down at him, her bow sagging. “What?”

“Your breasts. That one’s a bit in the way when you fire the bow.” He nodded absent-mindedly. “Makes your aim even more impressive.”

“Good enough to beat you,” she agreed. “Now, as I said, oak leaf, cypress needle, rowan.”

Robin settled down on the rock, then jerked up with a hiss. Cold stone against his hand was one thing. Cold stone against his naked lower half was something else. “And how will you know if the arrow passed through the cypress before the rowan?” He eyed Marian’s pants, his usual appreciation for the way they outlined her body mitigated by the fact that she shouldn’t be wearing them at all. “I still think I was robbed of that last shot.”

“Are you questioning my nose?” Marian looked down the shaft of her arrow, lining up her shot. “I can tell. Now if you could try to quit hissing like some great dragon, that would be grand.”

“Well excuse me if I was a bit startled to feel cold stone pressing against areas of my body that should never be pressed against stone,” he grumbled. “Or cold.”

“You’re the one who decided to strip your pants off first.”

Robin crossed his arms, renewing his glare at her pants as if he could somehow will them away. “If I’d known you’d stick to the game this long, perhaps I would have made a different choice.” He plucked his pants from the ground and laid them over the rock, protecting vulnerable skin from another unfortunate stab of cold lest the stone ruin his plans for the night. “When I suggested this game, I expected the disrobing to interest you more than the archery.”

“You’re just mad because I’m winning.”

“Says who?” He struggled to keep the thread of the conversation in his mind as his gaze hungrily devoured the smooth curves of Marian’s shoulders, the swells of her breasts, and the tempting muscles of her stomach.

“I still have pants, socks, and boots. You’re down to just a shirt.”

“And bracers,” he murmured.

Marian had just let go of her arrow, the faint hiss of the projectile through the trees the only sound in the still night air. She whirled on him as soon as the feathers left her fingertips, her eyes wide with disbelief. “What? You’re wearing bracers?”

“Yes. Why do you think I kept the shirt on?”

“That’s cheating!”

“You never said not to wear bracers and you never asked me if I was wearing them. It’s not my fault you’re new to this game.” He groped for his bow, his eyes unwilling to leave Marian’s bare skin a second sooner than he had to. “Oak, cypress, rowan you said?”

Marian was glowering at him, but there was no red spark in her green eyes to suggest true anger. She crossed her arms underneath her breasts, pushing them up. Robin’s bow sagged in his arms, his attention completely focused on the way her smooth brown nipples hardened in the night air.

“Robin!”

Her shout startled him so badly he nearly fell off the rock. He blinked, regaining his bearings, forcing himself to concentrate on the trees around him instead of his wife’s alluring form. Instead of following her shot, he took the time to search the forest edging the meadow, looking for a combination of the trees he needed in the right order. He found what he wanted a little northeast of where Marian had fired and quickly lined up his shot.

“There are stories of female archers who actually cut off their breast to avoid letting it interfere with their shot.”

She spoke just as he was releasing his arrow, firing a macabre image into his brain as surely as if it had been a feathered projectile. The shot went wide, sailing into a cypress and sinking into the trunk with a depressing thud.

He pressed his lips together and glanced at his wife. “You did that on purpose.”

Marian shrugged, the rise and fall of her breasts calling to his eyes. “Maybe.”

Robin dove for her. He didn’t think about it, didn’t plan it, didn’t give himself even a second to strategize about where to hit her, what angle would be best. She knew him too well, would expect it, so speed was all he had.

And a hellhound was pretty damn fast.

She was twisting before he hit her, but his height gave him the edge he needed. His fingers closed around her ankle and, as she tried to spring away from him, he tightened his grip and jerked her against him while he was still in midair, his body arcing in a leap from the broad rock to the grassy meadow below.

A laugh bubbled from her throat as he managed to get another arm around her legs and he couldn’t help the grin that spread over his lips. She had the most amazing laugh. It was a sound he’d never thought to hear from her, and he treasured each one for the gift it was. His huntress was happy, and he knew he’d played a part in that.

His back hit the ground first. He was still holding her legs and he struggled to find a balance between not hurting her, and not loosening his grip enough for her to slip away. She caught herself on her hands, tried to use them for leverage to crawl away from him, but her pants gave him something to hold onto, and he pulled her down hand over hand.

As her breasts passed over his face, he leaned up, licked one brown nipple. The skin responded instantly, hardening to a tight bud. Marian gasped, then softened against him, spreading her fingers over the sides of his face as he continued to slide her down his body. He let his eyes drift closed as she smoothed his hair behind his ears. They’d been married for six months, but her touch was still new, still exciting. Her lips slid over his and he parted them, inviting her to deepen the kiss.

She tasted of heat. It was hard to describe, like tasting a color, a deep, crimson red that burned you just to look at it. Not cinnamon, but something hotter, something that bit him, promised an edge of pain to the pleasure it offered. He chased that flavor, his mind reeling, the world spinning, narrowing, until there was nothing but him and Marian, nothing but the maddening slide of her naked breasts against his shirt, a reminder of the wretched piece of clothing that still separated them.

He needed to feel skin against skin, and by all that was holy, how had they ended up wearing opposing articles of clothing so that each was only half bare and those bare halves didn’t line up? It was poor planning, that’s what it was, and there was no excuse for it.

As soon as his fingers closed around the edges of his shirt, ready to rip it off and damn the buttons, he realized his mistake. Cool air bathed his face in a rude awakening as Marian bolted, pushing off against his chest with enough force to knock the air from his lungs. She laughed again as she ran and Robin sat up just in time to see the flash of her red hair before she vanished into the trees. Adrenaline flooded his veins in a scalding rush, his muscles hurling him off the ground and into a run.

The hunt was on.

He left their bows and arrows lying on the ground where they’d dropped them. Few in this forest wouldn’t know who they belonged to, and if anyone were so foolish as to try to take them, well, that would just give him a fun outing to take Marian on tomorrow night. Taking them with him would be pointless since he didn’t intend to shoot his wife—and he certainly wanted his hands free when he caught her.

His hands tingled, already imagining the weight of her breasts, the slide of her nipples against his palms. Half a year she’d been in his bed, and yet every night felt like the first time.

And every night, that vixen ran from him.

Or after him.

His grin broadened.

Energy rolled over his fingertips as he readied his power, alert for any sign of his wife. She would be caught up in the thrill of the chase, enough that he might be able to snare her senses with a glamour. She would expect it of course, but then, what was life without challenge?

There. A flash of red hair, pale skin. He raised the image he’d prepared in his mind then hurled it into the air, letting the energy flow down his arms, snap outward like the crack of a long whip.

A
barguest
exploded from the bushes in front of her, bolted across her path. It didn’t look at her, didn’t attack her, that would be too obvious. Instead, the great yowling black dog—cousin to the hellhound—was chasing a bloodied leprechaun. The cobbler shouted indignantly as it skirted the ground, winking in and out of sight as it tried to escape the glistening teeth of the beast behind him.

Marian slowed, hesitation stealing her speed, her brain trying to make a snap decision. Was it a glamour or was it real? If it was real, should she intercede? Should she help? Good and evil were such grey areas in the world of the fey, who was to say the
barguest
wasn’t justified in its pursuit of the leprechaun?