Jacob, returning to fill his arms with another load of wood, stopped near the chopping block. Black hair curled even tighter along his sweaty hairline, his face open and amiable as if sketched by an amused artist. He had been a fountain of inquiries throughout the late afternoon, peppering the air with requests for true stories of Robin Hood. Will humored him, intent on finding answers of his own.
“How did she go blind? Do you know?”
Jacob grinned widely, almost derisively, as if he had been waiting for the questions. It bothered him that even an inexperienced boy like Jacob could fathom his purposes.
“You ask her, Scarlet.”
“I’m asking you.”
“Afraid?”
“I want a simple answer. I haven’t the resolve for another fight today.”
Jacob’s expression sobered, reminding Will of the quick efficiency he demonstrated with the crossbow and his strange, curved knives. The calm killer wore a jester’s mask.
“She grew ill about five years ago. The symptoms appeared no worse than a mild ague. A fever, chills, an intense sensitivity to light. Vile headaches began.” Jacob paused, wiping palms along his breeches and squatting near the block. “I learned all of this after, of course, from my father. Eventually she fell asleep.”
Will scowled and joined him, crouching low. “Fell asleep?”
“For six months, yes.”
“Impossible.”
He raised his hands. “I tell you true. When she awoke, she could not see, but neither could she remember anything.”
Will suffered a disconcerting stab of regret for her. The trauma of losing her sight must have been devastating, and yet she endured. She created a life for herself in the woods, a life he had unsettled by seizing Ada. Guilt wove through his ligaments.
“She raved like an animal,” Jacob said. “Ada stayed with her and talked her through those weeks, so she told me. Her memory returned, but rumors spread that she had gone mad, or worse, that she had been possessed by the Devil.”
Mad Meg
.
The woodsmen’s frightened words echoed, bringing with them a shudder of understanding. To be completely cut from society because of an illness—he could not comprehend the damage she must have endured. She and her family both.
“And her father?”
“He began a quest to restore her eyesight.” Jacob squinted and rubbed his eyes, like a child on the verge of sleep. “Ada said he had been the best sort of man. But after Meg’s blindness, all that mattered was a cure—one he never discovered.”
“Talking about me, Jacob?”
Meg stood a few paces away. Bathed in the deepening glow of early evening, she may as well have worn a veil for how little her face revealed. Impassive. Empty. Not even the set of her shoulders or the angle of her jaw indicated her mood. Upon finding herself the subject of still more talk, she bore the discovery as would a statue.
“Too bad, Scarlet,” Jacob said, grinning broadly. “You haven’t avoided that argument after all.”
Whereas Will expected him to flee, Jacob simply and patiently filled his arms with another load of wood before departing.
“You could’ve asked me,” she said.
Her cold tone dared him to fight. The sad, fatigued cast of her face—framed by a dark cowl and layered in shadows—nudged at a callous part of him. But he had been truthful to Jacob. The idea of battling her again wore a hole in his skull.
With more force than skill, he imbedded the ax head into the block. “I could have, but I asked Jacob.”
She turned and strode back toward the cabin.
He pursued, his long strides making a noisy hash of the leaves around her cabin. Meg braced her body and mind, but she still flinched when he took hold of her upper arm.
“Wait, please,” he said. “How fares Monthemer?”
“He’s resting. Dryden has care of him.”
Scarlet dropped his hand. “That makes me glad. He fought well today, if impetuously.”
“Were you injured?”
She wanted to snatch the small question out of the air and smash it beneath her boot heel. His tenuous value to her quest did not justify the shadow of worry following her since his dawn departure for Keyworth.
He held still and silent. She felt how he scrutinized her, perhaps as surprised as she was by her concern.
“Gramercy, no,” he said softly. “I made good use of the bow.”
“Dryden said as much.” A smile pulled at her lips, working against her foul humor. “He said you appeared as comfortable with the bow as if it had been your own hands.”
“Dryden exaggerates.”
“That is not in keeping with his nature. Either way, I should examine your shoulder when you finish chopping wood.”
“Why?”
Because I enjoy torturing myself. Because I want to touch you.
She swallowed heavily. “To check for signs of infection.”
“If you want me out of my tunic, you only have to ask.”
“I should let it fester until your arm rots,” she said, her cheeks on fire.
“That’s hardly charitable.”
“Better than you deserve.”
He leaned closer, slowly, his breath warming her cheek. “Open your mouth.”
Her lungs shuddered to a halt. “What?”
“I said, open your mouth. I have something for you.”
“You’re being absurd.” Her heart was a terrified animal, shivering and demanding flight. But her feet refused to move.
“Trust that at this moment I have no notion of doing you harm.”
The soft timbre of his voice nestled seductive images behind her eyes. She pinched them shut. “And why should I trust you?”
“I fear your ability to transform into a ball-twisting wench.”
“You deserved that.”
“Blessed be, woman, no man deserves that.” He edged closer still, his hair tickling the skin of her forehead. He slipped a hand around the base of her neck, softly kneading and massaging her tense muscles. She may as well have been a kitten held by its scruff, so completely did he imprison her. “Open your mouth before I have to hold you down and pry your lips apart.”
Every sharp retort and defensive reply shriveled to naught. She swallowed the pathetic whimper that wanted to beg for mercy, some reprieve from the onslaught. First Hugo and his hideous, baiting insults. Then Scarlet—the worry and guesses and vain attempts to understand him. Protecting against his influence was like trying to catch smoke. He was some powerful potion in masculine form, intent on driving her to madness.
“Open for me, Meg.”
The intimate nature of his command shocked her. Dread flared, digging into her bones and settling between her legs. A throbbing ache blossomed, her body thriving on a spiteful blend of danger and curiosity. Heat licked over her skin like flames, setting good sense ablaze.
She opened her mouth.
He touched his finger to her tongue. An explosion of sweetness enveloped her mouth, nearly buckling her knees with the unexpected pleasure. Thought fled. She closed her lips around his finger and sucked, discovering every last crystal of sugar he offered.
Scarlet pulled his finger free. His breath was fast, strained, and very close. “More?”
She gave the smallest nod. He petted her lower lip, painting tiny grains along her thin, sensitive skin. She caught his finger again and licked the sweetness. The hand at the back of her neck tightened, near to pain. A combination of man and sugar swathed her tongue, slid down her throat, set her body on fire. Her breasts felt heavy and hot. A familiar hollowness opened inside her, aching to be filled. He offered more sugar. But she wanted more of him.
She swirled her tongue around his finger, sucking again. He moaned and shuddered. She could take no more. Burrowing eager fingers into a shaggy length of hair, she dragged his face to hers. Lips met in a heady explosion of heat and sweetness. His tongue thrust into her mouth. The syrupy remains of the sugar mingled with his own spice. His arms circled her back, deepening the kiss. Tight nipples crushed against the solid leather shielding his chest, arousing and frustrating her in turn.
Her hips found his. The insistent ridge of his erection offered proof of his desire. He groaned her name and arched her back, dusting quick, hard kisses along the length of her neck. She resented the high bodice that barred him from traveling lower, but flicks of his tongue wet a trail to one ear. He nibbled and suckled, threading his fingers into her hair. Lightheaded, she clung to his body as if a heartsick year had passed since she last held him, since he last held her.
Will.
And like a drowning woman finding a single gulp of air, she found herself.
Minutes of stumbling through the moon-bathed forest brought him to Meg. She stood in the center of a circle of mature birch trees, illuminated by a waning crescent of light. Her slender arms wrapped around her face, clasping the whole of her head in a ferocious hold. She clenched fingers into her scalp, pulling hard. Her cries echoed like wild spirits through the woods, sending a quiver of fear up the muscles of his back.
He hated the woods, but her wails and whimpers made that otherworldly scene a nightmare.
Quieting, she lowered inelegant arms to her sides, shaking with manic force. An impatient gesture sent her dark green cowl to the forest floor. She lowered her head, tossing long hair until it fell like a waterfall of dark tangles and curls, from scalp to waist.
And she began to twirl. The filthy hem of her gown skimmed mud and grass. Her languorous movement followed the swaying trees, and the pale moon lit her lean features.
A little troubled by the pantomime, Will watched in fascination. Catching hold of her gown’s full skirts, she swung from side to side. Swaying. Weaving. Twirling became spinning, spinning in full circles of frenzied energy. She moved ever faster until collapsing into the leaves. There she sat, panting.
A resigned sigh pushed into the evening air. He rolled his wounded shoulder, but a pain borne of more than his plaguing injury stabbed his brain. Huddled into herself, she appeared no more grown or brave than a child, trembling and abandoned. Yet somewhere in that pathetic creature lived a fierce woman.
“Why do you twirl?”
She jerked her head. “Were you watching me?”
He crossed to the center of the tiny clearing. Pushing his scabbard behind him, he sat beside her and crossed his legs. “Calm yourself.”
“No, I will not. I cannot abide when…when I am—”
“At a disadvantage. Such as when you find Jacob and I talking about you.”
“Yes.”
“Forgive me. I meant no—I should have asked you directly.” Careless of his shoulder, he flopped on his back. He groaned and settled into the yielding ground. “You have my attention. That is all.”
She pulled at the flesh of a leaf, leaving only a stem and a few skeletal veins. “Once, when I was shaking the skirt of my gown and became dizzy, I thought—I thought I saw color.”
“Have you since?”
“No. But I keep trying.”
Forged of equal parts pain and hopefulness, her thin voice became a blade that slipped between his ribs. Her vulnerability dared him to resist the impulse to protect her. Antagonism melted like a shard of ice on skin.
“Be honest with me,” he said. “Would you have admitted such a thing to Hugo?”
“No.”
“And why not?”
“He would’ve ridiculed me for it.”
“Remember that, Meg,” he said. “Think twice before putting me on the same level as that low bastard.”
He sat up, bringing his mouth nearly to hers. He could lean. She could advance. They could find an unlikely occasion to laugh. Any movement would bring them together. Again. The prospect fired his blood with a blend of anticipation and ire. He did not want to crave this woman, nor did he want to feel protective of her. But he did. He did with a fierceness that stole wit and reason. The need to kiss her again was a sore sweetness—sweet like the sugar on her tongue.
“Why did you do it?” Her whisper brushed his lips with humid warmth. “Working for the sheriff?”
Confusion and something akin to regret forced him to pull away. Such a complicated mess. And he hated every pathetic minute of it.
“Nottingham is corrupt,” he said. “Openly so. I grew tired of living off moneyed acquaintances, but neither did I fancy a life of impoverishment. Finch pays handsomely for men who can uphold his version of the law.”
“And what of Ada?”
“Carlisle told us that the sheriff sought a reliable alchemist. Any man who could provide one would be given a bonus and the chance to become one of Finch’s personal guards.”
She frowned, dark brows pulling together. “The chance?”
“That was my purpose along the Nottingham road.” A shiver of memory climbed his neck, reliving the tension and disgust of those moments before the ambush. “I had been in Finch’s employ for near on a year. I was to prove my loyalty as a member of his personal cadre, with Carlisle as our leader. Now, I believe the entire test was a net to catch whatever dimwitted fool balked at Lord Whitstowe’s murder—and pin the crime on him.”
“You.”
“Yes.”
“You did all of this for money.”
“Yes,” he said heavily. “And there is no pride to find in that.”
“You feel guilty?”
“Don’t make me a saint, Meg.”
Glassy eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t think of it, not when I’m buying your help with counterfeit emeralds. God’s teeth, but I cannot understand you.”
“Me? You—you’re a puzzle for the ages. You’re as fearless as you are afraid.”
“I have good cause.”
“Why, because you’re blind? Do you really think this would be easier if you could see?”
“It could be.” Discarding the remnants of a stripped leaf, she picked up another and started again. “Yes, it would be. Because I could see that you are looking at me.”
“Who else would I be looking at?”
She dipped her head, looking nauseous. Realization hit him like a rock to the temple.
“Oh,” he said. “This is about Hugo, isn’t it? Hugo and your sister.”
“How did you know?”
“When he kissed you, I overheard.” He exhaled, his anger lifting high. “By my thrift, Meg, what did they do?”
Like a nervous bird, her eyes darted quick paths through the shadows. “He started to visit me at the cabin after Father died. After how I’d been treated, I enjoyed how he flaunted society’s expectations, playing everyone for fools with his thieving. I had no one in the world but Ada, and then I had Hugo too. I was happy. We…eventually, he and I…because I wanted to—”
Choking, her voice died a quick death.
Will wanted two minutes alone again with Hugo, not even so greedy as to require a weapon. Bare hands would ably mete the man’s punishment. But bitterness followed closely on the heels of his violent fantasies. How had he behaved any better than the thief?
She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “He broke every rule, and I was fool enough to believe he’d make an exception for me. He would sit in the same room with my sister and me, smiling at her throughout. He flirted with her, and I couldn’t see what happened right in front of me.”
“How did you discover the truth?”
“I found them in the woods outside the cabin. They were
laughing
at me, at how gullible I was. Ada joined him in mocking my blindness. When I revealed myself, Hugo fled and Ada confessed to their tryst.”
“She was remorseful?”
“She blamed me. She said caring for me resigned her to a life in isolation, that she may as well be blind too. That’s when I convinced her to sell the emeralds for me.”
Frustration pounded at his patience. She had played every possible sentiment against him from the moment of their first encounter, and still he could not decipher true emotion from manipulation. Apparently, she was not above treating her sister with the same base contempt and lack of regard.
Bitterness settled in his mouth like a canker. “Convinced? Or coerced?”
“She owed me! Don’t slake your frustrations on me,” she said, her words a snarl. “When you come to speaking terms with your uncle, I’ll reconcile with Ada.”
“Then you will be estranged for quite some time.”
“So be it.”
“But why trample across the countryside to save her? Why?”
“I love her.” He began to protest, but she lifted a silencing hand. “She’s all I have. I cannot trust her, I know, but I want things to go back to the way they were. Before Hugo.”
“And you’ve pinned your hopes on that?” He shook his head and channeled his anger into bunched fists. “Hear me when I say life doesn’t behave so courteously. Sometimes you cannot go back.”
“And what would you rather me do? You, Will Scarlet—the man with a sure and clear understanding of his earthly purpose.”
“What does that mean?”
After finding her cowl among the leaves, she stood hastily. “Do you or do you not have influential family who could intervene on your behalf against the sheriff?”
“It’s not like that—”
“Instead, you shun their help,” she said, tucking her hair into the headdress. “You take to the woods, which you
loathe,
with a blind girl, a Jewish boy, and a forest of people who’d have your head if not for a nobleman who tried to kill you. What answers do you hold to with such certainty?”
“I know you make this very difficult.”
He took to his feet and led her back to the cabin.
“Will?”
At the first instance of his given name on her lips, he nearly stopped. But if he stopped, he would kiss her again. If he kissed her, this nasty new habit of making difficult choices would become a permanent way of life.
“Will, what were you going to say?”
“Caring,” he said over his shoulder. “You make it very difficult to care what happens to you.”