As her heartbeat slowed, she resented Will for the intrusion. But forgetting the heated pleasure of their encounter proved impossible. His voice, his scent, and every infuriating trait battered against her otherwise stalwart will.
And the kisses.
She wanted to run from him, but good sense had become mired in a sludge of passions. She could not even retreat to the privacy of sleep and the magic of dream fire. He followed her.
Sitting up quietly and slowly, she imagined the contours of the cabin’s interior to orient herself. Somewhere near the door, Jacob slept heavily, snoring through his mouth. Will occupied a length of floor parallel to her worktable, while Dryden had constructed a makeshift pallet near his cousin’s bed. He intended to minister to Monthemer’s needs through the night.
Playfulness crept across her mouth, pulling her farther from the troubling, frankly sexual dream. Other than Jacob, she and Ada never had guests in the cabin. The room barely had space enough to accommodate a few bodies under and around the furniture.
Yet in her sister’s absence, Meg accidentally hosted four guests. Four men slept under her roof. She should have been scandalized or terrified, but scandal had long since lost its teeth. As for the terror she ought to feel, surrounded in the dark by the drastically varied male creatures, she could not muster the energy for terrible scenarios. The previous few days had created predicaments worthy of a woman’s worst nightmares.
And of those four men, only one truly frightened her.
A moan rattled her thoughts. She jerked toward Monthemer’s pallet. For the barest moment, her fading dream pushed to the fore, bringing with it the memory of groans and whimpers. She dug into the skin along her temples, wanting to scrape the surface of her brain and erase those taunting memories.
She froze and listened for the next sound. Another moan? Dryden awakening? Dim echoes of once-hearty flames sizzled delicately in the fire pit. Outside, offering the first indication as to the hour, an ambitious lark began its tentative ode to the distant dawn.
Another moan from Monthemer’s pallet.
“Milord?”
Her whispered call to Dryden barely disturbed the night-quiet room. No reply. She tugged a cloak over her shoulders and crossed the scant distance to Monthemer’s side. The pale stench of blood and wolfsbane pinched inside her nostrils. “Milord?”
“Here.”
She clapped hands over her mouth to keep from yelping.
“Sorry,” he said. “I thought I should say something, rather than taking hold of your arm.”
She nodded. “How is he? I heard him stir.”
“You needn’t concern yourself, Meg. I said I would tend to him, should he need care.”
“He is patient to us both. I wish to know how he fares.” She knelt and grazed a hand. “Yours or his?”
“What?”
“His hand, then.”
Monthemer moaned again. She felt for fever, but his skin remained cool. He neither flinched nor roused when she found the strips of linen encasing the upper portion of his skull.
“I gave him more wolfsbane.”
“Really?” She leaned nearer the unconscious man, again catching the sluggish scent of the potent flower. “To his wound?”
“No, by mouth.”
She wondered if Dryden could see her displeasure, or whether his view of the cabin, encased in night, might prove as dark as hers. “I administered quite enough before you completed the sutures.”
“He was moaning more fervently a few moments ago.” An edge of impatience emerged when he said, “I’ve dealt with the plant before.”
“Too much could slow his respiration to the point of death.”
“Yes,” Dryden said, sighing. “But just enough will permit him a restful sleep.”
Meg sucked her lower lip. Even as she let the disagreement drop, she knew it would have worsened into an argument had Will been her opponent. But which reaction galled her more? Will’s God-given talent to rouse her anger, or Dryden’s inconsistent temperament?
Memories of sugar, kisses, and night confessions resurfaced. When she sedated Will and left him for the uncertainty of the woods, she did so against better judgment. Reflex had demanded that she flee the scene of her embarrassing behavior. She would have done anything to escape reminders of her vulnerability—one handsome and frustrating reminder in particular. Foolish, to be sure, but vital.
Now she felt that same urge to escape. Will Scarlet did not care for her. He did not want to help. Everything he did was a means of manipulating her. Perhaps for gain, perhaps to ensure the safety of his family, he would betray her to the sheriff.
And his kisses. Sweet pleasure. The fear of being exposed again for a gullible fool threatened to make impulsive decisions for her.
But no, reason was on her side this time. Circumstances had changed. She would not be navigating unfamiliar terrain by herself. Another ally stood ready to help her, one with far more potential for influence than Will.
“Milord, I want you to escort me into Nottingham.”
“Excuse me?”
She straightened, toying with the hem of a long, loose sleeve. “You have the authority to speak to the sheriff and demand an explanation. He cannot ignore an audience with a nobleman.”
Dryden shifted. “What about Scarlet?”
“He has reason to relinquish me to the sheriff.”
“You’re certain?”
“No, but I cannot take that chance.”
“Negotiations are quite beyond my vision,” he said. “Father handled those issues.”
“You underestimate your abilities.”
“And you are patient with me.” Chagrined laughter twined into his whisper. His embarrassment resurfaced, as it had when discussing his behavior during Carlisle’s attack. “Must be hard for you to believe I served my father with valor and distinction, for all the cowardice you’ve known of me.”
Meg shook her head, uncomfortable with his contempt. “This is not a matter of cowardice or bravery. It’s a matter of asserting your right.”
Long moments passed. Another lark joined the first in welcoming the sun. Shortly, the world would reawaken. They would make for Nottingham. And she would leave Will behind for good. She sat waiting for Dryden to make her plans a reality.
He pushed the air from his nose. “My father took responsibility for you, and I shall as well. I have said as much, but I intend to make good on my promise.”
She smiled with relief. “Thank you, milord.”
“Thank me when your sister is returned. Now what do you propose for Scarlet?”
“I said, drop your weapons, Scarlet.”
He knew better than to search Meg’s eyes for explanation, but despite the weapon Dryden leveled. Will addressed his words to her. “Was this your idea?”
She found decency enough to appear embarrassed, tilting her chin to the roadside. Had she been able to see, she would have refused his eyes.
Will grinned, ignoring the sword. He would deal with Dryden momentarily. Instead, he watched Meg as she struggled and scraped within her own skin. Either she was becoming a better liar by the day, able to portray a woman in the throes of second thoughts, or attacks of conscience were finally getting the better of her inhuman reserve. And he felt better able to read her face. He had walked into her trap, but at least he could read her discomfort at having to face her accuser.
She pushed her lips into a grimace, fingering the skull-sized satchel she wore. “Does it change your situation? You wouldn’t believe me, no matter what I say.”
“Drop your weapons,” Dryden said again. He inched the blade higher, his shoulders coiled for a life-ending strike.
“You’re not wrong.” Will scattered bitter laughter into the trees and unbuckled his scabbard. “I
don’t
believe you. And I cannot believe I’ve come all this way, saving your sick hide more times than most people can count—and this is my treatment.”
His sword clattered to the packed earth road. Daggers, a bow, and a quiver of arrows followed.
Dryden gestured with a flick of his head toward a nearby oak. “Sit at the base of that tree. Quick now.”
Because wringing sympathy from a rock would yield better results than appealing to Meg, he petitioned his captor instead. “You know I didn’t kill your father, milord. Would you leave me to the task of clearing my own name? With no witnesses to support my claims?”
A look of distress layered over Dryden’s features. He swallowed once before proceeding to tie Will to the tree. “I’m obliged to follow through with the promises my father made to Meg. But I’ll speak to the sheriff on your behalf.”
“And if he’s behind this plot?”
Neither answered his question, for they knew the likelihood of encountering another deception. Yet they eliminated him from the scenario entirely. Senseless.
Meg tapped her walking stick against the base of the tree and knelt. She dropped the stick and shrugged from under the wide leather strap of the satchel. Finding Will’s head, she stroked the hair from his face. “All I want is to have my life back, such as it was.”
“You have no notion of what you’re getting into. Nottingham is a snake, his men are vicious, and that castle is a bloody labyrinth.”
“Dryden will help me. He has influence.”
“You’re quite the mercenary, Meg.”
“You would know.”
“But you’re a coward too. This has nothing to do with strategy. It has to do with kisses you enjoyed a little too much.”
“I won’t discuss it.”
“Why not? When has my aid produced a bad outcome for you?” Bitterness washed through his mouth, withering his tongue. He wanted to spit but all saliva had dried to glue, coating his teeth.
Slowly, pushing tiny puffs of air from her nose, she pressed her smile against his mouth. A chaste kiss. Lips to lips, nothing more. But warmth oozed down his body, thickening in his veins and scouring his mind of thought. He held his breath as she traced trembling fingers along his jaw, down his abdomen—held his breath until his lungs turned to ash.
She teased him with the pale length of her neck. He could stretch forward and kiss that skin peppered with goose bumps, inhale its clean scent, bite it—but he stayed still. Her exploratory hands journeyed lower, to his torso and the outsides of his thighs. He expelled the breath he held and crushed his eyes shut against the sight of her head within inches of his groin.
She continued until no more of his body remained, stopping at his feet. A grin played across her lips in a smug look of triumph as she removed his tattered boots. That expression, mingling with the last remnants of his faltering good sense, tipped him to her intent.
“Devilway, Meg!”
But too late. She removed the lock picks from his boots.
Her grin faded as she pulled a veil low over her face. She stood, donned her satchel, and turned to her companion. “We’re done here.”
Dryden tossed the discarded weapons into the forest and shooed Will’s horse. Without another word, they mounted their own horses and continued toward Nottingham. He watched the back of Meg’s head, her veil catching a light wind like a sail. He watched, but he could not believe what had happened. None of his incredulity prompted her to pull the reins and turn back.
Cursing quietly, he tested the bonds. The rope only pinched deeper into his shoulders. His nagging injury shot a spike of agony through his limbs, a festering pain that would not abate. And his body still thrummed, eager for more of Meg’s curious hands, more of her mouth on his. The laughter of a madman threatened to replace his foul curses.
How he wanted to be done with her.
In his fondest daydream, he imagined letting them ride away. He would never think of her again. Meg would do whatever fool thing she wanted to do, and she would drag some male creature, willing or otherwise, into her scheme. He would not help her, but neither would he turn her over to Finch. Both options involved being near her again—and nothing frightened him more, nothing tempted him more. Being tied to a blasted oak held more appeal.
He stretched against the bark, trying to loosen the ropes. The uncomfortable position festered an ache in his lower back. His shoulder throbbed as if branded with a deep, piercing iron. The same cool autumn wind that feathered Meg’s veil brushed the gathering sweat on his brow, his hairline, and the soles of his bare feet.
Glancing to the east, he looked along the rough-hewn road parting the trees of Charnwood. Although no one appeared along the road’s length, he admitted the truth: If people strolled past by the hundreds, not a soul would help him from his predicament. He suspected that even Marian, the only person to defend him unfailingly against slander and suspicion, would avert her brown eyes and stride past. For the sake of his hardscrabble independence, Will had burned every bridge with ruthless skill.
Regret brushed up his body. He counted to three, the number of years since Robin had thought well of him. Swallowing, he retreated from old blunders like a coward from a joust.
And
he
had accused
Meg
of pride and isolation—him, a man very much alone and tied to a tree.