Read What A Scoundrel Wants Online

Authors: Carrie Lofty

Tags: #Historical

What A Scoundrel Wants (6 page)

Chapter Six
Then, as near a brook his journey he took,
A stranger he chanced to espy.
“Robin Hood and Little John”
Folk ballad, seventeenth century
She poisoned me.
Over and over, Will repeated that incredulous phrase. He cinched numb fingers around the width of leather at his waist. Every step along the river’s edge jarred his molars in an angry clench. The ominous woods helped diffuse his foul mood not at all. He wanted to kick every menacing tree and curse each spray of autumn leaves.

He had once kissed Marian against her will, and the consequences of that impulsive deed echoed into the present. But he had never hit a woman. Ever. The very notion of inflicting one with physical pain set his gut on its side.

But when he found Meg of Keyworth, he would need to tether his hands to his belt—as far from her as the ground was from the heavens. When she smirked and jeered and transformed his blood to flame, he simply did not trust himself. His anger conjured a potion strong enough to disease his few remaining principles.

She poisoned me.

To the west, a noise in the forest dragged Will from his fuming reverie. He jerked to vigilance and cursed his inattention. Trudging in search of Meg while distracted by thoughts of her would produce no good end. And Marian would suffer if he failed.

Picking across a skittering pile of rocks at the base of an oak, he slowly, almost silently, drew his sword from its scabbard. He hardened his nerves, but with more difficulty, he urged the throbbing, fiery ache in his left shoulder to subside. Dizziness snaked into his bones. His left arm trembled, and his hand grew increasingly numb.

An armored man strode along the river. Over a hauberk of mail, he wore a soiled, knee-length surcoat of black wool. A sword hung from the ornate girdle at his waist, a shield covered his left arm, and a steel casque obscured his face entirely. If his armaments were any indication, he came from a wealthy background, despite how he was nearly as filthy and trail-worn as Will.

Battling such a swordsman daunted him in the most ideal circumstances—healthy, well rested, and backed by armed companions. He silently urged the man to continue his purposeful walk along the river’s edge.

He did not.

Noticing where Will’s footprints emerged from the shallow banks, he spun toward the oak and drew his sword in a fluid movement.

Will cursed silently. His mind, trapped and weary, let slip a thought as distracting and infuriating as it was treacherous.

I wish Robin were here.

He peeked from behind the tree.

With a quick trio of steps, the stranger attacked. Boots covered by mail found no easy traction, and he slipped on the pile of rounded stones. He slid to his knees, gripping his sword and bracing his body with one hand.

Will jumped backward. Circling into a small clearing, he sought level ground. His boots, however abused and tattered, provided better traction on the cobbled mud. His attacker stumbled clear of the oak and its skirt of dislodged stones, pursuing until Will had no choice but to turn and raise his weapon.

Swords clashed. Will shrank from the ferocious strength of the blow. The impact rattled his joints. He ground his teeth together against the effort of each successive strike. With gratifyingly efficient speed, he parried. He welcomed the oblivious state of bliss when pain and his rational, fearful mind relented to the firm command of reflex and experience. Composure and technique returned, as did power fueled by the immediacy of combat.

He took the swordsman’s well-struck blows but found no purchase against his blade and shield. Will may as well have been striking a stone wall, except a wall would not thrust and hack with deadly, unrelenting intent. His breath stabbed tiny needles in his throat, and his hearing degenerated into a continuous pulse of fatigued blood.

Hoping to regain an advantage of position, he cut back to the river and skittered across the slippery rocks. His opponent followed, suddenly hesitant. Will surged anew, forcing his left hand to cooperate. He clutched the hilt of his sword in a sure two-fisted grip. Metal clanged against metal. The shield strapped to his foe’s arm would not budge, but the full power of Will’s attack chopped the sword from his hand. The man caught the blows against his trident until he stumbled and took a knee.

Too lightheaded to press his advantage, Will asked, “Do you yield?”

The challenger’s accelerated breathing echoed from within his metal helmet. “I will run you through, brigand.”

“Not the answer I was seeking, I admit.”

“These woods are not yours.”

Will raised his sword and compelled his uncooperative body into a fighting stance. His opponent was not beaten. “And neither are they yours.”

“I am heir to the Earl of Whitstowe, you ramskit filth. These
are
my woods.”

He slammed his trident into Will’s chest, attacking with renewed force. Air fled in a dazzling rush. The muscles around his heart seized and clenched. His shoulder exploded in a burst of white heat. Raising his sword in self-defense went from improbable to impossible. He lost his footing in the shallow water and flailed, edging away from his attacker—a man armed once again, recovered, with sword in hand.

He crawled backward, wheezing. “Will you let me explain?”

“You presume to do me harm on my own lands, and I’m to let you speak?” The man offered an unkind chuckle and raised his blade. “Hardly.”

Will kept his sights on the man’s shadowed eyes, not the deadly edge of steel he held. “I was at the ambush where your father was killed. I can provide an account.”

The sword wavered and dipped. “I doubt it not. You were likely in the sheriff’s employ.”

“Was.”

“What are you called?”

“His name is Will Scarlet, and he’s ours. Lay down your weapons.”

A dozen woodsmen emerged from the shadowy thicket. Armed with bows, clubs, and daggers, they stalked forth to form a half circle against the river, surrounding the pair. Will took the occasion to leap from the water, sword poised in his good hand.

“I said lay down your weapon, Scarlet,” a rakish woodsman said.

“Do I know you?”

The stranger stepped closer, sleek and dark-haired like a wild cat. By his assertive stance and role as the rabble’s voice, the man likely held sway even if he did not lead them outright. He wore well-kept garments, a belt lined with four daggers, and a disarming smile.

A length of hemp rope coiled around his left arm.

“No, Scarlet, but we know you. And we’re here to stretch your neck.”

Meg knelt on a shallow bank at the river’s edge. She ripped another length of cloth from her kirtle, leaving the hem ragged and dangling above her knees. After dipping the scrap into the water, she returned to the cover of trees and began to wash. No matter who pursued her, no matter how far she had yet to travel before finding a landmark, she could not take another step while reeking of Will Scarlet. The scent of him—of them together—pushed into her nostrils.

She shoved the wet rag into each sleeve and cleaned beneath her arms, then down the front of her bodice. Her nipples tightened. He had not touched her there, but her body, already sensitized by the recent memory of him, imagined for her. She hiccupped at the sudden thought of his mouth covering each nipple, laving and caressing with his hot tongue. She snatched the rag from her bodice.

Unsteadily, she scrubbed the warmed cloth on the insides of her thighs. Rough strokes, detached and cursory, still ignited the trembling flesh between her legs. She scrubbed harder until the slick aftermath of their union was rinsed clean, tossing the scrap of wool to the ground. She spun with a dizziness that started and ended with him.

But the fault was hers. She had explored and touched and kissed. She had crawled atop him. She should have anticipated this sickening argument between desire and pride. After all, each encounter with Hugo had left her similarly debased, unforgivably hopeful that his enjoyment of her body would mean enjoying
her.

Bastards. Both of them.

She banished both shame and pleasure. Only an indistinct anger remained—at him for making her vulnerable, at herself for desiring their brief connection. If she gave Scarlet a little too much wolfsbane and he slept for a week, she would have no regrets. The bugger deserved worse for putting Ada in jail. And he deserved worse still for making Meg weak.

The swishing of footfalls grabbed her attention. She pushed against a tree and crouched low, only half hoping her cover would prevent detection. Her luck had been too poor to wish for a better outcome. To her advantage, she did not hear the metal clang of armaments, but she did detect…sniffing?

A sharp howl split the midday air. Her heart leapt. Before she could decide what to do, she cringed at the wet slop of a canine tongue. She yelped.

A call rang through the oaks and birches. “Asem! Heel!”

She raised both hands to fend off the dog. The massive animal anointed her face with countless panting licks. “Jacob? I’m here!”

“Meg? Such a! What are you doing here?”

“Surviving Asem’s affections. Get me clear!”

Asher ha-Rophe’s only son whistled sharply, grabbing the mastiff and dragging him away. He took her arm and urged her from the ground. Her knees shook with relief.

“Forgive his behavior,” Jacob said, his crystalline voice soothing her uneven heartbeat. “He must have caught your scent because he dragged me across a mile, at least.”

“I’m glad of his persistence.”

“But Meg, I left you at Bainbridge Castle. How did you come to be here?”

Weariness pressed behind her eyes. The night before, when she should have been resting, she was busy seducing an injured man. At every opportunity, her mind and her body found cause to remember.

“The last day has been eventful.”

Jacob tucked her arm through his and directed her back the way she came. “You can tell me as we return to Father’s cabin.”

“Back? I thought I was going the right way.”

“You are two miles distant.”

Frustration surged. She had not been lost in Charnwood since the initial onset of her blindness. Scarlet muddied her senses to the point of uselessness.

Tensing her fingers around the walking stick, she wanted to smash the thing against a tree. “I have been checking, but still…”

“You’ve fared better than would most,” Jacob said, unwilling or unable to hide a quiver of condescension. “What happened?”

For a few moments, she allowed the young man to guide her steps. She leaned into his wiry frame and described the previous day’s events. The more difficult task was expunging emotion from her tale. As for the night with Scarlet, she avoided it entirely.

“Meg, I am at a loss. I apologize.”

“There is no need for an apology,” she said. “You left me at the castle under the protection of our liege. How could we know his protection would not be sufficient, or that the sheriff could be so bold?”

“Why do you believe the sheriff was to blame?”

She suppressed the urge to rub the tingling skin at the nape of her neck. “The man who rescued me worked for the sheriff. I believe he underwent a change of heart once the fighting began. He said that the leader, Carlisle, is Finch’s closest associate.”

“Who was the man? Do you know?”

“Have you heard of Will Scarlet?”

“Will Scarlet?” Jacob laughed, a quick and merry sound. “Of course.”

While she hoped for details, she had not expected immediate recognition. “Who is he?”

“He is nephew to Robin of Loxley. Robin Hood.”


The
Robin Hood?”

“Yes. Son of Loxley’s elder sister.”

Scarlet’s behavior seemed like that of two different people—careless and selfish, reasoned and chivalrous. This new information did little to unravel his mysteries. Given the least opportunity, most men would have boasted of a connection to Robin Hood. But not Scarlet. He fought his conscience like a demon come to claim his soul and made no mention of the famous outlaw.

Puzzles she thought herself capable of solving flew apart.

“They fought with King Richard against John’s uprising five years ago,” Jacob said. “Do you remember?”

“Five years ago? No.”

“Ah, your illness. Forgive me.” He cleared his throat, sounding embarrassed. “But Scarlet was working for the sheriff? That seems odd, considering his past. Did he offer an explanation?”

“No, nor did I ask.”

“And yet you are here by yourself.”

Ahead in the forest, bounding through the fallen leaves, Asem provided a few moments of distraction. Meg was gratified by her body’s response. Her pulse did not accelerate. Her stomach did not constrict. Only her hands proved wayward, tightening, relishing the memory of Scarlet’s flesh beneath her fingers.

“We parted ways,” she said, appreciating her flat tone.

“You must have disliked him a great deal to favor this over his company.”

“He was the man who arrested Ada.” Repeating the truth aloud banished the new, raw memories of pleasure.

“Because of the emeralds, as we feared?”

“Yes. And now I simply want to go home.”

Jacob stopped short, his body rigid. “What about Ada?”

“What about her?”

“You cannot leave her in prison!”

“I can.” Cold anger stiffened her jaw, honing each word into a sharp lance. “She’ll be tried and fined, nothing more. Pursuing her was a mistake from the start.”

He firmly unlinked their arms. “This isn’t right, Meg.”

“You love her; you go find her!” Hostility simmered under her skin, even though Jacob was not her enemy of choice. But his pining loyalty to Ada never failed to stoke her temper. He stubbornly failed to see her sister for what she was. “You know why I cannot trust her, and she holds no affection for me.”

“That’s not true.”

“Enough, please. Will you lead me home or not?”

Jacob’s decision remained unvoiced as wild shouts echoed from a nearby clearing. He called to Asem before fleeing in pursuit, footsteps and excited voices and dog barks creating an unnatural cacophony in the deep woods.

“Jacob, wait!”

Alone again, Meg permitted fatigue to slump her shoulders. She gripped her walking stick and dipped her forehead to the ground.

Minutes passed and she forced her unruly body to straighten. She shook free of weakness like shrugging a wet blanket from her back. Despite her disorientation that morning, she knew Charnwood Forest, especially near to landmarks such as Jacob’s cabin.

But better than the trees and swamps, she knew the unpredictable woodsmen who lived within its sheltering branches. No matter the giant mastiff ready to do his bidding, Jacob, a lone Jew, stood little chance against Hugo and his rabble.

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