Colette Gale - Bound by Honor

“My lovely Marian,” he said, groping lower to raise her skirts. “You’d not lure me in with lovely kisses and then cry ware down upon me, would you?”

“Nay, of course not, Robin,” she murmured, wondering why he should say such a thing. She’d not betrayed him. The cool forest breeze brushed her exposed legs as his hands busily moved her hems higher.

“I did not think you would be such a viper,” he muttered, his mouth sliding along her jaw.

Fully aware that the last two times she and Robin had embraced in the woods, Will had come upon them, she pushed him back when he would have buried his face in her neck again. “I . . . Robin,” she murmured, wishing they were somewhere she wouldn’t feel so exposed. After all, Bruse and his men were nearby. “I do wish to speak with you.”

He stepped back and looked down at her, a strangely intense gleam in his eyes. “Ah,” he said, a full-blown grin spreading beneath his beard. “Of course you do. Out of earshot . . . and sight,” he said, his eyes dancing again, “of your trusty men. I should be happy to oblige, my lady.”

“ ’Tis not my men who worry me,” Marian said, stepping away from his grip. “ ’Tis the sheriff.” She glanced beyond his shoulder, half-expecting her words to cause the large dark horse and its rider to materialize. What would he think if he found her with her skirts up around her hips here in the forest, after moaning and gasping beneath his hands last evening?

But that was different. She hadn’t wanted to be in John’s chambers . . . and she had purposely sought Robin here in the forest.

Although she had wanted Will’s hands on her.

Marian pushed that thought away. She’d not been thinking clearly.

“Ah, aye, the sheriff. That bastion of justice, a man of ice whose demeanor must be melted by the soft hand of a woman.”

The steely glint in his eyes didn’t match the light, airy words, and caused Marian to wonder if he was jealous of Will.

The idea pleased her more than a little-after all, she was a woman, and she found Robin Hood so charming and handsome-but she replied, “Nay, Robin, do you not fear that I am setting about to soften the heart of that blackguard! For that is the reason I came to look for you. Have you not heard what he’s done in Ludlow Village?”

“Nay, I have not. What is it today? The hanging of a poacher? The stripping and whipping of a cooper who makes leaky barrels?”

“Robin, he is burning half the village! He stands and orders the buildings to be set afire as the villagers watch. They are the meanest of hovels, but all they have, and he has destroyed their homes.”

“Ah, aye, the fire. Aye, ’tis a brutal thing for the sheriff to do,” he added, glancing off toward the spiral of smoke. “But the villeins will soon rebuild, I trow.”

Was this sort of destruction so common that he was hardened against it? “A man such as that,” Marian said, all those odd liquid thoughts of Will disintegrating, “cannot be softened. And does not wish to be.”

“Aye, and I am sure that the tale will be good gossip for you and your lady friends,” Robin said. “Joanna and Pauletta and Catherine, along with the lovely Marian . . . and who is the child? The blond girl with the blue eyes? The very young one?”

“Alys,” Marian replied, looking at him, struck by the brittleness in his voice.

How difficult it must be to be thought a villain when one was really a hero. Her heart swelled with pride and sympathy for him. Dear Robin . . . she must find a way to help him.

“Ah, aye . . . Alys. And so all of you ladies will wag your tongues and discuss how cruel and blackhearted the sheriff is, aye? For, of course, he is. And he will keep you busy with your gossip.”

“Aye, mayhap,” she said. “But, Robin, I came to ask you for help. For those people. Can you help them?”

“But of course I shall,” Robin said airily. “That is what Robin of the Hood and his band of outlaws do, is it not? We are not the sly, greedy men some think us.”

Marian realized that as they conversed, he’d begun to lead her gently after him, deeper into the dark part of the wood. “Are you taking me somewhere safe . . . where we can talk freely?”

He flashed a great smile at her. “Indeed. If that is what you wish to do. Talk. But I thought mayhap there are other ways we might find to occupy our time.”

A little wave of surprise fluttered in her belly and she matched his smile. How wonderful it would be to have his elegant hands, his long slender fingers, on her bare skin-in the stead of heavy ones, groping and grabbing all the while she wished to be anywhere but there. And to have it without the furtiveness, the quick risk of discovery, while in the glades of the forest. To have the time for bodies to slide against each other, skin to skin. To taste and touch and stroke.

The memory of John forcing her fingers around his turgid cock, sliding them back and forth while he squeezed and pinched her breast, breathing heavily and roughly into her ear, caused an unpleasant rush to pass over her. Her stomach pitched with nausea.

She did not wish to return to the keep, to be forced back into that Court of Pleasure, waiting and wondering whether this would be the night that John had his way.

Or Will.

A flash of memory had her heart thumping hard and fast . . . that moment in her chamber when she’d raised their joined hands to his nose and seen the blatant desire burning in his eyes. When his nostrils had widened and his mouth tightened and for a moment she thought he might tear off the simple cloak she wore . . . and take her then and there.

Her throat had dried and she could not ignore the memory of his dark hands covering her white skin, there in the shadows of the bed-curtains . . . the way she curved and arched against him, trembling as she cried out her release. Her face felt warm, her quim full and slick, as she remembered. . . .

Then all those thoughts were driven from her mind when Robin pulled her beyond a flush of bushes into the depths of a dark cave. She realized they were at the base of a small hill, and the cave entrance was well hidden from even a sharp-eyed passerby.

“Is this one of your hideaways?” she asked, moving closer to him in the darkness. In the event that it was not, she didn’t wish to be surprised by a flock of bats-or a wild cat-swarming out.

“It is indeed,” he said, that smile back and more visible as he lit a torch. “And there is no one about, no one to disturb us here, my lady.”

He gestured into the darkness of the cave, pulling her with him. She saw that it was indeed a hideaway, for deep within, concealed behind a cluster of rocks, several pallets were arranged on the ground. The boulders had been cunningly arranged to appear to be a wall, but instead they provided a generous hiding place.

And privacy.

Marian allowed Robin to draw her deeper into the cave, the small torch casting tiny, flickering shadows. He set fire to a small pile of kindling in the corner, and she saw that there must be a hole somewhere in the high ceiling, because the smoke rose and left the space without choking them.

Despite the fire, inside the hideaway was cool and dark, and dampness seeped into her skin immediately. But she was with Robin . . . at last, Robin . . . and when he turned her to face him, and pressed her up against the rough, damp cavern wall, she allowed her quiver and bow to slide from her shoulder and gently down onto the floor.

He wasted no time, for he’d barely covered her mouth with his, in that insistent, reckless manner, when his hands tugged at her woven leather girdle, untying it with surprising ease. She pulled at his tunic, made of coarse material that would scratch her skin, yanking it up and over his torso.

His lips moved against her forehead, and she thought she heard him begging.

Please.

As the fire crackled to life, casting more warmth, more soft light, they undressed, leaving a pile of clothing near one of the pallets. Robin saved Marian’s veil for the last, and he tore it from her head, then shoved his fingers roughly into her braids, loosening Ethelberga’s handiwork only a bit before drawing her down onto the pallet with him.

The soft slide of furs beneath her bare skin awakened her, and Marian closed her eyes, lifting her arms for the warmth of his body. But it wasn’t Robin who came to her then, whose face and broad shoulders filled her mind.

Marian’s eyes flew open, her heart slamming in her chest. But it was Robin there, who bent toward her, whose hands smoothed along her torso as he lowered himself, settling partially over her. She kept her eyes open, even when he came so close that he filled her vision with a shadowy face.

His beard gently prickled her skin, not so smooth as the rabbit pelts beneath her, but more coarse, like the coat of a fox. Much better than when Harold had come to her, with short, rough whiskers.

Marian’s feet were cold, for he’d drawn her hose down and away, leaving them bare. And the chill of the floor seeped through the thin pallet beneath her. Something hard was digging into the back of her shoulder, and she shifted to move away from the pointed rock.

Robin reached for her hand and brought it down between their bodies, lifting away from the breast he’d been sucking to press his lips to her fingers, then directing them down. She knew what he wanted, and eager to erase the memory of the prince’s similar demands, she closed her fingers around a longer, more slender cock than the one they’d held last night. Yet it was just as warm and smooth, pulsing beneath her touch.

He released a long, pent-up sigh as she began to stroke, and lifted himself so that she could move more easily. Now she was even colder as his warm body shifted away, and Marian became aware of their legs twined together, his heavy, haired ones against her lighter, more slender ones.

“Marian,” he sighed, “please.”

He kissed and fondled her breast, lying next to her on his side as she reached between them, slowly lifting and lowering her hand over his cock. Strangely detached, she found herself watching his face as she varied her movements, slower . . . then more quickly . . . tightening and then loosening her grip. His mouth moved, making soundless pleas, and his eyes closed.

Fascinated by the concept of the power she literally held in her hand, Marian watched and listened, noticing his breathing, his eyes fluttering beneath half-closed lids. She felt him gather up next to her, the tension simmering beneath his skin . . . the burgeoning of his cock in her hand.

She felt a little drip at the tip and used her thumb to slide it around and over, using it to lubricate her way, and felt a little tingling rise inside herself. . . . He breathed faster, had released her breast, and now simply lay there, one hand resting on her hip, gripping with his fingers.

“Please,” he said, sounding horribly desperate. “I need . . .”

Something shimmered up under his skin, beneath her fingers, and she moved faster, watching him, still strangely detached, her arm aching but her lips parted, matching him breath for breath, rising with him. . . . He stiffened, gave a low, sharp cry, and pulsed beneath her fingers, his seed spilling warm over her hand.

After a moment Marian released him, wiping his semen off herself on the edge of the fur pelts. As she did so, she realized that her own body was thrumming quietly.

Robin opened his eyes and, for an instant, she saw regret there. Then it evaporated, replaced by a hint of chagrin and a saucy smile. “Ah, Marian, you’ve no idea how badly I needed that,” he said. “But, my lady, now that that little distraction’s been taken care of, let me attend to other necessities.”