Bound By Honor: An Erotic Novel of Maid Marian (13 page)

Will grasped her hands and pulled them above her head, curling strong fingers around her wrists so tightly, grinding them together, causing her to cry out.

“That’s it,” he muttered from between clenched teeth. She understood his words this time. “Fight.”

She didn’t need to be encouraged. Unable to help herself, she kicked and arched beneath him. “Nay, Will,” she breathed, catching the sob in the back of her throat.

His other hand slipped between them, moving along her damp belly, and Marian felt it down between her legs. She closed her eyes, trying to breathe easier, struggling to make herself lie still.

It hurt less if she didn’t fight it. If she lay still and relaxed. She knew this. But this man, so large and dark, his face feral and wild . . . he was different from Harold. Demanding, violent. Angry. So angry.

He propped himself up with the elbow of the hand that held her wrists, and she felt the unmistakable shifting between their bodies as, with the other, he lifted his tunic, loosened the tie of his braies, quickly, sharply, and then before she could plead once more, he made a sharp move.

She braced herself, willing herself not to whimper, but there was nothing but a jolt of the bed. She cried out in surprise and shock.

“Aye,” he said in her ear, his voice hoarse and tight. Will jerked against her again, then again, faster and harder . . . but his hand had settled between them. Covering her. Not penetrating.

Protecting her?

She looked up at him, at the tense, averted face, the perspiration that gathered at his temples and near his closed eyes. His brows knit together in an angry furrow and he gave one last thrust and sagged forward over her with a low, heartfelt groan that tugged deep at her belly.

His fingers loosened over her wrists and she pulled them away, aware that they were both out of breath.

“Will,” she began in a rough, bewildered voice.

“Stop it.” His voice sounded like a whip cracking. “I’ll not listen to your sobs.” He rolled away, tossing the blanket back over to cover her.

Marian gathered it over her hips and breasts and watched as he snatched up his boots and one of the empty buckets. “Do you not attempt to hide away in here tonight,” he said, half-turning back toward her. “You will be seen at dinner.”

From the distance, she saw that his eyes remained dark and flat. They swept over her briefly, but did not linger. And then he pivoted and slammed the door’s bolt from its moorings, leaving the chamber before she could speak again.

Marian heard the outer door close behind him, and she was alone on a bed damp from her own body . . . but not from Will, or his seed.

She lay there for a moment, bringing her trembling body under control, scarcely able to comprehend what had just occurred. Yet, she did—she realized what Will had done.

Or, more accurately . . . what he had not done.

One thing was certain: John had most definitely not been holding court this midday.

 

 

Will passed Marian’s sniffling maid, who’d loyally waited in the hall despite his orders to leave. She cowered back as he stalked by, but did not flee.

“See to your mistress,” he snarled, still carrying the bucket, folding his boots under his arm.

He made it down three steps of the shadowy side stairwell before he lost control and had to stop. Leaning against the wall, he emptied his stomach violently into the bucket, heaving until his belly ached.

Swiping the back of a hand over his mouth, he looked up to find Alys of Wentworth standing at the top of the stairs.

“Are you ill?” she asked, her blue eyes wide.

“ ’ Tis no concern of yours,” he snapped, standing upright with effort. Without a backward glance, he turned and made his way down the stairs, his fingers still trembling.

CHAPTER 7

J
ohn the Angevin, Lord of Ireland, Earl of Gloucester, Count of Mortain, and current regent of England, was displeased.

He sat at the high table next to one of his most trusted cohorts, one who shared his ambition and confidences, as well as participated in his most private and vulgar of activities. A man so clever and determined John might have feared him if he hadn’t known that he was as determined as John to rid the country of its rapacious king. Richard’s foolish war had left England, lush, green, beautiful England, stripped to bare and bone. John could not abide by his brother’s vainglorious ways, his ignorance of the land he had the blessing to rule while he traipsed about far away in the Holy Lands.

He cast a sly, corner-of-the-eye glance at William de Wendeval. His performance this afternoon, though brief and—from the prince’s perspective—not nearly violent enough, had awakened John’s desire for the luscious Lady Marian.

Nay, “awakened” was too mild a word. “Emblazoned” was more appropriate. Emblazoned upon his heart—and his cock—the need to have her.

The sight of that glorious hair alone, strands of mingling gold and bronze and copper, streaming down the sides of the tub as her maid gathered it into a huge bundle to wash and rinse it, had sent frissons of lust through his body. He imagined it twining around him, thick, shiny, and heavy. But when Marian had been yanked from her bath, breasts jouncing and smooth hips shining with the cascade of water, that long glossy hair had plastered itself to her from shoulder to thigh like a well-fitting glove and set his cock to throbbing.

And Nottingham, knowing that his liege watched, had paused for a moment, holding her in clear view, so that John could admire the display of her long legs and creamy skin. From that moment, John knew he’d not be satisfied until he had Marian thusly garbed in his own chamber, at his own hands, beneath his own body.

He licked his lips, sliding his glance out over the occupants of the hall . . . then back to the dark, silent man sitting next to him.

Therein lay the problem, and the root of his displeasure.

The man had claimed the woman for himself, and John had foolishly agreed to allow him to have her. For a time.

But he no longer wished to wait. The soft cry she’d made when Nottingham slammed himself into her could easily be imagined as one of pained passion—one of John’s specialties. Her wild struggles against the large, fully clothed man who strained over her John found arousing and delightful. Who did not want a woman who knew better than to lie there like a dead fish? He had a wife who did that. She could have been a statue made from ice-white porcelain for all she responded to his caresses. The most beautiful of women, true, with long, perfect golden ringlets of her own . . . but Isobell was stone in comparison with Marian’s lush heat.

And yet Marian was, at the moment, unavailable to him.

John didn’t like to admit it, even to himself, but he knew better than to breach his agreement, such as it were, with Nottingham. The man knew too much about him, too many secrets, too much of his cunning plans to ally with Philip Augustus of France and to split Richard’s kingdom between them. Aye, ’twas true that Nottingham was nearly as deep into the plot as John himself, collecting funds and making allies here at Ludlow, even strategizing with him in between bouts of pleasure taking.

But most important, John knew that without William de Wendeval his plans to displace Richard would never be realized. For no traveler through the forest, from any direction to Ludlow, could reach the keep without the Sheriff of Nottinghamshire knowing who he was and from whence he came.

Thus John received no surprises, no messages that he did not wish to receive—for those messengers, oddly enough, often did not make it to the keep. Or if they did, it was after a delay . . . and mayhap even to their physical detriment.

The outlaws were blamed, of course, but it was Nottingham and his control over the area that allowed for that selection. Aye, Robin of the Hood thought that he had full reign over the forest, but some of that freedom was at the pleasure of the sheriff. For if there were no outlaws, they could not be blamed for the ransoming or capturing of the messengers John wished to avoid or otherwise prepare for.

John’s real complaint over Robin Hood was that he stole his money, and those funds collected for taxes, not that he roamed the wood and frightened the travelers. The vassals would pay their fines whether they were robbed or not. John cared little for their hardship.

Thus he did not intend to offend the loyalty of Nottingham, who played such a vital role in this plot. For now, John had no choice but to make his way with care.

And Nottingham had never made any request of him before this. He had a personal grudge against the woman, and John could understand his need to put her in her place.

Nor was he the sort of man to look away, or to accept John’s reasons—whatever ones he might manufacture—for the breach of the agreement. De Wendeval was that rare breed of man who could be convinced to change his loyalty, yet maintain a strong sense of honor to that misplaced loyalty. And he expected it in return.

Thus, ’twas most unfortunate, but John could not afford to insult Nottingham, especially over a woman.

Even a woman such as Marian.

Yet . . . John could not concentrate on the conversation he meant to have with Lord Tenselton, who sat to his left, when he was aware that the man to his right had had the delights he himself so lusted after. And had not even partaken of them as deeply or devoutly as John would.

Thus, during the meal, while Nottingham ate sparingly and spoke even less, the Angevin’s mind wormed about, seeking a way to have what he wanted . . . but without offending the valuable, and dangerous, man next to him.

Aye, the man’s loyalty was worth more than the riding of a woman, but John intended to find a way to have both.

“She does not seem the worse for her experience this Nones,” John commented to Will idly. His eyes fastened on the lady in question, who seemed to be finding that brickhead Lord Burle quite fascinating.

Nottingham drank from his goblet, then settled it precisely on the trestle in front of them. “To the contrary,” he replied. “The lady wishes nothing more than to retire to her chamber after the meal. She claims, to anyone who will listen, of an ache in the head.” He gave a knowing rumble of laughter and drank again.

John chuckled along with him, suddenly full of good humor. His tactic had become clear, and he cast a sharp eye on the amount of wine the man next to him was drinking, with the intent of increasing it generously. “An ache in the
head
? I should have expected one elsewhere.”

Nottingham settled his goblet once again. “Aye, and mayhap elsewhere as well. I thought to give her a chance to contemplate her . . . options . . . this night. Mayhap after taking her ease, she will be more interested in the lessoning I mean to give her.”

Unfortunately for her, John had no intent of leaving that lovely piece to wallow in her chamber alone this evening. Smiling, he gulped largely from his own wine. His mother might be a bullheaded manipulator who loved her elder son best, but she was immeasurably generous with the excellent wines from her lands. And in addition to that, she’d bestowed upon her youngest son her own crafty mind. Which he had put to good use in planning strategies for overthrowing his brother . . . and for luring gentlewomen into his bed.

“Indeed. Then I must presume your visit to the Court of Pleasure this evening will be solitary.”

John smiled to himself, as he did every time he uttered the phrase of his own making. Court of Pleasure. A more earthy, hedonistic version of his mother’s famed Court of Love.

“Aye, that it will,” Nottingham replied.

John frowned behind his goblet. He’d expected the other man to seize an excuse to decline the invitation. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Nottingham had seemed less than enamored of the pleasure taking as of late. Oh, he participated . . . or, more accurately, most often watched and occasionally partook from a willing maidservant . . . but more likely than not, he merely provided the audience for John’s activities.

Then John’s eyes narrowed in speculation. Mayhap this would work out best after all. If Nottingham arrived before Marian and was otherwise occupied—or incapacitated—when the lady arrived . . . it would be incumbent upon the host to make her feel welcome.

He gestured for the page behind them to refill their goblets.

John was, if naught else, a most accommodating host.

 

 

“Come in, come in, my lady.”

Marian hesitated on the threshold. She did not wish to take that step over, into the chamber, into the den of iniquity. John’s voice sounded jovial, but there was an underlying command beneath it.

Her palms damp but her head held high, she stepped into the room and the door closed behind her.

Already this was very different from last night’s experience.

Will had escorted her back to her chamber after the evening meal and bidden her good evening. She’d gone eagerly inside, fully aware that he’d said nary a word to her but “Let us go” when he approached her in the great hall, and “Good evening” when he left as soon as she was inside the chamber.

Nor had he looked at her, other than a quick impersonal glance, during the few moments they were together. He simply walked with long strides next to her, his solid arm angled out for her fingertips to curl around, his thigh brushing occasionally against her gown. This all made her exceedingly aware of his presence, his size, his strength . . . and what had occurred in her chamber earlier this day.

When they reached her accommodations, Ethelberga had been there, and she’d helped her mistress disrobe and prepare for bed—a circumstance Marian had readily welcomed. Despite the fact that she had left the hall before the evening’s entertainment ended, and the sun still sat above the horizon, she was glad to be in the solitude—and relative safety—of her chamber.

But no more than two candle marks later, when the sun had barely set and the bailey below had not yet begun to quiet for the night, a solid pounding came at her door. Marian’s heart leapt into her throat and she considered ignoring the knocking. Ethelberga had been dismissed and had gone belowstairs to visit with some of the other maidservants—and mayhap a handsome groom or two—and there was no one but Marian to answer the determined knock.