Bound By Honor: An Erotic Novel of Maid Marian (15 page)

John looked up over her shoulder, and she thought she caught a glimpse of annoyance flash over his face. But then the
shush
of movement stopped and there was silence again.

“ ’ Tis your turn, my lady,” the prince said.

Marian replaced the piece she’d lifted, realizing if she made a bad move and lost another piece, she would be as exposed as Hilde. Her hand moved above the pieces and she tried to pull her scattered thoughts together.

She hovered over her bishop and there was a low cough from behind her, drawing John’s attention once more. Marian looked again at the board and this time saw the trap she’d been led into—a trap that a movement of the bishop could foil; it would save her from not only losing her undergown but also checkmate.

She made the placement and looked up to find John once again watching her. Yet he said naught of her spoiling his plan and, after a brief consultation of the pieces, moved again.

Marian stared at the game, realizing her breathing had become rushed again and knowing that she had no way to win this battle. He was obviously a much better player than she was on a good day, but with all the other distractions she had to contend with, Marian knew she was playing miserably.

She looked desperately at the board, curling her hands in her lap and around and through the hair that amassed there. It took a moment before she realized that John was not watching the game, but was eyeing the way her fingers slid in and around, playing with her hair as she tried to keep her desperation at bay. His breathing had changed, and when she closed her fingers around a piece of end curl and began to idly stroke it, the prince appeared fixated.

Marian drew in a deep breath and leaned forward, allowing a wide swath of hair to brush over Hilde’s round hip like a coppery curtain. As she hovered over her queen, two things happened. John gave a quiet moan and his lips parted, and she heard another movement behind her, another faint groan, almost like a heavy breath, that . . . stopped as she moved toward the rook.

She moved her hand back over the queen and there came a renewed shifting from the bed, and then when she picked up the knight, it stopped.

As she fingered her hair more seductively, Marian looked at the queen again and realized her move . . . and with a burst of relief, she understood. He was helping her. From the bed.

Whether ’twas Will she didn’t know, but it didn’t matter.

She made her move with the queen and looked up at John, taking care to hide the triumph in her eyes. “Check,” she said.

He pulled his eyes from her fingers, which were busily making a little braid in her lap, and looked down at the game. Then he looked up at her again. “A fascinating move, my lady,” he said. “But not good enough.”

And he reached swiftly forward and captured her queen.

 

 

Holy Mary,
Will silently groaned.

She’d moved the right piece . . . but to the wrong place. If she hadn’t placed the prince in check, she would have been safe. Saf
er
.

Pah. She wasn’t safe at all. Even when he was here with her.

Will understood the prince’s game. He’d realized it at the evening meal, when John had become overly solicitous about keeping Will’s wine goblet filled, and urging him to enjoy the fine vintage from Aquitaine.

Fortunately Will’s squire, Tristan, stood with the prince’s pages and helped to serve. A quick whisper to Tristan resulted in the squire’s keeping his master’s goblet filled, but with much more water than wine.

When John had invited him, as he always did, to his chamber, Will had been careful to stumble and slur as he made his way to the solar along with the prince, taking care to litter his words with profanities about Marian.

John had promised him pleasure to take his mind off the problem, as well as even more wine. As planned, Will was easily able to pretend to slip off into oblivion once he climbed into the half-curtained bed with two of John’s naked consorts—and none too soon, for they’d divested him of all but his braies by the time they realized he was no longer with them.

Will’s diligence was rewarded when he heard John order one of the pages to go and fetch Marian to the solar. So he waited as the girls fell asleep next to him, likely just as eager for a bit of rest as he was.

And now, as he lay sprawled in the bed, he could see Marian facing John across the prince’s own special chessboard. She stood slowly and lifted her heavy hair, brushing it back over her shoulders. Reluctance showed in every movement and Will knew he could wait no longer.

With a loud groan, he shifted and pulled the bed-curtains to the side.

John looked up at him, and Will was shocked to see the unbridled venom in the prince’s expression . . . and then it was gone. Marian dropped the hem of her gown, which she’d begun to raise, and turned toward the bed.

Will looked away and gave one of the naked rumps next to him a sound slap. Its owner shrieked and bolted awake, and so did the other, and the moment of tension was broken.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Will said, making a show of rubbing his eyes. He gave a nearby breast a fond little jiggle as he made his way off the bed. “I must have dozed off. Too much wine anight.”

He didn’t look at Marian, but he was fully aware that her attention was focused steadily on him.

“You’ve interrupted our chess game,” John said in a velvety voice.

“Indeed?” Will said, standing beside the bed now. “It appears by the state of your clothing . . . and my lady’s . . . that my lord is on the verge of claiming victory.”

“I would have done,” John continued in that soft voice, “if you had not interrupted us.”

“Ah, then do go on with it.” Will made a careless gesture and walked over to the other part of the chamber, where he pretended to pour another goblet of wine.

When he turned back moments later, it was all he could do to keep his breath even. She had removed her gown and sat clothed only in her rippling hair. Now that it was dry, it didn’t cling to every curve like a second skin. A pink nipple peeked out from the golden red curtain, but other than two slender white arms, she was nearly as well covered as if she were wearing a cloak. Marian’s face had paled and settled into a tight mask and now she looked at him with loathing.

Of course she’d thought he’d save her from this eventuality . . . and so had the prince. Which was precisely why Will had not done so.

Yet, that sword was double-edged, for now he must also be confronted with what he’d touched and crushed and manipulated earlier this day. At that time, he’d allowed himself naught but blurred impressions and impersonal touch—although the feel of her soft skin, the smell of her body, ripe from the floral bath, the silk of her hair . . . all had been impressed on his memory.

Will drank from his wine and sauntered back over to the chess game. The flash of hatred in John’s eyes had indicated just how keen the man’s disappointment had been . . . and how deep his lust had burrowed.

’Twas time to tread most carefully and cleverly. A balance between reminding John of his agreement and not letting him feel his loss too deeply.

He came to stand behind Marian. She tensed perceptibly and her breathing changed, but she did not look at him nor acknowledge him. Good. John must believe, at the least for now, that she loathed Will.

And of course she did. After what he’d subjected her to earlier this day, and now, as she sat here naked, what was likely to come . . . how could a noblewoman like Marian not despise him?

And yet, though he knew it would only feed the fire of her resentment, he was unable to resist touching her . . . this time without haste or furtiveness.

He reached forward, brushing his fingers over the top of her warm head, noticing details that he’d been unwilling to allow himself to see before. The palm of his hand cupped the top of her skull, then slid down over thick waves made of infinite shades of gold, bronze, copper, auburn . . . even ruby and garnet. Truly, she had the most magnificent hair, miraculous in its fire. ’Twas no wonder John lusted for her.

And, in truth, John was not the only one.

Marian lifted her hand to make another poor move, and Will tightened his fingers slightly. She paused and Will felt John’s interested gaze lift briefly. Damn.

But before he could say or do anything to alleviate the prince’s suspicions, someone knocked on the door.

John looked over and bade entrance, while Marian gasped and reached for something with which to cover herself. Will looked away as she snatched up her cloak, the curve of a smooth hip and the roundness of a breast jolting teasingly from beneath her hair.

The prince greeted the newcomers, and Will felt his momentary relief at the interruption fade. ’Sblood. The arrival of these two men—Sir Louis Krench and Lord Ralf Stannoch—only made the situation worse, for they were two of John’s long-time confidants and companions. Will had appreciated their absence, for while they were gone, John was left to his own devices—which were not quite as extreme as what the three of them dreamed up together.

At the least, no one had died while Krench and Stannoch were gone.

“So you have at last returned,” said John. “I’d begun to fear you’d joined my brother’s camp.” He laughed heartily at what he obviously intended as a jest.

He invited his friends into the chamber, and Will was slightly mollified to see that they weren’t alone: three tittering women accompanied them. Whores, serfs, or freewomen, Will didn’t know, and he didn’t care who they were except for the fact that they were additional quims and breasts.

He moved now and pulled Marian firmly onto his lap as he settled into an armless chair in a shadowy corner. She settled there stiffly, warm and lush. As far as he was concerned, the chess game was over. To ensure this eventuality, as John was inspecting the new female arrivals, who were already being coaxed out of their clothing, Will swept his hand over the chess table and knocked the remaining pieces askew. Then he curled his arm around Marian’s belly to keep her in place, folding his fingers into a fist.

Marian stiffened even more in his lap, and hissed, “Now he shall blame Hilde for that and punish her further.” Her mouth was near enough for him to smell the wine on her breath, but she was not close enough to kiss.

Foolish woman. Will looked away from the soft, sweet-smelling body and tightened his fist as he struggled to keep from uncurling those fingers and touching her. “John will know ’twas I. ’Tis yourself for whom you ought worry,” he murmured into her ear. “Krench and Stannoch are no weak weasels. But at the least they’ve brought their own playthings.”

“Then let us leave.” She turned and her hair spilled differently over his arm, tickling him and raising fine bumps there.

Aye. They must leave.

But Will did not move. His body was frozen, and he feared if he allowed it to thaw, all would be lost.

“Nottingham.” The sound of John’s voice cut through Will’s haze of indecision, and Will looked over to find John looking at him. “You must join us.”

It was not a request.

CHAPTER 8

M
arian had nowhere to look, so she closed her

eyes. But the sounds pervaded, the sounds and scents of coupling. Of cries and gasps and desperate begging, the sharp slap of braided leather on skin, the groan of satiation, the smells of spent seed and sweat and spilled wine.

She didn’t want to think about the fact that she was naked, bare but for the cloak she’d grabbed up at the knock at the door.

Will stood slightly behind her, leaning against the tall bedpost, arms crossed over his bare chest. He’d said naught to her, nothing to ease her fears or worries except the warning that she should have a care for herself. Even when John ordered them to join his other companions, Will had done nothing but acquiesce.

Now, acutely aware of the tableau before her, her nipples were drawn tight and the little hooded knot in her quim had begun to come alive, and she knew that she’d leave the chamber much less innocent this night than she had been before. She dared not open her eyes and look at Will for fear of what he might see in her eyes, and she was relieved to no longer be sitting bare-bottomed on his lap, held in place by a steely arm.

During the chess game, when he’d crawled out of the bed leaving two women in the shadows behind him, Marian’s tentative relief had been washed away by the sight of his half-clothed self. Though that strong body had trapped her against a wall, and been poised over her earlier today, she’d never seen the powerful slabs of muscle and the square angles of his shoulders. Harold’s pale, hair-covered torso and belly had looked nothing like the tanned, rippling one that emerged from the bed-curtains.

At first, as he’d crawled forth, he had reminded Marian of a lean cat, dark and sleek with rich black hair rumpled from whatever he’d been doing behind the curtains. Shadows gathered in the hollows of his collarbones and along the sweep of his muscled shoulders. His face was dusky and dark with stubble, his eyes heavy-lidded, his mouth set. Black hair grew in a wide patch over the upper part of his chest, but as he came into view, she saw that it narrowed into a slender line that ran down the center of his flat, ridged belly . . . and then disappeared into the shadow of his loose braies. Braies that hung low on lean hips, exposing their bones and a thick dark thatch of hair . . . and looked as though they might slip down with the slightest tug.

All this had been impressed upon Marian in an instant . . . and now she could not erase the image from her mind. She’d had no idea . . . no idea a man could look like that. Beautiful . . . and yet frightening, dark and smooth and lean . . . the beauty marred by white battle scars.

“Why so shy, my lady?” came a velvety voice in her ear. “Open your eyes.”

She didn’t. She kept them closed and though they did not touch, she felt the tension from Will, who stood like a powerful, impersonal tree trunk next to her chair.