Juliana Garnett (33 page)

Tré’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

“I am called Brother Tuck by some.”

“Why would you interfere?”

The monk slid a pudgy hand beneath his cassock, drew out a small loop of beads. He held it up so that it caught the light from the window, swung softly from his fingers. “I am commissioned by a lady.”

He stared at the paternoster beads, remembered them around Jane’s neck, nervous fingers toying with each small globe. Slowly, his gaze lifted to the monk’s shadowed face.

“I am not a man for exile, Brother Tuck. I prefer death with honor to life with disgrace.”

A sigh exploded within the cowl. “She said you would be noble to the point of idiocy. Nay, do not glare at me so fiercely, I only repeat the lady’s words. You are offered far more than you know, and more than you will deserve if you are witless enough to refuse. The barons are behind you. There is no disgrace in a temporary retreat to regroup and plan, my lord. Do you condemn to death a loyal knight for the sake of your selfish pride? This man has more grace than do you, if that is true, my lord Devaux.”

If he had been slapped, it would not have had more effect. Tré inhaled sharply. He thought of Brayeton, lost to him forever now, yet not as deep a hurt as Aimée’s death. For three years, hatred of Pell Ewing had colored his every thought and deed,
affected every decision he made, until now it had come to this. He glanced at Guy—loyal, willing to sacrifice all for him.

Noble
, she had called him. Tré wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. He was a fraud. His gaze shifted, focused on the robed monk.

“What would you have me do, Brother Tuck?” Satisfaction wreathed a heaving sigh. “At last. There may be hope for you, my lord.” Fumbling beneath his brown cassock, the monk drew out two bulky garments that shrunk the size of his girth considerably with their removal. “Don these robes, both of you. Make haste. The king will arrive soon. Do you wish to be an abbot or leper, Sir Guy?”

Green, lush and bountiful, swallowed the land for miles. Heavy branches of oak eclipsed the sun, shadows claiming supremacy over filtered light. Muted sound, murmurs of birds broken briefly by the chattering indignation of a red squirrel scampering on fissured bark: Sherwood Forest.

Jane waited, tense with anticipation and fear. The redolence of ground ivy swelled around her. She hugged her knees to Her chest, jerkin and hosen more practical in dense wood where branches and nettles gleefully snared loose clothing.

Uncertainty dogged her. It was likely that Tré refused. He did not have the same prosaic view of honor as she did. It came from knowing Robin, who had nurtured a flexible perspective.

“In the tangled politics of England, Jaie, there are many interpretations of honor. I prefer the more practical tendency toward survival.”

Peculiar interpretation that had taken him to die in a hot, arid land among heathens.…

She plucked miserably at a blade of grass between feet clad in comfortable buskins, winced when her hand brushed the stalk of a stinging nettle. Broad leaves of dock grew nearby, a ready antidote to the bite of nettles that now reddened her skin. Good thing. She had planted herself in a patch of nettles, it seemed, in many ways.

All had unraveled, her entire life fraying like a piece of loose linen. She thought of her parents—of her mother. Clorinda
with the raven hair and laughing eyes, a lady and wife. Gone too early from this world, like all others she had loved. Would she lose Tré as well?

Distractions.… Idly, she rubbed the flat dock leaf over the back of her hand until the pricking eased.

A high song pierced the air and her head jerked up, heart pounding as she recognized the signal. The small whistle attached to a cloth-yard arrow gave a distinctive warning of approaching visitors. She rose, snatched up her bow and sheaf of arrows, nettles forgotten as she made her way through tangled vines and chest-high bracken.

Will Scarlett found her on the track that was no wider than a man’s thigh, a faint ribbon snaking through the dense wood. He met her eyes, briefly, gave a shrug at the question in them. “Little John gave the signal. He sulks still, and does not come near.”

She sighed, shook her head. “John only frets for us. It is difficult to know whom to trust.”

“Devaux has not lent himself to earning our trust, you must admit,” Will said dryly. He looked past her, toward the road. “If Devaux comes here, the king is likely to burn down the entire forest to smoke him out.”

“King John loves the hunt far too much to risk a single hart in the greenwood.” She inhaled deeply, lungs filling with the sweet scent of creeper. “It has been three days now since Tuck left. Do you think he succeeded?”

“We will soon know.”

Jane shifted her grip on her bow, took another deep breath, and went with Will down the steep slope that led to the river’s edge.

A faint song slowly became audible, drifting through oak and beech, a pious melody that identified the singer.

Will laughed softly. “Tuck is in rare form. If he has company, they will no doubt be glad enough of silence.”

Jane was too agitated to reply; strain trembled in the muscles of her arm, in whitened knuckles where she gripped her bow. Did he come? Or must she offer up prayers for the dead? She closed her eyes, offered instead a prayer of hope. It was echoed in the distant song:

“Gloria tibi, Domine.…”

Her eyes snapped open as the Latin words rose to the canopy of laced tree branches; she heard in the joyous melody the sound of success. She splashed into the shallow river, holding her bow over her head to keep it dry, and clambered up the opposite bank without waiting for Will.

Tuck’s familiar bulk was flanked by Tré and Guy, the trio dusty and weary. Two knights afoot, a most remarkable sight, wordless explanation for three days of waiting. Boots made for riding, not walking, were covered with mud; monk’s and leper’s robes flapped about their calves instead of their ankles.

Their unholy aspects should have betrayed them to even the dullest soldier. She stepped out from behind a tree, leaned her bow against the trunk, and waited.

She knew the moment he recognized her. A brief lift of dark brows evinced surprise, swiftly followed by a smile.

My jerkin reminds him of the day at the Cockpen Oak
.…

Relief momentarily paralyzed her. Beneath the mantle of graceful beech, she was unable to do more than stand in grateful silence. His stride quickened, grew longer to leave Tuck and Guy behind. When he reached her, he did not hesitate, but pulled her hard against him.

She sagged, muscles collapsing with emotion and a sense of gratitude that was overwhelming. His hand tangled in her loose hair, combed fingers through in an almost rough caress, fisted it to hold her head still as her face tilted upward.

“Stubborn lady,” he said softly, his familiar rasp a joy to her ears, “you do not yield easily.”

“Nay, my lord, I do not. But I did once warn you of that.”

He kissed her, hard, almost bruising her lips. “Yea,” he said at last, “so you did. I find it inconvenient. Most pleasingly so.”

A laugh, hard-won, escaped her, her eyes were wet with dewy moisture.
He is alive and here with me. There is nothing more that I can wish for but this
.…

26
 

Darkness folded over them, shrouding the trees in soft sable. A quarter moon silvered air and ground, thin shafts of light piercing the canopy of brush that curved over straw pallet and linen; a cozy bower.

Tré held Jane in his arms. She slept, curled against him, slender hips pressed into the angle of his belly and thighs. Rare serenity threatened to engulf him, peace after the storm.

He had not waited for tender wooing, but took her in rough desperation, as if she would fade to mist before he could hold her again, touch her, taste her sweetness. Now he could not sleep; he could only hold this remarkable woman who had somehow breached his defenses. Tuck was right—irritating as he found the monk—Jane was not a lady to hold in light esteem. It would crush her spirit, blight her soul, if he did not yield to her the honor she deserved.

But what of love? Emotion beckoned him close; inherent vulnerability fraught with danger. He could give his life for her, but his love would destroy her in the end.

He stroked her arm, his hand gentle on soft skin.
So lovely … skin like velvet—the heart of a lion. She could have given King Richard lessons.

His fingers closed on slender muscle; strong enough to
draw a bow, tender enough to heal a thick-headed baron possessed of more gall than wit. Elegant lady, defiant and courageous; she shamed him. He closed his eyes, drew in the elusive scent of mint.

The night shadows sucked warmth from the forest, replacing it with cool mist that penetrated the bower. His tunic lay in a heap beneath them, as did her hosen and jerkin. Clad only in wool hose untied at the waist, he was chilled.

It grew late. He should return to the cave and the men, a concession to propriety that Tuck had suggested and he had agreed to. Only the lady protested. He smiled.

There, they were secluded from the cave by trees and the River Maun; distant laughter rode an air current, faded into silence. An outlaws’ lair with men he had fiercely pursued—open to him now, if not with gladness, with acceptance.

Save Little John.

The giant’s memory was as long as his legs. If not for his lady’s grace, John of Hathersage would have preferred to cross swords instead of break bread with the former Sheriff of Nottingham. He made no secret of it; resentment and distrust often creased his features, but the giant held his tongue at a single glance from the lady.

It was understandable.

Tré bent, kissed the heart-shaped whorl of her ear, breathed softly into it. Loose hair like raw silk cushioned her head, draped her shoulder; a single strand looped in a gentle curve around her breast. It drew him to stroke the smooth globe of flesh, making it quiver slightly beneath his hand and the linen shirt she wore. Gentle exploration drew his fingers down over the span of ribs, narrowing of waist, and lush female curve of hips.

He paused. Fingers splayed over her belly, covered only by the shirt. Desire again, importuning and insistent, never satisfied.… He bent and kissed her, lips finding the pulse beneath her ear.

Stirring, she turned, a drowsy smile on her lips. His heart clutched painfully; he acknowledged it with a sigh as he pressed his forehead against hers. He meant to bid her sleep well, to leave her lying there alone.

But she reached for him. Clever hands, unerring instinct that drew her to touch him
there
, provoking instant reaction. She sighed; a lengthy exhalation through parted lips was sultry and seductive, eloquent.

Good intentions, the balm of the incompetent, vanished as morning mist beneath bright sunlight. A groan escaped him at her stroking hand, her feathery explorations on his turgid length an exquisite pleasure and delicious pain. He shuddered.

“Lady … you undo me.”

“Yea, lord, I pray most earnestly that I do.”

Fierce heat flared into the driving need to take her again, to crush her beneath him and possess her completely. He wanted nothing between them.

He kissed her throat, her lips, then drew the linen shirt up to her waist. She opened her mouth for him, tasting of excitement. Her hand cupped him, tightened in contractions that drew a groan up from the pit of his belly.

He sat up, pulled her shirt free in a single motion and let it float, white against shadow, to the pallet. Even in the pale moonlight her body gleamed like alabaster. Lovely. Perfect. Rounded breasts, slender hips and thighs, and the sweet promise between—his hand skimmed curved flesh, grazed damp heat, paused to stroke her. He heard her soft sound of pleasure. Deliberate, ignoring the frenzied arching of her hips, he took her to the brink, then stopped.

Writhing, she reached for him, her breath little more than soft gasps. Her hands closed on his wrists, fingers digging into bare flesh with mute pressure, urging him to continue.

He bent, raked his tongue over the beaded peak of her breast, smiled when she gasped again. His hands slid up to explore her body, caressing hills and dips; he used his knees to spread her thighs. She made a little sound of excitement and he kissed her fiercely. He sucked her bottom lip into his mouth, then moved lower, dragging deep kisses over her throat, the valley between her breasts, down to her belly. Her hands fluttered about his head, aimless and as light as sparrow wings against his cheek.

“Tell me,” he said huskily against her belly, “what you want, chérie.”

She twisted, curled her hands in his hair to hold him. Mute pleas were offered up; he ignored them. His tongue dipped into her navel, laved a damp path over a jutting hip bone. She tasted of soap and mint; luxuries in a wilderness. He had seen the wooden wine cask in the cave, cut in half to serve as a tub. Innovative lady who managed to wrest civility out of incivility, establish refinement in a cave.

“Tré … please.”

Ragged breath, urgent whisper—he yielded, took her to a collapsing release.