What A Scoundrel Wants (27 page)

Horses closed the distance. Shouldering the bow, he drew his sword. He jumped into the barn and ducked behind a wall of burning timber. The ax smashed through the wood, unsettling the structure. Smoke seared his lungs and blackened his vision. He took hold of a flaming plank and fought free, inadvertently slamming the forelegs of a horse. The animal reared, bucking and trampling its rider.

Fires skated across the beds, each igniting on a quick path to the cabin. Time was short. He needed a horse.

As Carlisle bore down with the ax, Will ran backward to the beds. He stopped. He stared the hulking man in the eyes. Dropping, rolling, he swung his sword under the horse’s exposed flank. An equine scream punctured the night.

Carlisle dropped his massive weapon in order to restrain his pain-crazed mount with both hands. The animal stumbled in the soft earth and pitched into a niter bed. He flailed beneath the wounded horse and screamed as flames ate a greedy path across his body.

Will retrieved the ax and imbedded it in the fourth horseman’s leg. The man bellowed and sliced down with his sword, catching nothing but the ax’s shaft. Will caught his arm and yanked hard. Although the soldier held fast to the pommel, still mounted, his helmet fell free.

Springing away, Will pulled the bow from his back. He drew the bowstring taut. The bones in his left hand gritted like a pestle in its cup. He released one arrow, then another, and caught his opponent between the eyes.

He snatched the horse’s slack reins, mounted, and swiveled in time to see the cabin explode.

Smoke crammed into her throat, exchanging poison for valuable air. She coughed, pressing the singed hem of her gown over her mouth. She could not call for help, not again. But how she wanted to. Her sense of direction had gone up with the explosion. Fear choked her like the poisonous smoke.

Twisted at a strange angle, her ankle smarted. The dagger waited at her waist. Her bodice hung open, singed like the hem. A hunk of hair had been scorched clean away, as had the strap to the satchel.

The book.

She shuffled to her knees and searched the floor. Rushes burned under her hands. After spitting on her fingers, she persisted. Another fit of coughs claimed her. Her head sank into thick syrup. She panted through a drape of wool and sank onto her side. Doubling over, she caught something hard with her knees.

The rim of the fire pit. But where on the circle?

She smacked a flicker of fire at her wrist. Colors twisted before her eyes. Terror climbed her spine like a ladder. The pyre. The river. And now she had much more to lose.

One last attempt yielded the book. Clamping it close to her chest, she tried to stand. Dizziness washed across her skin like a hot wave. Not dizziness—fire. A wall of fire. She ducked, collapsed, and caught flames in her hands. A paralyzing scream mingled with fire and ever more smoke.

Will shoved his heels into the horse’s flanks and raced across the yard. He dipped to the right, leaning well to the side of the saddle. Narrowing his lids, he snagged the hilt of the battle-ax and yanked it from the earth. All around him, the forest glowed and men scattered into the night. But he rode into chaos.

At the scene of the explosion, he made a quick circuit in case Meg had gone free. With no sign of his wife, he shrugged free of the bow, quiver, and his tunic. After ripping off a sleeve, he wound the tunic over the horse’s eyes and secured the giant animal to a nearby oak.

He stuffed the sleeve into his mouth, freeing his hands to heft the ax, and tore into what remained of the cabin. Odors other than wood polluted the air. Sulfur, vinegar, the black powder Meg concocted—whether by accident or intent, the flames worked to destroy her laboratory. A roof beam angled to the ground. The other three creaked and swayed. The thatching burned to ash, while timber and daub smoldered in every corner. A black wind sucked angry sparks skyward.

He dropped low and crawled, dragging the ax. He wanted to call her name but did not dare. Smoke tore at his eyes and mingled with stinging tears.

And then he was staring into her eyes.

He faltered, mistaking her gaze for the unseeing eyes of a dead woman. But her lids trembled, stretched wide. Her lips moved without sound, her body curled tight like a fist.

Ripping the sleeve from his mouth, he called her name. Coughs claimed him. He replaced the strip of cloth and fought his body, calming the spasms. Meg, however, offered no response. Waving away a thick cloud of smoke, he caught sight of a rivulet of blood trickling from one ear.

Will touched the side of her face. She mouthed his name and flailed, her expression a study in terror. He pushed hard against her shoulders, signaling her to hold fast.

The fallen joist barred her escape. He hauled on the heavy beam, unable to move it. With frantic power, he hoisted the ax and swung it down. The force of landing three massive blows clawed his injured body to ribbons. Smoke suffocated him. He landed the ax again, again, finally splintering the beam. Shouting, angry now, he kicked hard against the flaming wood. The remaining beams scraped and groaned above their heads.

Time slowed and trembled, gathering around him and stealing his strength. He dropped the ax and grabbed her shoulders. She clutched her book as she would an infant.

Will swung her into his arms and picked over the smoldering debris. He kept his eyes stubbornly fixed to the black night beyond the flames, his heart thumping, breaking, his lungs drowning in smoke. But he would not look at her. Not until they were clear. Not after seeing the charred skin of her hands.

A messenger had delivered word of Robin’s forthcoming arrival. By providence, he would be home in less than a week. She wanted the entirety of their holdings in fine form for his return. She enjoyed the challenge of the estate’s myriad tasks, and with her many aides, she had weathered Robin’s long years abroad.

His homecoming would mean a reunion with her husband—her lover and partner—but also a restoration of her customary role as mistress of the manor. More complicated matters such as mediating disputes and meting justice would revert to his domain. While part of her enjoyed the idea of relinquishing many of her chores to his care, she would miss the thrill of those responsibilities.

Trepidation, too, littered her thinking and banked her fierce, eager longing. She had not seen him or held him in nearly three years. Three years of warfare. And neither had he seen young Robert in that time. The changes they had yet to negotiate intimidated her.

A clattering uproar at the main gates startled her from the half-wakefulness of sunup thoughts.

Robin? An intruder?

She quickly secured a headband over her veil, tugging the white linen to cover errant twists of thick, dark hair. She strapped a leather belt at her waist and a sheathed dagger. Although many guards protected Loxley Manor with undying loyalty, old habits refused to pass into history.

Running down the stairs, Marian reached the entryway where, rather than abating, the commotion had escalated. Six armed sentries barred admission to a man. Their shoving bodies obscured his face, while profane and frantic shouts punched the quiet dawn stillness.

A single shout stopped her breath. “Marian!”

Disbelief ran through her first. Confusion and dread followed close behind.

He bellowed her name again.

“Will?”

Pushing forward, she stayed the angry jostle of well-intentioned guards. The crowd at last divided, permitting clear access to her unexpected visitor.

“Will! Saints save us!”

Ash and sweat streaked his contorted face. Grime dulled the twin scarlet lions embroidered on his tunic. A sleeve was missing. In his arms, wrapped chaotically in a half-fastened kirtle, draped a filthy, bloodied woman.

“I need your help, Marian.”

Surprise stole her questions, but the pain in his plea fired her to action.

“Alice!” She whirled from the entryway and forced the gaping guards aside. “Make way! Find Alice!
Now
.”

The men scattered. To Will she said, “Come with me.”

They climbed the main stairs, Marian leading the way. His coarse breath chased behind her. They strode along a corridor and reached the nearest guest room. With the tenderness of a mother setting her babe abed, Will placed his insensate charge on a newly-made pallet. The woman moaned but did not move or open her eyes.

Marian knelt to evaluate her terrible condition. The soot-covered skin along her hands and arms puckered. Blister after blister blended into angry red welts, disfiguring her limbs. The stench of fire and other, more astringent smells clung to her. Thick masses of brown hair had been singed, curling unevenly in short, matted clumps.

“What happened?”

“We were attacked at her cabin. Sheriff Finch’s men.”

“Will, who is she?”

“Her name is Meg.” Anxious eyes swathed the woman. His voice grated with unshed tears, the sound of boots grinding broken glass. “She’s my wife.”

Marian stilled. A bittersweet but profound happiness pulsed in her blood.

Meg. Will’s wife.

She touched his shoulder, feeling nothing but hard tension beneath her fingers. “I swear to you, we shall do for her all we can.”

Her personal maid, Alice, swept into the room, a formidable flurry of twirling skirts. Behind her trailed a pair of young girls, both of whom carried an array of medicinal remedies. Blankets, hot water, and fresh clothes arrived shortly thereafter as more of the household mobilized for the woman’s care.

Marian managed to drag Will from the deluge of helpful hands, but only as far as a corner of the room. His face appeared waxen and stiff beneath the grime, and his gaze never left his wife’s inert form. Charred remains of matching bandages hung limp at his wrists. Another concealed a wound on his forearm.

“You’re hurt too.”

He shook his head, wild bunches of straight hair falling across his brow. “I could do with a drink.”

She snapped her fingers and sent a young maid to the kitchen.

With that ground-glass voice he said, “Forgive me for coming here, Marian. I didn’t know—”

His suffering tore at her. She stepped nearer, raising her hand to touch him again, to absolve his moment of vulnerability.

But forestalling pity, he hauled his severe green eyes from the pallet and regarded her directly. He stood to his full height, forcing Marian to crook her neck higher. When he adjusted his broad shoulders into a dynamic stance, he suddenly reminded her of Robin, powerful and certain.

Words that had choked from his mouth became clear and sure. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go. If you wish me to leave, I shall. But please, let Meg stay.”

She pushed a shaky palm against her forehead and sighed. An abiding guilt pressed back, just beneath the skin. “You should not have to work this hard to come home, to ask for help from your family. And for that—for that, Will, I ask
your
forgiveness.”

Arched eyebrows pulled low and his mouth flattened into a rigid line.

“Stay,” she said. “She’ll need you here.”

“You are certain?”

“Of course. You cannot leave the manor until you tell me everything.”

He nodded and crossed his arms. Already his focus had returned to Meg, a sweep of his eyes like a dismissal.

“I’ll return as quickly as I can manage.” She turned, reaching the door.

“Marian? Where is Robin?” A sentinel, he watched Alice and her assistants minister to his wife’s countless burns. The sharp planes of his face and the tense angles of his body spoke of nothing but pain that yet echoed at his mention of Robin’s name.

“On his way home.”

A maid brought two mugs of warm broth. Marian slid gracefully onto a bench across from him at the table. She removed her veil, swiping errant curls from her brow. For a half hour, she listened as Will recounted everything from that distant day on the Nottingham Road to the attack, fire, and explosion.

“I am surprised at you.”

He grimaced. “Why?”

“While I understand the need to prove your worth, to make your own way, I cannot imagine pursuing material ends by that callous means. Working for the sheriff?”

“Not so valiant, am I?”

“No, not that. I am surprised you believed your conscience would give you leave.” Soft brown, deeply set eyes watched him. “But how would the sheriff have known the location of Meg’s cabin?”

He yawned and stretched the stiff muscles running the length of his backbone. A new headache threatened—or more likely, a rejuvenation of the same pain he had endured for weeks. Loving Meg had briefly dispelled it. “I cannot figure, honestly. They could not have followed us, not four days on from escaping the castle.”

“And surely not the friar.”

“No, not Tuck. But someone. I—God, I simply cannot think straight.”

Marian smiled, a gentling gesture where the corners of her eyes curled to match her lips. “Don’t think ill of yourself for it. This ordeal must have been a great trial for you.”

He could not help but reply with a rueful chuckle, welcoming a return to easy camaraderie with his uncle’s wife. “You have no notion.”

“Oh, but I do. You remember the terrible hardships we endured to correct the injustices in Nottingham.” She paused, her expression at once hesitant and wistful. “And falling in love with Robin was not an easy matter.”

Camaraderie floated away on the smoke of the cook fire. His bond with Marian would never be solid and easy again, not until he mended a number of ramshackle fences with Robin.

“You had no help from me,” he said grimly.

She lifted her gaze. “I share in the blame for those months, as does Robin. None of us knew a clear path. I certainly did not.”

“I kissed you.” He ran a hand across a jaw made rough with too many days’ stubble. “I was using you to strike at him.”

“Was I any different? Did I not invite your attentions?”

“How do you mean?”

“Robin was in London, bound for France. I was a new mother. Certainly I could no longer think of myself as a maiden.” Laughter and embarrassment mingled in her words. She took a sip of the broth. “You reminded me of those months of adventure and danger. I would speak falsely if I claimed your interest wasn’t…tempting.”

“You asked me to leave.”

“I had no steady feet beneath me, but I knew enough to keep temptation at bay.”

As if sorting the memories of another person, a younger and more reckless man, he remembered their kiss. He had come across Marian alone in the secluded garden courtyard, her angular, elfin face illuminated by the palest shades of moonlight. Tears pushed down her cheeks. Her beauty had lodged in his imagination like the stab of a knife, a knife like jealousy.

He had not asked why she cried, taking her upper arms in his rough grip and claiming her lips. Had he given any thought to her comfort or her desires, two years’ worth of reflection might have caused him less shame. But for his own pleasure, to assuage his abiding resentment of Robin’s success and happiness, he had taken. He reveled in being bad when his uncle had proven nothing but worthy and good.

And Marian had met his punishing mouth with abandon.

Part of their shared past shifted, the events and emotions standing in a new light. Shock buzzed in his ears. “You kissed me back.”

“I did,” she said, her blush raging. “And I had no notion of forcing this much distance between you and Robin.”

“Did you tell him?”

A swift breeze of surprise fluttered her features. She cast an anxious gaze toward her lap. “In a missive? What would I say? No, I never could find the words.”

Will smiled then, fully and with a feeling of unexpected hopefulness. “Seems we both have matters to discuss with your dear husband when he returns.”

Marian returned his smile. Rounded cheeks pushed upward, tapering her wide eyes at the corners. “And he’ll turn right around for France.”

“If he won’t stay and fight for you—”

“Milady!” One of Alice’s assistants, a young girl with trailing braids, skittered into the kitchen. She searched beyond the hanging pots and ran between the cooks, sliding to a stop next to the table. “Milady, she’s awakened!”