What A Scoundrel Wants (30 page)

“Stay away from her!”

They turned at once to find Robin striding down the hall. His face contorted into a mask of rage and hurt, one so unlike the man she loved. He wielded a broadsword.

“Robin! Put that away!”

“Out of the way, Marian. I have business with my nephew.”

“I shall not.”

“Taking his side?”

She touched her gaze to the sword in Robin’s fist. Panic pushed at the back of her tongue. “Yes, if your business entails attacking an unarmed man.”

Metal clattered on the marble, making her jump. Will’s dagger slid to a halt against the wall. “I’m unarmed now,” he said.

Robin sneered. “Are you refusing to fight?”

“I shall defend myself, if I must.”

A dangerous current flowed between the bellicose men. Marian backed away, a shaky hand at her neck. “Robin, please. Not like this.”

“Stay clear.”

Eyes intense, never leaving those of his opponent, Will nodded. “He’s right, Marian. Do not come between us, not now.”

“You’re fools, both of you!”

Robin attacked, swinging his deadly blade in a high arc. Will leapt back and landed on his side, grunting. The sword struck a column. Without pause, Robin lunged. Will rolled clear and kicked, catching his uncle around the ankles. His shoulder slamming into the wall, Robin dropped the sword but stayed on his feet.

A door opened along the passageway. “Will? What is happening?”

Marian hastened to Meg’s side, holding her clear of the fight, but not before her voice distracted Will. Robin propelled his foot into Will’s gut, his face. The younger man grunted and doubled against the attack, blood spurting from his mouth.

Meg grew paler with the sound of every sickening blow. “What is this? Will!”

“Get her out of here, Marian!”

But Will’s bellowed command only strengthened his wife’s resistance. She fought to pull free. Marian tripped her and pulled her to the floor, crouching together along the corridor wall. “Hold fast, Meg. They—”

The silver glitter of a blade caught her eye.

“Robin!” She abandoned Meg and seized her husband’s arm, staying the deadly direction of his aim. “Have you gone mad? This isn’t you!”

“Stay out of this, I say.”

“Look at him!”

Clutching his middle, Will struggled to his feet. Blood coated his face and the front of his tunic, but Robin was not swayed. He shrugged free of Marian’s grip and shoved her into the wall. She cried out.

Will exploited the moment and punched Robin in the ear. He kicked high, striking Robin’s hand with paralyzing force. The sword dropped. Another heavy right blow landed between Robin’s eyes. His head smacked the wall, then his body hit the floor.

Marian’s first instinct was to throw herself on her husband, to come between him and more pain. But Will gave her no cause. As soon as Robin sagged, all fight gone, Will backed away. At some time during the fight, he had taken up the dagger; it dangled from his belt.

She knelt beside her husband and watched Will, wary, but no aggression shone in his green eyes. Rabid emotion had blinded Robin to the dangerous man his nephew had become—dangerous, but judicious.

“Enough now, Will,” she said. “Please.”

He continued to watch Robin. “I have enemies, Uncle. More than I care to consider. But you are not one of them.”

Robin spat. With a voice made nasal by his broken nose, he said, “You are worse than an enemy—a traitor in my own home.”

Will nodded, shoulders low as if he were the defeated man. “I pray you can forgive me of that, because I am tired of fighting you.”

“Get out of my sight.”

“I’m going.” He found Meg where she huddled on the floor and urged her into their room, closing the door behind them.

Marian stood. A shuddering breath ripped free. She could not trust the stability of her knees, but neither could she trust the malicious words building in her mouth, words meant for her husband.

“Marian?”

“End this, Robin. For all our sakes.”

“And if I cannot?”

The agony in his voice had naught to do with physical injuries. She turned and regarded him, her chin wobbling but her eyes finally clear of tears. “The man I married can.”

But Meg…Following the fight, she merely returned to her pallet, a listless rag. He knelt beside her. Eyes, mouth, expression—she offered no path for reaching her.

“What do I do?”

She turned to his question, those curled lips unsmiling. “What?”

“Tell me, Meg. Tell me what to do for you.”

“Were you fighting about Marian?”

He blinked. Did Meg harbor jealous thoughts of Marian? But no, her tone was distant and emotionless. She could have been inquiring after the weather.

“In a way,” he said. “Marian confessed to our kiss. Robin is having a difficult time of the news.”

She nodded, still listless and far away. “Do you regret marrying me?”

“What? Meg, what is this?” He bracketed her face in his palms. “You will heal. This is not permanent. Do you understand me? You cannot think that way.”

She scrambled from him, pulling back into the lonely darkness. “Do you know how long I waited? My father told me he would find a cure. I stared into black and looked for any shade or glimpse of color. I became mindless for it.”

Her sob tore at his soul. But Saint Mary, at least she was talking.

“After a year, I thought surely God had tested me enough. I was not embittered; I was hopeful and good. I did everything father asked of me, every remedy and cure. And I suffered travel into town. I bore it all. And after a year, nothing. Still more black.”

The agitated memories left her quivering. Sweat salted her brow. “You say my hands will heal and I shall feel again, but I do not—I
cannot
believe. I don’t have the strength to be disappointed again.”

“And you think because you cannot believe, that I don’t? That I’ll abandon you?”

“Our life together will be hard enough,” she said. “You married a blind woman. Did you take time to imagine the difficulties of raising a family? And if I cannot use my hands? I’ll be an invalid.”

Perhaps days of apprehension loosened his tongue, or maybe the fight against Robin still swam in his blood. But he spoke the truth, no matter how painful. “When you talk like that, Meg, you already are.”

“How dare you?”

“I dare,” he said. “Nothing I say will dent the pity you’ve wrapped around yourself. But I won’t let you use this to undo what we vowed.”

“I don’t want to undo it! I want to live as your equal, not some dependent child. Not a sickly little creature who needs your constant attention. These past days, you’ve become a nursemaid. Is that how you want us to be?”

“No. But it won’t be this way forever.” He sank his knees into the straw pallet, his thighs trembling. He rubbed the length of her upper arms, anything to touch her. “Enough, all right? I loathe being angry with you. If I could pick a fight with your pride and leave you be, I would.”

But she pushed from his hands and the comfort he offered. “Go, Will.”

“What?”

“Send Alice tonight to tend to me. And find another room for yourself.”

Rejection and anger doubled his heartbeat. He stood, his muscles as stiff as bones. “You are not in earnest.”

He witnessed the return of the hard, cold woman he first met in the forest. That woman needed nothing and no one, not even her new husband. “I am.”

“I misjudged you, Meg. You’re not as strong as I thought you were. And that breaks my heart.”

He directed some of his anger at his acquiescence to her demands. He never should have agreed to leave her to her own dark company. He never should have agreed to allow her solitude, not when isolation was her most paralyzing fear.

He stopped his anxious pacing for the fourth time and glared at the wooden barrier that separated them. If he believed it would change her cheer, he would break down the door. He would litter it with arrows and hack it to pieces with his sword. But she remained hidden from him. Even if that door burst wide, even if she stood before him in the glaring brightness of midday, she would hide.

Alice ascended the stairs bearing a tray of supplies to change Meg’s bandages. The plump, red-faced woman caught his eye and smiled shyly. She dipped a tiny curtsy. “Would you like to take this in to her?”

“No. She wants you.”

Alice smiled with more assurance. “We both know that isn’t true, Master Will. If ever a girl knew naught of what she truly needs, your Meg would be her.”

He moved to open the door for Alice but stopped.

Maybe Marian was right. He had married Meg in the hopes of receiving her gratitude, even more so than her love. Rescuing her had marked the end of easy choices and dreams of a carefree future. Loving her required that he set aside selfish habits, and he had wanted a reward for his sacrifice.

But that was past. He needed only Meg—safe and well and able to love him in return. If she wanted to.

He pushed unsteady fingers through his hair, squeezed the back of his neck. The extent of his loss threatened to fell him more surely than any other grief or betrayal. Not even his conflict with Robin caused more pain, and his pain tempted him with the worst possible option: to give in to her. But abandoning Meg had never been an easy task. Loving her made it impossible. The notion of allowing pain and grief to fester, obliterating their new life before it really began, was simply too terrible.

Fight her if you have to, and don’t play fairly.

“Forgive me, Alice,” he said. “I ask that you keep those supplies for another time.”

“Your pardon, Master Will?”

A determined grimace pulled the muscles of his cheeks. “I’ve business to attend with my wife. I’m afraid your good attentions will have to wait.”

For a moment, Alice appeared ready to ask questions. Knowing her strong hand with the other servants and her status as Marian’s favorite, she may have thought to protest. But a quick glance at his face kept her silent. She walked down the stairs without a look back.

He took hold of the latch and pushed the door open. The metal handle was neither cool nor warm. He felt nothing. Every action lacked grace and timing, as if he had rusted from the inside out. But at least he knew what he needed to do.

Meg lay on her pallet, eyes closed and dressed in a kirtle. Her skin glowed with the same pale whiteness of the bandages she wore. Will remembered the first time he saw her on the Nottingham Road. She had been terrified, yes, screaming and fighting, but she had thrived. Atop a burning pyre, life had pulsed from her. She was forged of strength and defiance. Now she lay like a broken doll, tiny, fragile, and unwilling to lift her head, let alone fight or defend herself.

Recognizing the contrast reassured him. He was making the right decision.

Three long strides brought him near. He leaned over, a tree above the forest floor. Short, unbound hair snuggled around her slack face like clumps of autumn leaves. Thinking that way, Will knew he had spent too long in the forest. But the image of Meg and trees and wild nature blended until the woods no longer loomed like some heinous place.

“Enough of this, Meg. Get up.”

Her eyes fluttered open. She tossed blue irises around the room, searching for the location of his face.

“I say, get up.”

“Will? What are you doing? Where’s Alice?”

He mashed his lips and found her borrowed blue gown draped across the chair. With a smooth motion, he snatched the garment and knelt by her side. “I want you on your feet. I want you dressed.”

She shook her head and continued to do so as he pulled her into a sitting position. He fastened the neckline of her kirtle, doing his best to ignore the lush swell of her breasts near his shaking fingers. After another steadying breath, he brought her to her feet. She wavered. He caught her under the arms and dressed her in blue. Only when he delicately drew her bandaged hands through the sleeves did he slow and soften.

“Will, why? What are you doing?” Wariness clouded her face like silt and sediment churned in a river.

“Your convalescence is over, Meg.” He pounded stiff boots onto her feet. “You’re coming with me.”

“You have no right to do this.”

The grim set of her jaw spoke measures. But he wanted even more defiance. “I am your husband, and I am claiming the right.”

He hauled her up and over his good shoulder, closing his ears to her sputter of outrage. Flailing elbows pounded between his shoulder blades and bare feet futilely kicked the air in front of his face. She wiggled, screamed, and twisted, but he held tightly to her struggling body, wrapping his arms around her waist and upper thighs.

“Will! Let me go!”

He grinned. The heavy weight of worry blew apart like clouds after a storm. Thinking past Meg’s writhing and fighting, he could not remember a recent moment when he had known more certainty. That certainty brought peace.

He tightened his strong grasp and headed for the stables.