What A Scoundrel Wants (31 page)

Resentment and confusion gurgled in her mouth, building toward a scream of frustration. But resignation glazed her tongue. Apathy muffled any sound. She barely cared what would happen next.

“I am waiting, Meg.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I am a very tired man,” he said. “I’ve grown weary of tiptoeing around you and your injuries, afraid you’ll fly apart. This pathetic
thing
you’ve become, sitting in our bedroom for a fortnight—this is not my wife. I want her back.”

The horse whinnied and shied at his strangled declaration. Meg lurched across its mane, barely steadying herself with elbows on either side of the animal’s neck. Carefully, crouched low, she used gravity and luck to slide a leg over the saddle. She expected Will to offer support—a hand at her waist, the strength of his body to lean upon—but he stood fast. A sullen snarl crawled across her mouth. She bared her teeth to the late-afternoon breeze.

Both feet planted, she turned to her tormentor, her husband, and willed her knees to cease their trembling. “And what if that is impossible?”

“This is your chance to find out.”

“What do you intend?”

He stepped away, dragging the obedient horse with him. Meg felt the absence of its heat.

“Your walking stick is here. I’m leaving you in the woods.” An obscene smile twisted his voice. “I’m going back to the manor.”

“You lie.”

“If you’re angry, come find me.” A few more steps took him out of arm’s reach. “If you’re strong enough to be my partner, come find me.”

“Will, stop this.” More steps encumbered the woods with the sound of thrashing leaves. “Will? Will Scarlet, get back here!”

“Come find me, Meg. Five hundred yards. Due north.” Shouting now, his words echoed through the creaking trees and faded.

“Will? Don’t do me this injury.”

No reply.

“Oh God,” she whispered. “Will?”

The October wind pushed leaves from their homes. They fluttered softly, whispering to the ground like the gentlest rain. Overhead, swaying branches composed an eerie and lonesome song.

She stepped back. A twig snapped beneath her boot heel. She jumped and whirled, blood fast in her limbs. “Arrogant pig! Useless, hateful man!”

Still no one.

Extending her arms, leading with the backs of her hands, she eased across each foot of forest. Racing heartbeats urged a fearful escape. Lungs pumped air out of her open mouth. Her body wanted to run when she could manage only slow, deliberate paces.

Despite her caution, she struck her forehead on a low-hanging tree limb. “God’s teeth!”

The harsh syllables rattled into the sky. Following the limb, she found the trunk of the oak and pressed her back against its sharp bark.

“I don’t believe you, Will! I know you. I know how you think. You’re watching me out there. You cannot leave me!”

She kicked a space free of jagged acorns and slid to sit where the trunk met the dirt. The shelter of that massive tree hardly eased her anxiety.

“I’m not moving from this spot. Do you hear me, Will Scarlet? I am not moving!” Tears threatened. Her throat ached as fiercely as when she had inhaled nothing but smoke, surrounded by fire in what remained of the cabin. “Will, please. You know how afraid I am. Don’t you?”

A magpie squawked in flight. Squirrels chattered and scraped their claws along the bark. Meg closed her eyes. She drew her knees in tight and hugged them, huddling until she imagined her body bowed round like a wheel.

How long would he make her sit there? How many minutes would she wait?

And if she could forgive him, how many years would she need?

Any minute now.

Marian stood at his side. Free of a veil, tightly curling hair haloed her head. Lines of tension creased the skin near her eyes. “You’re taking quite a risk, are you not?”

He crossed his arms and banished his frown. “I’ll return if she does not appear in a few minutes.”

“No.”

“No?”

She narrowed her dark eyes, an expression alluding to her skill for strategy. Will had not seen that calculating look in years. “You have the right idea. That is, if she’s as strong as you believe. I worry, however.”

“As do I, which is why I’m waiting for her.”

“Oh no.” Her smile transformed into a confident smirk, one more arrogant than any he or Robin might have conjured. “I worry she’ll outlast you.”

And more often than Will or Robin, she was right.

He nodded, a sharp jerk of acquiescence. “What do you suggest?”

“Will?” His name croaked into the silence. The gritty feel of fatigue and unshed tears chafed her eyes. But she was still alone.

He left me.

Betrayal stained her every thought. The man who had vowed to become her husband, the man who had promised never to let her fall—he left her stranded in the woods. Again. Shock followed betrayal, for she never believed he would leave her. Fear marched closely behind.

How would she get to safety?

But anger drowned that pitying, whining question. No matter the pain of her injuries, she wanted to wrap her hands around Will’s neck and squeeze until he begged for the freedom of death. She needed to hear him plead for forgiveness, although she could not imagine granting him such a generous boon. Yes, anger would do nicely. She toughened her vulnerable emotions like donning armor.

If you’re angry, come find me.

She would.

Seething, she pulled a wrist to her mouth and caught the end of a bandage in her teeth. She tugged and twisted free of that linen strip until she bared her raw flesh to the cool air. After freeing the other hand, she gently touched her palms to her cheeks. Scabs and patches of skin covered plentiful raw blisters, but none of the wounds wept as they had a week previous.

She wrapped her right hand in her cowl for padding and found the walking stick. A deep breath buttressed her against the daunting dread of her hike.

Struggling to orient herself, she tapped her way back to the oak and gingerly assessed the trunk. Rough, biting bark scored her fingertips until she found a patch of moss. Knowing moss grew only on the north faces of trees, she circled and aligned herself toward the manor.

Five hundred yards. Due north.

At every new tree, she felt for the telltale moss and checked that she walked in the proper direction. She even used her cheeks, petting sensitive skin against the moss when numb hands failed her. Raw palms bled. She ached to draw in air untainted by fear, her head vibrating with a concentration bordering on pain.

But she would not stop. She could not.

Sweat matted her hair and glued the kirtle to her torso. Her legs stung from the whipping strangle of twigs and brambles at her knees. Had there been a trail to travel, she had long since strayed from it, forging ahead with only the faltering faith in her own abilities. Every step worked to banish her fear, swinging a sword in angry circles and driving it to distant corners of her mind. Despite the logs, undergrowth, and stumbling, halting progress, even her anger ebbed.

If you’re strong enough to be my partner, come find me.

She stopped. Frowned. Breathed.

The feeling of betrayal transformed into shame. Embarrassment feathered over her face and built into a fierce blush. She imagined the moping little girl she had become since the fire.

“On God’s half, he’s right.” Whimsy pulled the corners of her mouth into a tiny smile. “The damnable swine.”

She was still going to haul Will Scarlet over hot coals by his hair, but at least she understood his purpose.

Minutes blended into an unfathomable span. Riddled with fatigue, her muscles cramped and complained. A scuffling noise like boots on brick wrenched her from the mindless absorption. “Who goes?”

“Meg, are you well?”

“Milady,” she breathed.

Marian caught her when she faltered. “You’re bleeding.”

“My hands. I’m well, truly.” The need to finish the trudging journey on her own conflicted with the abject pleasure of leaning on a supportive arm. Agitated butterflies fluttered beneath her sternum. “Tell me, milady, did Will truly leave me to the woods?”

“By a manner,” Marian said. “He wished you safe, but he did not trust himself to let you make your own way.”

Her quivering belly calmed. “And you’ve watched after me all these hours?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, milady.” Relief sluiced through her body, melting bones into useless, molten puddles. “Now where is my dear husband?”

Poised with his feet wide, bowstring drawn taut, Will trained his eyes on an empty archery target a hundred paces distant. He had covered the bandages at his wrists with protective leather cuffs. In a half-formed fist, the splint on his thumb jutted over the fingers he wrapped around the bow shaft. The hemp string snapped and flung the arrow wide into a hedgerow.

Will bit hard, bunching the muscles along his jaw. A scowl ruined the line of his brow. He sighed, shoulders square, and drew another barbed arrow from the quiver at his back. He slid a thumb and forefinger over the fletching, lined up the shaft, and fired again. Still wide.

“For grace!” He kicked a splatter of gravel and hurled the bow in a high arc, missing the target by a great span.

Robin pushed away from the column, hoping for a casual air but feeling only stiff wariness. And shame. He had returned from war, but he had escalated the conflict within his own home. His behavior crippled his pride.

I’m tired of fighting you.

He hoped Will meant those words. Having eschewed the bow and arrow as a matter of protest, the fact he held a bow at all raised Robin’s expectations. Watching his nephew’s storm-cloud expression, he sought any crack in the door closed between them—even if he had to be the one to knock.

“Your thumb grieves you,” he said.

Will glowered. “Say what you wish. I know you want to.”

“Can you try again?”

Eyes narrowed, Will regarded him with no little suspicion. Anger lurked in that stare, as did the dark glimmer of an old, old battle. A pattern borne of countless years reemerged in the garden: Robin offered advice, and then his nephew pitted pride against a yearning for knowledge and skill. He never knew which way the scale would tip because Will, often as not, shunned advice in favor of spite.

But not that day. He nodded, a single movement to buoy Robin’s hopes.

Will retrieved the bow. He checked the nock carved out of horn and the braided string. Yanking another arrow from the quiver, he readied his stance and raised the bow high. His green eyes pinched to slits.

Instead of allowing the wounded thumb to form an awkward fist, Robin positioned the splint wide, away from the other fingers. He stepped away and waited.

Will maintained his grip, fingers trembling with the effort to stabilize his aim. But he plied surprising stores of patience against the task. Slowly, he eased the tension from his shoulders and relaxed. The line of his back limbered.

The arrow pierced the target two foot clear of the center, but a sight better than the hedgerow.

Will spat and shook his left hand, grimacing. “How’s your nose?”

“Broken.”

“I lost a tooth.”

“Better than your head.”

“Small mercies, Uncle.”

His smile grew. “Is your wife well? I should finally like to meet her.”

The brief flash of levity drained from Will’s face. “And I should like you to meet her, if that’s possible.”

Before Robin could ask for an explanation, his nephew loaded another arrow, cocked his thumb away from the grip, and fired again. Nearer the target. But the tension from his body nearly hummed like the singing snap of the string. He exhaled roughly and stamped the bow into the ground.

Footsteps pulled their attention to the central archway. Marian wore breeches and a tunic, bow and quiver slung across her back.

“Marian? What on earth—?”

She led Will’s new wife into the garden, a sight to shrivel Robin’s question. Blood and frayed bandages drew a grisly pattern over the woman’s hands. Grass stains and mud covered her gown. Thorns chewed its ragged hem. But in spite of her appearance, she wore an expression of calm. The smallest play of a smile touched her lips.

“Here we are, Meg.”

Pushing free of Marian’s assistance, the woman nicked a long, bare branch across the walkway, scattering uneven clicks into the air. She tapped a slow path forward. Will appeared outside of himself, watching her, his face stony but oddly hopeful. He took her free hand. She dropped the walking stick and Robin stepped away, joining Marian.

Delicately, slowly, she stroked Will’s head, petting back his hair. Streaks of blood marked a path across his skin. Robin felt compelled to look away from that private embrace, but could not, so engrossed was he in their silent drama.

Will leaned into her touch, his mouth finding the center of her palm. She clutched damaged fingers into a fist and yanked a hard handful of long hair, snapping his head back.

“Saints be!”

“Bastard.”

She balled her right hand and landed a solid punch. Knuckles cracked against his cheekbone. He grunted, staggered, then found his balance. To Robin’s bewilderment, Will laughed. The tension that had distorted his posture and stiffened his stance dissipated.

Will caught her wrists and tugged her near. Their hips flirted. “Glad to have you back, Meg.”

“Glad to be back,” she whispered.

The energy between them pulsed and heightened. Robin did look away then. Marian played with a catlike grin.

The woman angled her face near where they stood. “Forgive us, please. We shall retire for the evening.”

“You’ve walked far enough today,” Will said, scooping her into his arms. He kissed her forehead and smiled against her skin. “Allow me to escort you to your room.”

Robin picked up the discarded bow. “I’ll bring your weapon to the house.”

Will stopped at the threshold of the garden and nodded. “Thank you, Robin. Perhaps we can practice again tomorrow.”

With Marian at his side, Robin watched the odd pair enter the manor. One wore a splint on his thumb and favored his right shoulder. The other wore half the forest and more blood than good humor. But something crackled between them, the firm strength of a shared regard.

“My poor husband,” Marian said, her laughing eyes on him.

“What happened here?”

“I only half understand, myself. But I suspect we’ll meet Meg tomorrow, both of us for the first time.”

He grinned, looking her up and down. “I haven’t seen you dressed for the woods in years.”

She cast a quick glance down at the close-fitting outfit, all shades of green and brown. “I had no need for it, in the end. Meg made her own way.”

“Target practice?” he asked, hefting Will’s bow.

“For what stakes?”

Robin leaned close and whispered in her ear, placing a gentle kiss along her collarbone. She smiled, nodded, and drew an arrow from her quiver.