Though her day had been exhausting, Marian slept little that night. And when she did sleep, her dreams swirled with dark, erotic images. She woke near dawn with aching breasts and a dull throb between her legs, her body moist, warm, and unsettled.
Her long hair had become loose in its thick braid and was clinging to her damp skin and wrapping around her arms and torso. When she rolled beneath the linens, her sensitive nipples brushed against the fabric and hardened even more. Her legs pressed together, and the pulsing there between them seemed to grow stronger.
The memories of last evening in John’s chambers surged back into her mind, though she tried to block them out. She’d never imagined the sensuality of such sights, of red tongues and slick lips and white breasts, of swollen, glistening quims. . the wet sounds of lust and pleasure, the soft moans and little gasps. . the smell of body and musky heat and sex. . the feel of solid male muscle behind her, beneath her, and hands on her own breasts, demanding. . yet enticing.
Marian’s breathing rose again and her fingers slid around to cover her breasts in an echo of Will’s large palms last night. They felt heavy and soft, and her skin tingled, tightening under her touch. She circled one fingertip experimentally over the top of a nipple. A responding streak of pleasure zipped down inside her, and she did it again. . and again, and then on the other side as well. Her nipples tightened so hard they hurt, and the pounding in her quim ached and her flesh drew up tightly, expectantly. She let her legs fall apart and moved one hand down to touch herself.
Her fingers slipped through heat and wet and found the hard little pearl, the source of the throbbing. Marian closed her eyes and used the pads of her fingers to tease and dance and flicker in and around her swollen quim and the engorged nib, the pleasure and heat collecting and rising in her belly and between her legs as she shifted and bent her knees, working faster and more furiously. . and then at last, an explosion was shooting through her body.
Warmth rushed over her as she shuddered and sighed and felt her whole person quake and shiver. . and then lull into quiet and satiation.
Her hands slid away. She’d never felt like that after the rushed beddings with Harold. He joined her in bed, parted her legs, squeezed her breasts a bit, and then pounded himself inside her five or six times, cried out, and rolled away. . and that was all.
After the first few occasions, Marian had learned to ease the way by slipping her own fingers up inside her quim beforehand, using her own moisture-or butter from the kitchen-to lubricate her body before he came to her. . but she’d rarely given herself pleasure like she had this morning. And when she had, the results had never been so intense. . so desperate. So necessary.
She had a sudden flash of Will’s face last night as he stood by the door.
I’m no saint, Marian.
She doubted that not a whit.
Yet he hadn’t forced her. He hadn’t even attempted it.
Even though in John’s chamber Will had had his hands all over her-despite the fact that she’d felt his own heart slamming in his chest, his breathing harsh in her ear. . and the unmistakable bulge of his cock beneath her- he’d left her untouched in the chamber.
He’d left her still burning with a need she hadn’t, until now, really understood how to resolve.
Marian looked through the gap of ill-fitting bed-curtains and glanced at the tapestry on the wall, where the telltale horse’s eye peered over at her, black and empty. He’d warned her about the peephole.
And he’d just as likely gone back to join the prince in the rest of his salacious activities. Ones that she would be forced to witness again. Perhaps even join.
A pang tingled in her belly as she thought of Will rearing up and over her, his large body covering her, piercing her. His mouth and hands on her bare skin. Her eyes closed and she swallowed, her stomach swirling like a swarm of butterflies.
She could endure it. It would be no different from submitting to Harold; he had been her duty because he was her wedded husband, and a coupling with Will would also be in the name of duty. Duty to her queen, and ultimately to her sovereign.
Marian could think of worse ways to be dutiful. Like being imprisoned. Or feeling a noose around her neck. Or going off to war, where her life was at stake, and it was kill or be killed. Nay, this fate was not of her choice, but it would be proof of her loyalty. And mayhap she might even be able to help Robin if she got close to the sheriff and the prince.
It occurred to her then that she’d been kissed by two different men yesterday-two enemies, two men on opposite sides of the law, two who had very different perspectives.
Dashing Robin, laden with arrogance and charm. . with the dancing eyes and sensual, smiling mouth. And Will, with a darker, different sort of fierceness about him. As though he was almost. . unwilling. Even angry.
And yet, both kisses had left her breathless and weak.
A knock at the chamber’s inner door drew Marian from her disturbing musings, and she bade Ethelberga to enter.
The maid had returned to Marian’s chamber shortly after Will left, apologizing that she’d gotten lost in the unfamiliar building. After assisting her mistress for bed, she’d closed the door that separated the antechamber from the rest of the room, and settled on her pallet to snore the night away.
Now she was here, wide-eyed and well rested, ready to help Marian dress for the hunt that John had arranged for the day.
Marian would attend Mass and break her fast with the other ladies. She then planned to participate in the hunt in hopes that she might see Robin again, though she realized he should be prudent enough to stay far from the lords and ladies who would roam the woods. Yet, for some reason, she didn’t think he would.
In fact, knowing Robin. . she suspected he’d be in the thick of it, simply for the thrill of doing so.
CHAPTER 5
The ferocious black horse belonging to the Sheriff of Nottinghamshire caused the villeins and serfs of Ludlow Village to scuttle from its path. Eyes peered from behind shutters as Will navigated the beast through the narrow streets of the town, his expression as black as his mount’s.
As Cauchemar clip-clopped along, Will’s sharp eyes missed nothing: the sagging roof of the smithy, an abysmally small pile of wooden bands outside the cooper’s, the scrawny chickens that scattered into the road ahead of him.
A small boy dressed in thin clothing dashed out after the chickens to chase them from beneath the destrier’s hooves, nearly getting himself trampled in the process. A scream from his mother, restrained from rushing out after her son by an older boy, broke the silence, swallowing Will’s own curse as he hauled back on the reins. His beast reared high, wheeled to the side by his rider’s demands, then slammed back to the ground in a loud, forceful jolt that shook the shutters of the nearby leatherworker.
The boy escaped unscathed, but Will dared not stop to ascertain whether any of the chickens had had their brains smashed by a hoof. The Sheriff of Nottinghamshire’s presence was not appreciated in this town, nor in any of the other twenty-some villages of the county for which he was responsible.
His reputation was as black as the clothing he favored, the warhorse he rode, the expression on his face. When he approached, the villagers stayed away from him, cowering behind their shuttered doors in fear of being dragged away for some criminal offense-real or invented.
Will knew this and did nothing to lessen those fears. He was an agent of the king and, through him, of the prince. The king had a holy war to finance, and it was the sheriff ’s charge to oversee the collection of taxes- regardless of whether the people claimed they could afford them-and the imposition of justice where necessary. If some of his peers thought it odd that a landless knight had been named sheriff of this lush green shire that was home to one of the king’s most fertile hunting forests, few dared to comment on it.
Those did were told the truth: the king had chosen to reward William de Wendeval for his father’s, and his own, years of unwavering service-the specifics of which remained unspoken.
