shoulders. A costume. “And I regret asking for your hand so soon after his death. If I wounded you, Lady, then know I intend it to be the last time I cause you pain.”
His gaze dropped, and he stooped to brush his lips against the backs of Marian’s fingers again. He released her and moved past, and Marian heard the door open and close again as he left. Her body tingled, and surprise kept her pinned to the spot.
It took another loud snap from the glowing embers in the hearth to jar her from her confusion. With an effort, Marian left the chair before her and dragged the dressing stool to the tapestry. Her fingertips explored the top of the tapestry, blood pounding in her ears, until they touched the cold, familiar edge of the blade.
She replaced the dressing stool and let her gaze wander, moving from the window to the chair Gisborne had occupied, and then to the hearth that had so captivated him. She waited for her racing heart to slow now that she’d reassured herself Gisborne had not found the sword in her room, but it only continued to pound, until her very fingertips throbbed with each pulse.
With a sudden, biting need, Marian whirled and went to the washbasin and plunged her hands into its chilly water, scrubbing and scrubbing until she could no longer remember the feel of Gisborne’s lips on her skin.
“You can’t go!”
Robin has never heard Marian sound so angry, and he’s seen her a breath away from murderous rage on more than one occasion.
“I must serve my King,” he says softly.
Marian’s staring at him like he’s gone mad. “But Robin—you’ll be gone months, years even, and I . . . what’ll I do without you?”
Robin cannot help but smile a little, for all his heart is wrenching itself from his chest. “You’ve never needed me to be you,” he points out. He’s practiced—he’s good at it now. She never sees how much it costs him to say such things.
Marian dashes her hand across her eyes. “You’ve made up your mind.”
Robin lifts his chin a little, watching her face, but says nothing. Because he cannot lie to her, and the truth is that he doesn’t want to go—the war is a mad, foolish enterprise from a King more interested in glory than in the well-being of his own people. The truth is Marian could change his mind. So he cannot let her realize that.
Marian watches him in return, anguish in her every glance and breath. Then, hastily, she’s tugging at the ring on her finger until it comes free, and she holds it at arm’s length. For a moment Robin is staggered, not understanding, wondering if her temper was so hot that she could really reject him now because of his loyalty to the crown.
“To remember me by,” Marian says, holding the ring out again. “While you’re there. To remind you to come home and give it back to me.”
Her voice breaks on that last word, and, unable to resist a moment longer, Robin closes the distance between them and gathers her into his arms. She holds on to him so fiercely, and her shoulders are shaking.
In this moment Robin can almost pretend that she loves him as he loves her.
She does love him—Robin knows it, can feel it in the tightness of her embrace. But it is a different sort of love, and it always has been. Robin lets her be Marian, and that is what she loves best about him. Perhaps the time apart will change them—perhaps her love will change with distance. Perhaps his service to the King will show her a side of him she’s never considered. Perhaps . . .
He presses his cheek to hers and tightens his arms around her. He will love her whether her heart changes toward him or not. They will have years together, a lifetime together. When Robin returns from the Holy Land, he will marry her, and they will live together and love together and she will see what he has always known, that they are destined for each other. Someday, Marian will be ready to love someone. There is no rush. He will wait for her.
They have time.
TWENTY-NINE
WITH GISBORNE BACK IN Nottingham Castle, Marian could not so easily visit Sherwood Forest as Robin Hood. She went once as herself, bearing news from “Robin,” who could not come for fear of leading pursuers to his loyal compatriots. She told them of the influx