bin by the fireplace. The fire crackled with delight as the log dropped into its embers, greedy for the extra fuel.
“What makes you say that?”
He lifted a shoulder, the twist of his lips wry. “I do not think he would be so utterly foolish as to lurk around under the window of his lady when he knows, for I am certain he knows, we are waiting for him.”
“Perhaps you give him too much credit.” Marian was conscious of a strange sense of pleasure, as if Gisborne’s words had been flattery.
“Or not enough.” Gisborne leaned back in the chair with a sigh. “Perhaps his wits are stronger than his honor after all. Perhaps he recognized me that day outside Nottingham as I recognized him, and he knows I would not harm you.”
“I don’t know.” Marian drew her feet together and tucked them beneath her chair, demure and ladylike. “You are somewhat of a mystery, Sir Guy. It might take Robin Hood more than a glance to understand you.”
Gisborne’s eyebrows lifted. “A mystery? How so?”
Marian hesitated, for she herself was not entirely sure what she’d meant by that comment, except as flattery. “Well,” she began, “you are the Sheriff’s man, and yet you seem often . . . displeased by his actions. You’re utterly devoted to your duty and yet you sneer at talk of morality, of right and wrong. You speak of the horrors of war and come home to fight one on your very doorstep against one man with a bow and a hood.”
Her voice petered out, and she watched his face with some consternation. Her words held more accusation than she’d intended, and she searched his features for some sign of ire.
But he only watched her in return, his own expression rather searching. “That is what you think of me?”
Marian’s eyes slid from his. She’d spent so much time with him in the last few days that she’d almost lost the sense of unease that came of having a man alone with her in her bedchamber. But now the strangeness of it all came rushing back, with all the force of a winter gale, and swept Marian from her chair. She made a show of going to the bedside table for the candles, for indeed night had fallen and the fire’s light was shielded by the stone fireplace containing it.
She took her time lighting them, bending over the fire and dipping the wicks into the lapping flames, and then placed them on the dressing stool she’d pulled over to their chairs. Gisborne watched her all the while, and when she looked at him again, she was surprised to find no trace of chill in his eyes, and that the muscles in his face that kept his expression so rigid had relaxed.
So struck was she by the change that she could not help but meet his eyes for a long moment, caught between stool and chair.
“What is it?” he asked, brow furrowing.
“Nothing,” she croaked. “The shadows dancing. They trick the eye, make you imagine dark things hidden in corners.”
Gisborne’s mouth quirked. “You sound more like a man returning from his own war than a lady.”
Marian covered her unease with another smile, although it didn’t come as easily as it had before. “Who are you to say that being a lady, in itself, is not its own kind of war?”
She only had time to feel a prick of concern that she’d spoken too harshly before Gisborne’s face changed altogether, and he ducked his head to lift a hand to his mouth. Astonished, Marian heard him laugh.
“I will grant you that, my Lady. Who am I, indeed?” Gisborne’s eyes gleamed. “All right, then—ask me what you will. Though I will admit I find being considered a mystery . . . compelling.”
Marian turned that over in her mind, watching him askance. “What is it, between you and the Sheriff?”
Gisborne stiffened, the ease leaving his body as mysteriously as it had come. Marian was hardly easy herself—she’d intended to ask him about Robin Hood, in the hope of learning ways in which to continue confounding her enemy.
“Forgive me,” she mumbled, unconsciously echoing the very words that Gisborne so often offered up.
Gisborne cleared his throat. “No, my Lady, I bade you ask me whatever you wanted. I only— It is difficult to speak of the matter. I never do, to anyone.”
Marian caught her breath, willing herself to remain still, not lifting her eyes to meet his for fear her gaze might cause him to withdraw.