in the moonlight, fluttering like a delicate veil across the landscape. Her own veil was gone—fallen off during the descent, or else pulled off and discarded while Gisborne was . . .
Marian’s heartbeat quickened, and she squeezed at Jonquille’s flanks. Without hesitation the horse skipped up into a canter and, when Marian made no effort to hold her there, burst into a loping run. Her galloping hoofbeats drummed in Marian’s ears, but it didn’t matter now, because she was within reach of the forest.
She plunged beneath Sherwood’s dark canopy, scattered with pools of moonlight where autumn had claimed the leaves overhead. The familiar rhythm of Jonquille’s body moving under her was more effective than any physician’s draught could have been, bringing Marian back to herself step by step. But she didn’t slow, not until a branch whipped by and tore at her ear in a searing flash. And then it was concern for Jonquille that made Marian pull the mare back down to a trot.
Sticky warmth dripped down the side of her neck, and Marian finally told her horse to stop altogether so she could dismount. She leaned heavily against Jonquille’s flank, resting her forehead on the warm shoulder as she felt at the wound on her ear. It was bleeding copiously, but the pain was minimal, and Marian pinched at the rim of her ear until the blood slowed.
She shivered, realizing only now that she had stopped that she wasn’t remotely attired for travel through the forest. She wore only her shift and kirtle, with no cloak or wrap. She had no food, no water for her or for Jonquille, and no place to shelter. The air was cold, and she’d be frozen through if she could not find the others before the night was over.
Marian put a hand on the nearest saddlebag automatically, knowing she’d packed nothing, and froze when she felt the leather give only a little against the bulk of its load. With trembling hands, she lifted the flap and took out the bag’s contents, shaking the fabric until it dangled, inky black in the darkness, from her hands.
Robin’s cloak.
She checked the other bag and found the rest of his clothes, and a mask as well—not the one she’d lost in the hall the night she shot the guard, but a new one fashioned of leather and molded to fit the face. Her face.
Midge? He was the only one Marian could think of with the skills to make her a mask and know where to put it so she’d find it. But Elena had hidden the rest of Robin’s clothes for her, and she couldn’t have known about Midge’s hiding place among Jonquille’s tack.
Unless both servants knew more than they’d admitted. Marian clutched the cloak to her breast, gaze swinging unseeing around the darkened outlines of the trees surrounding her.
Shivering, breath painting pale gray clouds, Marian stripped to the skin and put on Robin’s clothes one more time.
One more time.
And then what? Could Robin Hood simply vanish into legend, a murderer and a hero, bound to whichever version of him the people remembered? Or else Marian would be the one to disappear, kidnapped by the infamous outlaw, never to be seen again, leaving Robin of the Hood free to continue his mission.
Robin Hood swung up into Jonquille’s saddle, turned toward the King’s Road, and set out to find the others.
She’d taught them well, or else they’d taught themselves, for she was nearly on top of their camp before the smell of burning oak and leaves brought her out of her daze. She could not see the fire except for the faintest of glows—they’d dug it so low it was nearly invisible. The scent was so strong that she stopped, reining Jonquille in abruptly enough to make the horse snort a protest.
A shadow leaped up in response to the sound, and Marian grabbed for the dagger she’d sheathed at her belt. Before she could do more, a shout of surprise roused the rest of the men.
“Robin!” It was Little John’s voice, hoarse with weariness and cracking with relief. “It’s Robin—wake up, fools, Robin’s come.”
Marian let go the dagger’s hilt and slid from Jonquille’s saddle with a thump. She landed on her feet but leaned heavily on her horse, feeling as weak-kneed as she had when Gisborne had first released her from his embrace.
Little John took no notice, a massive looming shadow emerging from the trees to grasp Marian’s arm and draw her toward the fire.
Other shapes were