or seeing her killed, but he could not look at her face while she wore the costume of Robin Hood without breaking.
He looked very much as he had the day he put the arrow into her shoulder and tried to stop the flow of her blood with his bare hands. But he could not save her then, and he couldn’t save himself now, for his expression shattered and he broke away, whirling back toward his horse. The scrape of steel told Marian that he’d strapped a scabbard to the saddle, but the sound didn’t prepare her for the uncaring glint of moonlight off the sword’s edge. Her breath caught in spite of herself, but she did not move. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch at the prospect of death.
He shifted his grip, the tip of the sword bobbing as if with indecision. He hefted it once more, then tossed it toward Marian. She caught it by sheer instinct, feeling its grip in her left palm before she could register that he’d given her the weapon. Only then did she see he wore his sword belt, and that he was reaching for the hilt.
He moved toward her as he drew his sword, halting out of reach of her blade, light on his feet and intent.
“Why?” Marian could not hold the sword in her right hand, and she had never practiced with it in her left. The grip felt as strange and unfamiliar as if she were a novice, but when he made a quick feint, she raised the blade instinctively.
“I want to face you knowing who you are. No masks. No lies. You and me, here in Sherwood Forest, one last time.” His answer was light, matching the quick feint of his sword that had made Marian raise hers. “And if you kill me, you have a chance to flee.”
“I can’t kill you.” Marian pressed no attack herself but stood ready to fend off another blow. He was testing her. She could have stood motionless, and he would have halted before the blade touched her—but she could not stop herself from blocking each swing.
“Why not?” Gisborne’s voice was low and steady.
“Because you wounded me. I cannot use my arm.” This time, when his sword clanged off hers, she stepped forward, sword raised. Frustration prodded her to continue, but she stopped herself—she could not hope to beat him like this, crippled and on the verge of fainting.
Gisborne grinned, an expression so alien on his stiff features that Marian nearly dropped the sword again. “I wounded Robin Hood.”
For a wild moment, Marian thought he’d gone mad—that he’d managed to forget what he knew about her, that the woman he loved and his mortal enemy were one and the same. Then he swung again with a grunt of effort, and when his sword glanced off hers, he pressed the attack again, and again, until he’d forced her blade back against her own body. The assault was vicious, and yet restrained—the blade pressed so lightly against her body that it wouldn’t have scratched her bare skin, much less cut through the cloak.
“I want you to admit it.” His face was inches away, eyes burning. “I want to hear you say it.”
Marian could feel his breath upon her face and feel the warmth of his skin so near. Her mind tried to wander, taking advantage of her injury and her exhaustion to conjure a memory of him that quickened her blood and stirred her body.
She fought it, but a flush rose to her cheeks anyway, and the strange mingling of desire and pride and anger gave her strength. She gave him what he wanted, and whispered, “I am Robin Hood.”
Then she leaned into him and drove her knee up into his gut, and struck out with her sword. He dodged her clumsy swing, choking and doubling over, but the ploy had gained her room to maneuver. They circled each other, breathing mist that glowed silver, their horses stamping their uneasiness behind them.
He darted in, beginning a series of blows she recognized from their last battle. She knew what was coming, but her left arm was so untrained she could barely meet each swing. But when the last should have crunched down into her rib cage, it missed instead, and Gisborne staggered with his momentum.
Marian tried to use that moment of imbalance, whirling and swinging the blade, but he blocked it as if he hadn’t lost his footing at all.