again, hope etched in every line of her features, “as soon as the man in Lord Locksley’s cloak and hood turns himself in.”
Marian’s brow furrowed. “Why? Why pardon Will for Robin?”
“He must believe Will knows something, and that fear for his life will make him betray Lord Locksley. Or that Lord Locksley must care enough about Will to turn himself in, if he’d risk his life and his lands to come to Will’s aid in Sherwood.”
Hoofbeats echoed up from the courtyard below, and a swift glance out the tiny window told Marian that her father had returned. She exchanged a swift glance with Elena, then hurried into her own room so that they could both finish erasing the signs of their adventures.
The man in Locksley’s cloak and hood, Marian thought, lightheaded and reeling. If Will told Gisborne he’d seen Robin—if he’d told him with witnesses around, others who could testify to hearing reports that Locksley’s Lord was alive—then Gisborne’s claim to Locksley lands would not be so certain as he thought.
Or his claim to Locksley’s Lady.
Marian’s fingers shook as she unbuttoned her earth-stained dress and splashed cold water over her face. She could not turn herself in—she’d be killed or imprisoned, and her father too, and either way her father’s lands would be forfeit, for to aid an outlaw was to commit treason in its own right. And though her father didn’t know what she’d been doing, the Sheriff would never believe she’d done it on her own.
The “man” in Robin’s hood couldn’t come forward—but if Marian could keep the rumor alive, it might buy her enough time to find a way to free Will. And if enough people believed Robin was alive, she could refuse Gisborne’s offer of marriage, stay with her father, help the people of Locksley and Edwinstowe alike—and perhaps hold out until the war ended and the King returned.
A corner of green wool protruded from under Marian’s mattress, a glaring mistake she’d been too weary to notice when she woke. If Elena had not been searching for aid for her brother, she would have uncovered it, and Marian’s subterfuge, immediately. She would have to be careful.
Much, much more careful, said Robin’s voice in her mind, grave.
Masquerading as Robin . . . the idea was mad—madder than Will and his ghosts.
Marian steadied her fingers and tucked the edge of Robin’s cloak out of sight.
Madness, then, she thought with a grin. And then, missing the feel of wool on her fingertips, she thought, Robin would have loved it.
“I thought you were getting along,” says Robin’s mother from the daybed. “Many children your age have never met the people they’re going to marry.”
Robin kicks at a stone in the mortared wall that protrudes a little farther into the room than its neighbors. “She’s not going to like it.”
“She knows her duty,” his mother says, exhaling weariness. She is tired often, these days, and Robin is allowed to see her only when she’s not sleepy. “As do you, Robert.”
“But . . .” Robin kicks at the stone again, not wanting to look at his mother.
Her voice softens. “But what, Robin?”
He hesitates. “What if it makes her start acting like a girl at me?” he blurts finally.
His mother laughs, the sound cut short by a torrent of coughing that brings a servant scurrying in from the next room. His mother waves the woman away, her eyes still amused, dabbing at her mouth with her handkerchief. “The combined efforts of an army of nurses, maids, tutors, and my own considerable abilities have done nothing to make Marian start acting like a girl, Robin. She acts like nothing—she acts like Marian.”
Robin watches his mother through his lashes. “I guess,” he mumbles. He’s wondering if it’s too late in the day to ride to Edwinstowe.
“Robin, will you come here?” His mother’s voice is gentle, and he abandons his post by the window to cross to the daybed. She’s slipping something from her hand. “I want to give you something.”
“But that’s your ring,” says Robin, frowning, a deep alarm somewhere in the pit of his stomach. He sees a flicker of red in his mother’s hand and thinks it’s the ruby ring until he realizes that it’s a droplet of blood on the handkerchief.
“It is,” his mother replies, her smile buried at the corners of her mouth. “I’d like you to give it to Marian.”
Robin reels back a step. “But—”
His mother presses her lips together, eyes dancing with amusement—and, nearly hidden, a touch of grief.