the dressing stool was still by the wall, part of the hunting tapestry caught and draped on top of it.
“I was—admiring the tapestry,” she said, turning back to Gisborne and praying her face didn’t betray her sudden panic.
“Ah.” Gisborne’s face settled into chilly blankness again. “It is of fine craftsmanship. You enjoy weaving and sewing?”
Marian let out a quick huff of a laugh before she could stop herself. Seeing Gisborne’s raised eyebrow, she said hastily, “I—no, Sir Guy. I have never been skilled with a needle, or a loom. I was admiring the tableau.”
Gisborne’s eyebrows rose a fraction higher. “You enjoy hunting?”
“I enjoy any pursuit that takes me outdoors.”
Gisborne’s weight shifted again, but this time there was a flicker of interest in his face, a gleam in his eye. “Then perhaps, Lady Marian, while you are visiting Nottingham, you will honor me by accompanying me on a ride.”
The stiff manner, the stilted speech, his attempt to paint himself a nobleman by language and demeanor—it all rankled. Not to mention that he was the most difficult and direct obstacle between her and Will. Marian could think of no one whose company she’d enjoy less. But neither could she think of a polite way to object. “Happily, Sir Guy. If my stomach ever settles,” she added, remembering she was meant to be ill.
“Of course, my Lady.” Gisborne took a step back, then paused. “Permit me another moment of your time—Lady Marian, has anyone . . . approached you?”
Marian didn’t bother to hide her confusion. “Approached, Sir Guy?”
“A man, perhaps dressed as . . .” Gisborne paused again, eyes growing chillier. “A man claiming some familiarity with you.”
Marian carefully held on to her puzzled expression, carefully waited so she wouldn’t answer too quickly, carefully kept her eyes from sliding away from Gisborne’s. He was talking about Robin—or the man he believed was impersonating him. “No, Sir Guy. I don’t know what you mean.”
Gisborne glanced past her again, into the room, making Marian fight not to check again that Robin’s gear hadn’t somehow become visible while they spoke. “Very well, my Lady. If anyone does approach you, please report it to me.”
“Of course.” Marian kept her eyes wide, unshadowed. Guileless.
Gisborne was expressionless once more for a few long, empty heartbeats. “Good day, then, my Lady,” he said finally. Another bow, this one somewhat hurried, and he stepped back.
Marian bade him farewell and eased the door shut. She turned and leaned against the oak, eyes on the sagging canopy over the bed. Gisborne had seen her in Robin’s cloak for a few seconds at most, and only in darkness, as she ran from his men in the woods. With only Will’s word of what had happened, it wouldn’t take long for the law to dismiss his story as a futile, albeit clever, attempt to prolong his life.
Will would die unless Robin was seen again, and this time by someone whose word could not be denied, and whose own life—whose own future—hinged upon the truth of whether Robin was alive or dead.
Marian waited until she could no longer hear the clatter of Gisborne’s boots against the stone as they retreated from her door.
ELEVEN
NOTTINGHAM CASTLE’S GREAT HALL was crowded for dinner, those lesser nobles and city officials who usually occupied the tables banished to hover around the edges of the room while the visiting lords took the high chairs. Marian would have happily continued feigning illness and skipped the whole affair, but with luck, Robin would be walking the halls of the castle tonight, and Marian wanted to make sure she wasn’t noticeably absent.
Marian was waylaid near the door by a woman with soft eyes and long, shining copper hair braided into a net—Lady Seild. “Marian, dear,” she said, reaching out to take her arm, “we missed you this afternoon. Are you feeling any better?”
Marian tucked Seild’s arm close. “A little, I think.”
Seild gave her arm a squeeze, eyebrows drawing in. “Is something bothering you? You can always speak to me. Your illness might well be catching—perhaps I’ll need to join you in seclusion tomorrow.”
Marian glanced back at the woman, whose mouth was carefully set in an expression of concern—the only sign of amusement was in her eyes. Seild had known her for years, since Marian was still barely more than a child. In spite of herself, Marian laughed, and felt a little of the restlessness quickening her blood ease.
Another squeeze, and Seild reached out to take Marian’s chin in her fingers and inspect her. Seild was