Gisborne was silent for a long moment, watching her. The tip of his sword dropped, resting against the ground. Beside her, Will lifted his head again, and this time Marian could see the flash of his eyes set deep in the puffy skin around them. His breath caught, but he didn’t speak.
“Then no one has told you,” Gisborne murmured.
“Told me what?”
Before Gisborne could speak, Will jerked forward, shoving Marian hard toward Gisborne. She wasn’t ready for his strength—was his unsteadiness as he leaned on her an act?—and she would’ve gone sprawling in the dirt were it not for Gisborne’s quick reflexes, grabbing at her shoulders and hauling her up.
Marian twisted in his grasp to see Will sprinting through the fields, making for the line of trees marking the edge of Sherwood Forest.
Gisborne stopped long enough to make sure Marian’s feet were under her, then jerked his head toward his men. “Shoot him,” he ordered calmly, then reached for Marian’s hand. “Are you unharmed?”
“No—stop!” Marian lunged for the nearest man, the quickest one to draw his bow. She banged into his shoulder hard enough to send pain shooting down her own arm, but more importantly sending his arrow corkscrewing harmlessly into the thatch of a nearby house. “He is Robin’s man, do you understand?”
She could feel control slipping away. Something was wrong. The townspeople weren’t even looking at Will as he disappeared into the trees, safe under their cover. They were watching her. They were silent.
Gisborne muttered something tense and cold under his breath, his eyes on the trees. “Stand down,” he blurted finally, striding a few steps away and then turning. “Lady Marian,” he said tensely, struggling with his temper. “That man is an outlaw, and there is no telling what crimes he will be willing to commit against the innocent now to stay alive.”
“He’s Robin’s man,” Marian repeated through clenched teeth, resisting the urge to massage the shoulder that had banged into the armored bowman.
Gisborne sucked a breath in through his nose, then snapped, “Robin is dead.”
Marian’s brow furrowed, her mind slowing to a halt. The world grew strangely hot and dry, a roaring like wind rising in her ears. “What?”
Gisborne rubbed one gloved hand over his mouth, regret bringing a hint of color to his features. “I am sorry, my Lady. I did not intend to—but it is true. Robin of Locksley is dead; he died three months ago in Jerusalem. We have only just had word of the latest casualties of note.”
It’s not true. Lies, plots against Locksley lands. The Sheriff’s planning to take over, control the taxes, drive these lands into dust to line his coffers.
But she could not speak any of the words. She could only stare at Gisborne, taking in the details of his face as though they’d provide some relief, some hint that he was speaking false. The deep scar on his jaw and neck, suddenly different now, no longer the mark of a traitor—now she could not help but imagine such scars on her Robin. Except that his wounds would never heal, never scar over. She knew Gisborne could tell she was staring at his disfigurement, but she could not look away.
But he just gazed at her, a surprising sympathy in the grim set of his mouth. “I was going to come to you after I dealt with William Scarlet of Locksley town. As Robin is the last in his line, the Sheriff has appointed me to take over the governance and ownership of his lands.”
Gisborne reached out for Marian’s hand, but she pulled away with a jerk, stumbling backward. “No,” she said finally. “No. Robin cannot die.”
He paused, taking a careful step forward, approaching her like a man would approach a skittish horse. A detached part of Marian’s mind wanted to laugh at his antics, scoffing at the idea that she was some fragile lady about to shatter.
I am the Lady Marian. I am a free woman and I am loved by Robin of Locksley. I don’t shatter for someone like Guy of Gisborne.
This time when Gisborne reached out, he managed to take gentle custody of Marian’s hand, turning it over so he could drop something small and cold into her palm. “Nevertheless, it is true.”
Brow still furrowed, Marian looked down at her palm. The sun had risen while they debated Will’s fate, and she could see the object clearly.
It was Robin’s mother’s ring. Tiny, understated, a simple band of braided gold set with a single tear-shaped