the woven links. Perhaps with armor, she would feel less naked. But the vests were cheaply made—the sleeves were separate, attached to the shoulders by leather bindings. Mail might fend off an arrow or two, but it would slow her down, and if Marian ended up in combat, she couldn’t afford to be sluggish.
She started searching in earnest, keeping half her attention on the midnight sounds of the castle, listening for approaching boots. Two racks, blade by blade, and there was no sign of her own. She turned to cross to the other side of the armory and stopped.
Slumped at one of the tables, the chain mail on it shoved aside to make a clear space, was one of the castle guards. He wore only his canvas undershirt, no chain mail or helmet, and he had no sword belt. He was still, unmoving. One of the dice players, Marian guessed—drunk, and out of his head.
Marian started to back toward the door, scanning the gloom for any other guards she’d missed. Instead, her eyes fell on a sword hanging at the end of the rack behind the guard’s table. Her heart tripped. Her blade, the one made to fit her smaller hands.
Robin, I wouldn’t mind a share of your luck at some point.
She let her breath out soundlessly, steeling herself, and then crept toward the sleeping man. He didn’t stir as she slipped around his chair toward the rack on the wall. She hefted the sword up and out of the rack, grimacing when it scraped against the metal.
The guard didn’t stir.
Marian made for the exit, skin prickling, certain that at any moment she’d feel the point of a sword at the small of her back, or a voice demanding that she halt and declare herself. Each step was a torment, and by the time she reached the door, she’d begun to sweat despite the chill of the stone all around her.
She fumbled with the latch in her haste, each clank of iron shattering her nerves, and half fell out into the hallway. She stopped long enough to look over her shoulder, shivering with disbelief—the guard was still asleep. While she watched, he shifted with a thud of skull on tabletop and began to snore.
Marian let the door close, stifling the sudden urge to laugh. She’d been so certain she’d be caught, so sure that she could not possibly best a castle’s entire garrison—and she had not even been challenged. She shifted her grip on the sword, fitting the hilt into her palm and testing its familiar heft, then headed toward the back stair. She’d actually have to try to find at least a few guards, at a distance, to spot her and spread more reports of the man in the hood in Locksley’s colors. Still giddy, she adjusted the hood of the cloak low over her features, quickened her steps, rounded the corner—
—and ran full tilt into a tall, broad man in black from head to toe.
Marian looked up and found her own surprise mirrored in Gisborne’s features for a long moment, the sword dangling from her hand.
But then something kindled in Gisborne’s dark eyes, a flash of decision or ferocity, and her instincts took over. She swung her blade up in time to deflect his blow, the clang of steel on steel bringing her back to herself. She skipped back and used the space to whirl around and press the attack, hoping to knock Gisborne off center with her added momentum—but he was already moving, ducking, faster than she’d anticipated. His sword came swinging at her rib cage before she could move to parry it, and she threw herself to the ground to roll away.
He’s a better swordsman than I.
The thought was clear, quick, without fear, a calm realization. She was on her feet the next instant, every muscle taut and singing, ready for action—but Gisborne had stood his ground, and the hallway stretched between them. The hood still hung low over her face, but Robin’s cloak was that uniquely rich, emerald-earth green, and Gisborne’s eyes swept over her, cold and analytical.
“Locksley.” Gisborne could summon more guards with a shout, and yet his voice was quiet, a deep rumble across the echoing stone. “And yet not Locksley, for he is dead. Who are you?”
Marian stayed silent, unable to answer him even had she known what to say. She shifted her grip on her sword, hyperaware of the sweat gathering on her palms and beneath her breasts and creeping down