Seild drew a breath and reached out for Marian’s hands, folding them between hers. “I know it wasn’t him, it couldn’t have been. But . . . the resemblance was uncanny, Marian. I wanted to tell you before you heard it elsewhere, or before—God forbid—you saw him yourself.” Her voice was animated, her face shining—if she’d been afraid the night before, Seild had recovered well.
Marian had underestimated the effect of the darkness, the shadowed face, the whisper—
If Robin’s spirit truly haunted her, Marian thought, perhaps some of his seeming or aspect showed through when she took his guise.
“You are . . . sure it wasn’t really him?” Marian asked cautiously. “How?”
“Because he’s—” Seild paused and gave Marian’s hands a squeeze. “He was too tall, for one thing—longer legs, and quicker than Robin ever was. But mostly because Robin . . . Robin is . . .”
“Dead,” whispered Marian. “I know.”
“I’m sorry,” Seild murmured, her flushed face falling a little. “I didn’t mean to make you hope.”
Marian shook her head, dropping her eyes to the floor so that Seild could not see her fighting not to smile.
It had worked. Even Seild, a woman who’d known Robin for years, nearly believed it was him.
With Seild’s enthusiasm and wonder echoing in her ears, Marian could not help but feel a rush of something through her body, a liveliness she hadn’t felt since before she’d learned of Robin’s death.
A tap at the door gave her the opportunity to look away and school her expression. Seild called out and Elena opened the door before curtsying. “Pardon me, ladies, but—Lady Marian—Sir Guy has requested that you be ready to ride out on the hour.”
Marian frowned, staring blankly at her maid. “Excuse me? Ride where?”
Elena glanced from her to Seild, who was eyeing Marian sidelong now. “I don’t know, my Lady. The servant he sent said only that you were to join him today for a ride and he’d like to depart as soon as you are dressed.”
With a jolt, Marian remembered feigning interest in the hunting tapestry the day before. She resisted the urge to groan. “Thank you, Elena.”
She was taking her leave of Seild when a pair of other ladies arrived, fully dressed, urgent and anxious. They inched their way around Marian in the doorway, casting sidelong glances her way before rushing to Seild’s side. Someone had told them of the lady’s midnight visitor, no doubt.
Marian could hear them whispering as she left, assuring themselves that Seild was unharmed. One of them said, as Marian closed the door, “If he’s caught, they’ll hang him for a deserter. Faking his death and abandoning the King . . .”
Marian’s legs felt unsteady, and she leaned against the stone outside Seild’s room.
Deserter. The word rang in Marian’s ears like a death knell. A few moments ago she’d been delighted by the success of her masquerade—but if all Nottingham believed Robin was truly returned, then they’d also have to believe he’d left the King’s side in the middle of a war.
His honor would be ruined.
She longed for Robin to speak in her mind, tell her what he thought of her turning him into a villain. But no words of comfort or accusation came, and she took a deep breath and moved on down the corridor.
Gisborne would be waiting.
Gisborne glanced her way as she strode out into the courtyard toward the stables. He was holding the bridle of a big black horse and speaking to a pair of guards, but he dismissed them once Marian was within earshot. Two more armed men sat on horseback, ready to accompany them—chaperone, as much as bodyguard.
“You look well, my Lady,” Gisborne said coolly, inclining his torso in a rigid bow. “I took the liberty of having your horse saddled for you, but she . . . declined to leave the stables with me.”
Marian suppressed a sudden urge to laugh—the man was so stiff, so formal, that he couldn’t bring himself to admit that Jonquille had bested him. “Thank you, Sir Guy,” she said instead, certain he’d hear the laughter in her voice. But he only regarded her calmly, a muscle in his cheek making his scar twitch.
She offered him a quick curtsy, then went to the stables to fetch her horse. The mare rolled her eyes toward her mistress in obvious protest, and Marian murmured, “I know. We just have to be polite for a few hours.”
Gisborne came toward her as she led Jonquille from the stables, but Marian turned and mounted before