easily. “But as I said, it is an admirable quality, Lady Marian. If you wish to visit Scarlet, I will arrange it. And accompany you, for your safety.”
Marian wanted to protest, but something in the set of Gisborne’s face—the sharply angled profile and lowered brow, the distant eyes—made her halt. There was suspicion in that face, Marian thought. And while he might only be thinking of her lingering loyalty to his dead rival, she could not shake the thread of fear that he suspected her of more than loyalty.
If Gisborne was not convinced the hooded man was a thief, then he might believe he had some connection—beyond his masquerade—to Robin himself. Which connected him to Marian. Gisborne might not readily jump to the conclusion that Marian was the hooded man, but he might watch her closely, track who she spoke to. Use her sympathy for Robin to catch the man wearing his colors.
“You are tired.” Gisborne reined in his mount, and Jonquille stopped a few paces ahead. “I will ride with you back to the castle.” He started to turn his horse, the guards moving to make way for them both.
“Wait.” Marian spoke before she knew what to say. Whatever direction Gisborne’s ideas were headed, she had to waylay them.
Then Robin’s voice came, certain and soft: Flatter him. Make him think he’s smarter—make him think he’s winning.
She smoothed the veil covering her hair, feeling its sheer hem flutter beneath her fingertips. “I’d rather keep riding with you a little longer,” she said softly. She couldn’t make herself meet his gaze—but then, lowering her eyes would probably be more ladylike anyway. “If you don’t mind.”
She could feel him watching her, those cold eyes scanning her features like a clammy caress. She wanted to tell Jonquille to run, gallop away at her fastest pace, bolt into the forest with no intention of returning.
“Very well.” Gisborne’s voice, for once, held something other than ice: a note, however tiny, of surprise. “We can keep riding.”
FIFTEEN
WHEN THE THICK STONE walls of Nottingham town rose into view upon their return, Marian could have cried with relief. It was hard enough to decide to play the role Gisborne expected of her, but carrying it out made her want to scream. For all Gisborne had stated his intentions toward her, he showed so little interest in her person as to seem utterly indifferent. Flirtation was already outside Marian’s expertise, but trying to appear receptive to his advances was all the harder when he made none. Marian told herself that his disregard was a blessing. But being ignored—even by a joyless sycophant like Gisborne—took its toll on her nerves.
Marian gathered Jonquille’s reins and shifted forward, ready to demand a bit more speed from her horse, when Gisborne called for her to stop.
“My Lady,” he said. “Consider me at your disposal from now on—should there be anything you require during your stay at Nottingham, send a servant with your requests and I will see them granted.”
Marian pulled her smile into place. “Thank you, Sir Guy.” She was about to turn Jonquille’s head back toward the road when she stopped, an idea flashing into existence. “Sir Guy—there is something you could help me with.”
Gisborne’s brows rose a fraction, and his grim-set lips relaxed. “Name it, my Lady.”
“It occurred to me that since the man masquerading as Robin helped him escape, Will Scarlet might know something about him. Something you could use to catch the impostor.”
Gisborne’s face was stone, but his eyes were keen. “A clever thought, my Lady. But we have interrogated him at length without result.”
Interrogated, thought Marian, the taste of bile rising in her throat at the half-formed images that rose to her mind. “You represent the Sheriff,” she countered gently. “Will has no reason to confide in you. But I . . . I knew him before he broke the law, and I was Robin’s . . .” Her voice choked on the word “betrothed.” Grief still lurked in her heart, ready to throttle her.
Cold Gisborne might be, but he was no fool. She didn’t have to finish the sentence. He lifted his head and glowered at the city walls. “I have no desire to involve you in any of this,” he said finally.
“I’m already involved,” Marian protested, unable to keep her frustration from her voice. When Gisborne’s eyes fell on her face, she forced herself to meet his gaze. “Sir Guy, forgive me—but the sooner you discover the identity of this man, the sooner my torment will