The sooner we can be wedded, Marian thought bitterly, and you can become Lord of Locksley.
Gisborne considered this, eyes scanning her features—for signs of duplicity. “Very well. I will arrange for you to see the prisoner this afternoon. I’ll remain out of sight so that he believes you are there alone.”
Can he not give me a moment’s victory? She glanced over her shoulder as if to watch the waving wheat in the fields, trying to hide her frustration. But this time, Gisborne anticipated her.
“My Lady,” he said, voice softening a fraction, “I cannot let you see him alone. You would not be safe, and your reputation . . . you must have an escort in that part of the castle, around so many guards and low men. I give you my word he will not know I’m there. You need not entice me with the promise of gathering secrets. If you earnestly wish to convey to him his sister’s regards, I will not interfere.”
Marian blinked at him, utterly taken aback by the compassion in Gisborne’s assumption.
Better and better, she thought, mastering her surprise. If he feels sorry for me . . . I can use that.
Marian smiled shyly and murmured, “You see right through me. Still, I shall try to earn Scarlet’s confidence, my Lord.”
Gisborne’s lips eased again—it must be his version of a smile, Marian thought—and he corrected her carefully, “Sir Guy, my Lady. I am not yet Lord of anything.”
“Of course,” Marian said, blinking as though surprised at her own mistake. “Sir Guy. Forgive me.”
Her attempt at flattery did not have exactly the effect she’d hoped—he didn’t swell with ego or straighten in his saddle, and his gaze was no more fond. But he regarded her evenly for a few long moments, heedless of the guards some distance behind, who watched them with interest.
They rode side by side through the gates of the town toward the castle. Marian closed her eyes, not wanting to see if the two boys who had recognized her the day before were there among the masses of supplicants in the streets. Instead, she thought of Robin, and imagined it was he who rode at her side, until the sound of Jonquille’s hooves striking the stone cobbles of the castle courtyard shattered the daydream.
The under castle was dark even at midday, without windows to light the corridors. The guard who had come to fetch Marian was a short, stocky man who oozed disinterest. He smelled of days-old sweat and sour ale, and she kept a few paces behind him to avoid the stench.
He didn’t try to converse with her—he was clearly one of the jailers, not a guard used to being stationed where he’d be near the nobility. But Marian was distracted anyway, and relieved not to have to assume a pleasant, ladylike facade for his benefit.
Elena had all but dropped to her knees when Marian took her aside and explained that she’d found a way to see Will. Marian had guided her to a chair and waited while the maid mastered her emotions, squeezing her hand. It was a breach of protocol, to be sure, but then, Elena was hardly an average maid.
Or maybe all lady’s maids have secret adventures while their charges are governing their lands and attending high dinners, Marian thought, giddy and bemused.
Elena had given her a few words to pass along to her brother, dictated to Marian and jotted on some scrap from the library. Will had never learned his letters, but Marian could read to him—and it was something, however small, of his family that he could hold on to until Marian could think of a way to free him.
The guard led her down a dimly lighted stair, the air growing thicker and danker. Gisborne was waiting at the bottom, and while Marian could not be sure it wasn’t the unsteady torchlight, she thought he looked grimmer than usual. There was certainly no sign on his features of the lighter expression she’d seen that morning.
Gisborne nodded at the guard, who took his leave and moved on down the corridor. Gisborne watched him go until he’d turned a corner, and the sound of clinking chain mail began to fade. Then he turned that stern look on Marian, who fought the urge to draw back.
“My Lady,” he greeted her, with that flawless veneer of politeness.
“Sir Guy.” She waited, and when he didn’t move, she added, “Is everything all right?”