Marian had to force herself to speak, against the desire to clench her teeth. “It wasn’t Robin, Will—it couldn’t have been. Someone is pretending to be him.”
“And your new lord and protector sent you here to see if sweet words and a pretty face would pull from me what his jailer’s fists and firebrands wouldn’t?”
Marian blinked hard, mind racing. Her retort—he is not my Lord and never will be—was on her tongue, her lips already parted, but the remembered feel of Gisborne’s cold eyes on her kept it there. “I came because I care about your welfare. And if I didn’t, I would care for Elena’s happiness. If there’s anything you can tell me, perhaps Sir Guy might find some measure of leniency for you.”
Another scrape from the hallway. Gisborne had promised no such thing to Marian, and she knew he would not feel obligated because she’d promised it to Will. It doesn’t matter, Marian thought, because leniency or not, I will save you. She could not help wishing she could show the man in the cell her true self, just for a moment, to win his trust.
Will’s eyes had gone colder than Gisborne’s. “Your words are not as sweet as you imagine, Lady. And your face nowhere near as pretty as you think it is.”
A flicker of answering ire made Marian’s skin warm. She’d never been a vain creature—oh, she’d had moments, certainly, when she’d wished for the slight, graceful form that so many men found pleasing. She’d had more moments of envy than she cared to admit. But it was an old scar, and Will’s assumption that insulting her appearance would hurt her was the far greater wound.
“Listen,” she said, lowering her voice a little, but not so much that it might summon Gisborne from hiding. “I am here at Sir Guy’s request. To speak to you. Appeal to you.” She made herself gaze directly into Will’s eyes, intent, then deliberately tilted her head toward the corridor.
Will scowled at her, but when she made the gesture again, his eyebrows drew in and his gaze darted toward the corridor.
Stay with me, Will. “Sir Guy,” she said carefully, indicating the corridor with her hand, “would never want me to be here alone. He probably thinks I have the same loyalty to this impostor that you feel.” And at that, she pressed her hand against her heart, so that the ring she wore—the ring that had identified “Robin” to Will that fog-riddled night when they’d fought and escaped together—glinted in the torchlight.
Will’s eyes widened, and when he lifted those eyes from the ring to Marian’s face, he looked a little like his old self, beneath the grime. “Did he give—”
“Permission for me to visit you?” Marian interrupted, before Will could ask about the ring. “Sir Guy? Don’t worry, I won’t get into trouble for being here.”
Will was silent, gaze moving between her face and the corridor.
Marian took a deep breath. The knife’s edge she walked cut at every step, and her mind raced. She wasn’t likely to get this concession from Gisborne a second time. This could be the only opportunity she’d have to speak to Will before effecting his escape—she’d been assuming a plan would come to her if she saw where he was being kept, or if she could somehow make Gisborne fall madly, blindly in love with her, or . . . but there was no convenient window with crumbling mortar in his cell, no key hanging just out of reach by the entrance to the jail, and with every moment she spent with Gisborne, the more certain she became that he felt as little for her as she did for him.
She had to give Gisborne something. She had to seem, to him, like an asset.
“It isn’t Robin,” she said finally. “I swear to you. Anything you can tell us can only help you, and betrays no one. He said nothing to you?” Will started to open his mouth, and Marian hurried to add, “Nothing about his plans, where he’s hiding in Sherwood, other outlaws working with him? Anything that might help Sir Guy intercept him?”
Will stared at her as though she’d gone mad in front of his eyes. Marian gave an exaggerated nod, catching his eye and then tapping her ear, pointing again toward the corridor. She felt like one of the troubadours performing for the Sheriff’s dinners, pantomiming and trying desperately to win some sort of reaction from her audience.