much of her life. “What is your real name?” she asked, feeling a tiny flicker of shame at having to ask the question of a man she’d known her whole life.
“It’s Much, my Lady. You can still call me Midge, I’m used to it. But—well, I figure you’re old enough now, might as well tell you who I really am.” He started, as though remembering something, and retrieved a bit of fabric dangling from his belt that Marian had taken for another rag. He held it out to her, and as soon as her fingertips touched it, she realized what it was.
“Thank you, Much.” Marian met his gaze, slipping Robin Hood’s mask inside her kirtle. Who I really am, she thought, watching Much go back to work as though nothing strange had happened.
Robin waits, heart pounding, moonlight playing tricks on his eyes. It takes her longer than usual to get ready, but after a few agonizing moments her window swings open and her face appears there, grinning in the darkness.
She makes quick work of her escape, forsaking her window for the arms of the yew tree and then shimmying down until she lands neatly beside him. She’s not even out of breath, a fact Robin notices with some consternation.
“Well?” Marian asks, her eyebrows lifting as she eyes him. “What is so urgent it could not wait until morning?”
Robin’s hand is in his pocket, fingers clutched around the ring. With an effort, he forces himself to draw it out. He’s never been so terrified in his life. “I wanted to give you something.”
Intrigued, Marian reaches for his hand and pries his fingers loose from the object—clearly, she’s expecting some whimsical token or joke, for when she sees the ring, her eyes widen and her hand falls away. “Your mother’s ring?”
Robin stares at her, his mind empty of words. He clears his throat once, twice, then manages, “She wanted my wife to have it.”
Her eyes go wider still, until she looks almost as fearful as Robin. She says nothing, but he can see her withdrawing, stiffening. Pulling away.
“I meant what I said,” Robin blurts, voice full of feeling. “You’ll never have to be someone you’re not. Not with me. It’s you, Marian, you’re the one I want.”
She swallows hard, only barely able to lift her eyes from the ring to meet his gaze. Robin can see her thinking, can trace the signs of her racing thoughts in the dart of her eyes, the flutter of her pulse, the tremble of her lips.
“Will we still shoot?” she whispers.
Robin feels his face crack into a smile. “And ride, and fight, and duel, and—”
“Yes,” says Marian.
Robin grinds to a halt, blinking. “Yes?”
There’s a tiny smile on Marian’s face. “The ring, Robin, if you please.”
In his haste, he drops the ring, and they search for it together, laughing in the moonlit grass.
TWENTY-SIX
RAIN HAD DAMPENED THE forest, and although the skies had dried again, water still dripped from leaf and twig. Marian longed for activity, to come down from her vantage point and stretch her legs and escape the chill seeping beneath her damp cloak.
A terrible day to travel, said Robin in her ear as she scanned the limits of how far she could see through the thickets and branches. Perhaps Lord Owen has changed his plans.
Marian flexed her cold fingers and tried not to let doubt make her question their strategy. It ought to be easy, far easier than getting Little John out of Gisborne’s clutches. But she could not afford to let down her guard even for an instant.
Their plan to steal and distribute the grain in Nottingham’s storeroom had unfolded exactly as Marian had intended—except for her run-in with Gisborne—and the boys, as Marian had come to think of them, were as excited as she felt. Success was more intoxicating than the strongest wine.
And Nottingham had noticed. There was a current in the air, something of much-longed-for action after a long sleep—even the nobility were a part of it now, though Marian had to admit Seild was hardly indicative of the rest of the nobles. Marian never would have guessed that her friend had such rebellion in her heart. Or that Midge would risk his neck to help another break the law. Or that Elena could be leading a double life too, dressing as a man to pass messages of strategy and battle between her lady and her beloved under Sherwood’s canopy.
Perhaps I don’t know the people of Nottingham as well as I think