himself off and shook his head. “I will not demand forgiveness. Lady Marian . . . I apologize. I searched and found nothing. I shouldn’t have doubted your honesty.”
Marian regretted leaving the support of the door at her back. She could not think what to say in response, not least because, looking at Gisborne’s stricken features, she felt a flicker of something alien and unsettling: guilt. “You are forgiven nonetheless.” Her voice sounded almost gentle.
Gisborne’s lashes fell, and for an instant his eyes stayed closed, a sign of relief he could not—or did not bother to—hide. “You are more gracious than I deserve, my Lady.” He took a step toward her, then seemed to change his mind. “Would you indulge me further by letting me stay, and talk to you?”
Moving as if controlled by some unseen force, Marian gestured to the chairs before the hearth. The fire was little more than a smoldering heap of embers and ash, for Elena had been gone as long as she, but warmth still radiated from the coals.
Gisborne crossed to one of the chairs but waited for Marian to seat herself before dropping into it. He didn’t speak, gloved fingers wrapped around the lower half of his face, elbow on his knee as he stared into the fireplace.
Marian took the opportunity to study him. She rarely looked long at him, for fear he would somehow see her secret in her eyes. But despite the conflicted shame of deception still knotting her insides, Marian felt strangely emboldened, shielded against suspicion—at least for now—by her near miss.
He looked tired, features darkened by exposure during the last few days. He’d clearly come straight from the stables, for his clothes were travel stained and worn, and he smelled of sweat and horses. His lips were pressed into a tight, unforgiving line, and the scar that pulled at one cheek was less visible surrounded by the dark stubble that had grown while he’d been away.
“Why do you not grow a beard?” Marian heard herself say, the words tumbling out unbidden.
Gisborne lifted his head, taken aback. “My Lady?”
Hot shame warmed her face, and Marian’s fingers twisted in her lap. “Your scar. The way you dress, you try to . . . Why not grow a beard to cover it?”
The hand he’d had pressed against his mouth was still half raised and, after a moment’s hesitation, moved to rub self-consciously at the patch of uneven red-and-purple skin. Finally, he said, “The beard does not grow from the dead flesh.” He paused, and added, “I would have a bald spot.”
Marian blinked away her surprise, and as she watched, the man’s lips moved. His face was dark with his own embarrassment, but he was smiling. Only a little, but it was there. Marian exhaled, the sound of her breath shaky and loud in the quiet, and found herself smiling back. “I don’t really like beards anyway.”
Gisborne’s lips quivered, and he glanced toward the fire so that she could see only half of his smile.
“How did it happen?” Marian was trying so hard not to let anything slip about herself, or Robin, or her allegiances, that her tongue was running wild on any other subject that came to mind.
“I was wounded,” Gisborne said shortly. His smile had vanished. But then the hand over his scar dropped into his lap. “I was taken prisoner,” he elaborated, keeping his eyes on the coals. “Saracens are nothing if not skilled at interrogation.” Marian could not help but recoil, and Gisborne did not miss it. He watched her for a long moment out of the corner of his eye. “I suppose you think I should have killed myself rather than be taken prisoner. For the sake of honor.”
Marian’s eyes widened, in spite of herself. “That had not occurred to me,” she said truthfully.
Gisborne’s eyes unshielded a fraction, but his face had gone cold again. “Then why do you flinch?” When Marian only looked away, he added, “You can speak honestly, Lady.”
Marian had never had the footing or the daring to speak to Gisborne so, and she took a breath to keep herself in check. But he was still watching her, and waiting, and she knew he would wait until she spoke. “I was thinking that must have been where you learned those same skills.”
His face had gone still and cold again, eyes remote. “You are speaking of the boy, Will.” When Marian didn’t answer, Gisborne straightened in his chair. “The Saracens poured oil from a jar down my