The Robin Hood Trilogy

by Marsha Canham

  “I … want nothing from you, sirrah,” she managed to whisper.

  Thunder cracked overhead and Eduard used the brief distraction to rake his hands deeper into the glory of those copper curls, twining them around his fists so that she was forced to arch her neck back and to press her body closer to his.

  Ariel was startled by the contact, stunned by the bold intimation of his hands and body. She tried to turn her head, to wrest it out of his grip, but he held firm. He crowded her even closer to the battlements, his torso an immense, overpowering wall of muscle, his mouth a cruel torment that offered no compromise.

  “You want nothing at all?” he murmured. “Not even a reason to prove me more of a bastard than I am?”

  Ariel gasped but his head was already bending forward. His mouth, surprisingly warm and supple, brushed over hers, taunting her with the promise of further outrages to come. She gasped again, intending to rail him for his audacity, but before a word or breath could be uttered, her lips were no longer being merely brushed, no longer being taunted. They were being devoured, possessed, ravished by a mouth that was suddenly as ruthless and arrogant as the man himself.

  There was a moment—a brief moment, she reflected afterwards—when she could, conceivably, have stopped him. It came halfway between a cry and a disbelieving whimper, when he lifted his head and stared down at her, fully expecting some violent display of indignation. In truth, her eyes were stretched wide with that very sentiment and her lips trembled with wordless condemnation … but it was her hands, freed from entrapment against his chest that forfeited any thought of reprieve. They climbed higher onto his shoulders and instead of raking bloody tracks into his face and throat, laced together at the back of his neck and invited his mouth to descend again, this time to slant with even more ferocity over hers.

  Ever gallant, Eduard obliged. His arms tightened around her and his tongue thrust demandingly into the moist, silken recesses of her mouth. He thrust again, deeper and more determinedly, and he could feel her knees buckling with the shock of such lusty intrusions.

  Ariel was no stranger to the act of kissing; kisses of peace were exchanged frequently in greeting her uncle’s vassals and liegemen. But they were polite, chaste gestures, rarely given on the lips, and never open-mouthed and devouring. Up until now, a kiss had held little more import than the touching of hands. It had never commanded the focus of her entire body. It had never caused her skin to constrict in the most alarming ways and places, never set her breasts tingling and her stomach churning, or spread such a welter of liquid heat everywhere.

  A scalding wave of it coursed through her limbs causing her to clutch at the folds of his mantle. His tongue was lashing hers with slow, evocative strokes. Her hair had scattered in the wind and was wrapping them both in a sleek, slippery cocoon. Another ragged groan greeted the pressure of his hands as he cradled her hips and pulled them suggestively against his own, introducing her to yet another shocking aspect of his boldness. He was all heat and hard, virile muscles, and she wondered if this was what her aunt had meant when she said a man could sometimes do things to a woman that would render her senseless and without a will of her own.

  She was without will. She was without senses and he could have taken shameless advantage of her helplessness and she would not have known how to stop him.

  Reluctantly, grudgingly, Eduard stopped himself.

  How, by Christ’s blood, he did not know. He had not expected to be left palsied with the tremors of an eager youthling. He had not anticipated she would taste so sweet and hot and needful, or that his flesh would ache with lust for a woman he had scorned only moments before.

  He moved her to arm’s length and struggled to see past the thundering rush of blood in his temples. Her lips, swollen and wet from his assault, quivered slightly as she took quick, shallow breaths to steady her own pounding confusion, and he wondered if she was going to be foolish enough to ask him again if he found her desirable.

  Drops of rain, fat as pendants, began to splatter the walls and turrets around them. Cold splashes of reality broke the spell and Ariel stumbled back another step … and another.

  “If you have no more questions to ask of me, my lady, I would suggest you return to your chambers.”

  Ariel blinked away a heavy splash of rain and stared as a jagged fork of lightning sheared across the sky, fleeting and bright, throwing the terrible chiselled beauty of his scarred face into sharp relief. His hair lay dark against his throat, his eyes glittered with an unholy brilliance that seemed to draw the very breath from her body. Towering before her he looked like a demon. He was a demon, black to the soul, cunning and sly. Devious to the heart, mocking her with words and deeds.

  “I cannot imagine myself asking another solitary thing of you,” she gasped, her lips throbbing so badly she could barely form the words. “Except perhaps that you never make it necessary for me to have to look upon your face again!”

  “Would that I could oblige you, my lady, for I would do so with the greatest pleasure. I fear it will be quite impossible, however, for your uncle has asked me to personally escort your party back to England and deliver you safely into the hands of your betrothed.”

  Ariel reacted as if she had been struck. “You lie! He has done no such thing!”

  “You will doubtless hear it from his own lips in the morning.”

  Ariel shook her head. “You lie. You lie!”

  A bolt of lightning cracked the sky wide open. The rain began to come down in solid sheets, blurring Ariel’s form as she turned and fled along the ramparts. Eduard could only stand and watch. His body was coiled as tightly as a spring; a step would shatter the tension and release the pressure like a quarrel shot from a crossbow.

  He turned his face up into the full force of the rain, hoping the icy needles would cool the heat of his blood. It had been a stupid, mindless mistake to touch her, for no other reason than she belonged to someone else. To her Welsh prince. A man with noble bloodlines, untainted by the sins of the past.

  A sudden thought startled a laugh out of him and Eduard opened his eyes.

  He had told her he was delivering her to her groom, but he had not identified the groom by name. No doubt she was thinking her uncle had chosen to bow to the king’s command and was dispatching her, under heavy escort, to Radnor and Reginald de Braose.

  No doubt as well she would assume the omission had been deliberate on his part. It would set her temper on fire all over again and she would feel twice the need to seek revenge. And perhaps that would be a good thing for both of them. Perhaps it was for the best, for he had the distinct feeling he would be safer dealing with her anger than with soft green eyes and a lush, pouting mouth.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Ariel launched herself through the trap-door and flew down the stairwell, unmindful of her hair and cloak snagging on the rough stone walls. She passed through her chamber in a furious blur and swept on down the main spiral of tower stairs, her damp footsteps slapping each riser in angry haste. Her uncle’s chamber was on the floor below hers and she barged through the outer door, startling a page into leaping out of his sleeping-cot as she blew past. The crash of the inner oak door sent her uncle’s ancient squire scrambling for his sword; the dramatic flinging aside of the closed bed curtains brought the marshal bolt upright and groping for weapons that were not there.

  Ariel stood at the side of the bed, her arms spread wide beneath the folds of her mantle, her fists clutching the panels of curtain. Raindrops sparkled in her hair causing it to glitter like a halo in the light of the single candle left burning at the bedside. The candle was meant to foil evil spirits and keep the devil away, but as Lord William knuckled the sleep out of his eyes and stared at the bat-winged spectre hovering over him, his first wild thought was that the charm had somehow failed.

  “I have come to give you fair warning, Uncle,” Ariel declared, her breasts heaving, her cheeks flushed from running. “I will not marry the lout. I will not even return to England
if that is to be my fate, and if you try to force me, I will climb to the highest turret of this accursed castle and throw myself from the peak!”

  “Ariel? Plague take me, girl … what is the hour?”

  “It is late,” she snapped. “Far too late to offer apologies or excuses. I trusted you. I came to you because I loved and trusted you as I have always loved and trusted you!”

  William, whose habit was to sleep naked, drew the blankets up over his belly. His chest was a mass of knotted muscles and swarming gray hairs, the latter frothing like a covering of fresh snow in the candlelight.

  “Sit you down, girl … no! Fetch a stoup of wine first; my mouth tastes like a farrier’s bib.”

  Ariel thought his eyelids looked polished and heavy enough from drink, and she told him so under her breath as she walked over to the bedside table and poured a measure of wine from the standing ewer. She could hear him grumbling as he pulled on his bliaut and braies, and ordering his man— Tinker, who was almost as old as the marshal and far from being in the blush of his squiring days—to fetch a mantle for warmth.

  Ariel drained the goblet of wine she had poured, bracing herself for the fiery thrill as it coursed down her throat. The strength of it brought a sting to her eyes and caused her to reach out and grasp the tabletop for support, but she weathered the dizzying rush and hastened to pour her uncle another goblet full before he emerged from behind the bed curtains.

  He scowled at the fire in passing as if to confirm, by its life and brilliance, that he had not had his head to the pillow long. The men had spent several hours debating strategies and schemes, seeking weaknesses and trying to anticipate problems in the plan to rescue the princess. When the candles had melted into puddles and several flagons of ale had been emptied, they had decided to adjourn and meet again on the morrow with clear heads and fresh thoughts … which would hopefully have been encouraged by a few hours’ sleep.

  “Could you not have waited until morning to give poor Tinker cause to think his heart had stopped?”

  “No,” she said adamantly. “I could not.”

  William grunted and eased his big body into a chair. He waved for her to bring him the wine and indulged in several deep swallows as he peered at her over the rim. She looked like a wild woman, one of the Welsh Furies who were said to roam the barren, rocky coastline in search of souls to steal. Her hair fell in damp spirals over her shoulders, and her face … something was odd about her face.

  “Where have you been this late of an hour and who have you been talking to with such fine results?”

  “I have been on the roof, seeking air, and I have been talking to the Bastard, FitzRandwulf.”

  “FitzRandwulf? What has he said to twist your nose into such a knot?”

  “He said”—she plumped her hands on her hips and glared down at him like an avenging angel—“you have charged him with the task of delivering me back to England, back into the arms of my betrothed.”

  William took another mouthful of wine. “And so I have. He looks a capable enough fellow. Together with your brother, they should manage not to lose you.”

  “Lose me? Lose me?”

  William winced. “Must you shout, Niece? My head aches enough as it is.”

  Ariel whirled, paced to the far wall, then paced back. “Aye, it appears I must shout if I am to make myself heard. Uncle! How can you send me back knowing what waits in store?”

  “What waits in store if I do not? Setting aside the fact that the king does not take kindly to blatant acts of rebellion, you are eighteen years old—almost nineteen! You should have been wed half a dozen years ago. Would have been, by Christ, had I only listened to your aunt. You have rejected too many offers to recount, for too many reasons too flimsy to support the weight of a feather. No, you are long overdue for a husband, whether he be of your choosing, the king’s, or mine.”

  “You support this match?” she asked in disbelief.

  “It may not be one I would have actively sought had I the luxury of your time and fastidiousness, but it is a good one. The man has lands and wealth and ambition enough to support you in a comfortable fashion. Nor will he suffer for his brother being in the king’s favour. Lord Rhys will make you a fine husband and breed on you fine, handsome children. Now, be a good niece and fetch more wine.”

  Ariel moved by reflex and was almost to the opposite side of the room before the name of the prospective groom cut through the barrage of arguments fomenting on her tongue.

  She stopped cold and stared at her uncle. “Did you say … Lord Rhys?”

  “Rhys ap Iorwerth. Is he not the scoundrel with whom you made your devil’s pact?”

  “Well … yes … but …”

  “Is he not, as a prince in the house of Gwynedd, a suitable enough match for your noble tastes and temperaments?”

  “Yes, but—”

  William sighed. “And did you yourself not promise the man consideration in exchange for his assistance in waylaying the king’s messenger? Did you not, in fact, suggest it?”

  “I … offered to lay the matter before you, but—”

  “But what, Niece?” William’s blue eyes reflected the flames burning in the hearth. “Are you in the habit of making willy-nilly offers to powerful men in exchange for treasonous favours? Or can it be you have changed your mind again and would prefer to warm the bed of this … Reginald de Braose?”

  “No! No, I have not changed my mind. It is just that I thought … I mean, when FitzRandwulf told me you were sending me back to England …”

  “Yes?”

  Ariel curled her lip between her teeth and bit down hard. The wine was making her head swim. The sudden, close heat in the chamber was causing her cloak to steam and taint the air with the smell of damp wool.

  “He neglected to mention the name of the intended groom,” she said in a quietly ominous voice.

  “Did he now,” William grunted. “Perhaps it slipped his mind.”

  Ariel flushed and continued to the bedside table. Reaching for the ewer, her grip tightened around the pewter neck until her knuckles glowed white. Oh, the arrogance and treachery of the man! The smug, insufferable gall of the lout to enjoy such a grandiose jest at her expense! Slipped his mind? Not for a moment. And not for a moment would she believe it was not another deliberate attempt to humiliate her!

  She muttered an oath of contempt and raised her hand, scrubbing the back of it across her mouth as if she could wipe away the memory of his lips. He had probably been laughing all the while he was kissing her. All the while he was kissing her and laying his lecherous hands on her body!

  “What else did FitzRandwulf tell you?” William asked mildly.

  “What?”

  The earl was taken aback by her sharpness. “FitzRandwulf … was that all he told you of our discussions tonight? That he and your brother were escorting you back to Wales?”

  “What else was he supposed to tell me?” she demanded irritably. “That he would be acting as groomsman to Lord Rhys? Or as a witness in our bridal chamber? Or perhaps that he has a bride of his own waiting for him in Wales—more’s the pity to her, poor thing.”

  William uttered a word of thanks as she refilled his goblet, but made no immediate move to lift it to his lips. Instead, he cosseted the vessel in his hands and stared down at the reflective surface of the blood red wine, his thoughts tumbling faster than a jongleur at a fair.

  Why not? Why not leave Ariel in ignorance of their true purpose until and unless it became absolutely necessary to enlighten her? He had supposed he would have to tell her if only to convince her to return peaceably to England. But if she was accepting this Welsh prince readily enough—and it appeared she was—there was no pressing need to tell her anything about the princess or the danger or the risks to them all if a word should slip by accident into the wrong ear.

  There was no question in his mind but that she would keep a secret unto the death if it was asked of her—especially one of this magnitude—but if she was blis
sfully unaware of any secrets that needed keeping … would she not act more normal on the journey? There would be enough spice to satisfy her quest for adventure if she believed she was outmaneuvering the king by having Snowdonia as her final destination and not Radnor.

  “Uncle …?”

  He looked up and realized he must have been staring at his wine for some time without hearing what she was saying. Before he could bring his thoughts back in proper focus again, they took another unsettling leap—to Pembroke this time. To the face of another whose safety was being placed in jeopardy without her knowledge or consent.

  Sweet Isabella. Ariel had inherited her aunt’s delicate features and lithe, coltish body. If not for the flame red hair and dragon green eyes of a De Clare throwback, it might have been his dear wife dropping to her knees in front of him. Verily, it might have been Isabella moistening her lips and gazing up at him with a wistful smile that said, give me but a moment to explain the foolishness of the world and you will see that my way is the only way.

  William held his own smile in check but braced himself anyway.

  “Uncle … I know I have been a great deal of trouble to you over the years.” She halted in anticipation of a denial, and when one was not forthcoming, she frowned and continued as if it had. “You must also know that none of it was due to a need to be truly willful or troublesome. If I have not picked a husband before now, it is because none of them have measured by half the fine example you have set before me. You call it being contrary and fastidious; I call it unfair that I should have to settle for someone not as strong, as bold, as kind, as loving, as honourable as my own Uncle Will.”

  He could feel himself starting to curl around her little finger and took refuge in another draught of wine.

  “Indeed,” she continued, “you have always treated Henry and me as if we had sprung from your own seed.”