The Last Arrow RH3 (48 page)

"That may well be," he said, molding his mouth around her breast. "But of the lot, I warrant he would be the most dangerous if he found himself pressed into a corner."

Brenna's frown only lasted through the first shudder as she felt her nipples quiver and flush with eagerness under the skilled tutelage of his lips. It seemed so easy, so natural, so instinctive simply to open herself to him, to welcome his big body between her thighs and sigh against his mouth as he filled her with ecstasy.

"What will you do now, Rowen Hode of Locksley?" she asked on a shiver of breath. "Now? Right this instant?"

She dug her nails into his buttocks by way of a reprimand. "When we leave this place? When we reach Sherwood?"

"You heard the old crone say he would lead us there and introduce us to the outlaws. After that, assuming they accept our help, and assuming my name will have tickled Gisbourne's ears by then, I will endeavor to keep the king's men occupied while your brothers spirit the Princess Eleanor and her son to safety."

"I want to stay with you."

The languid stroking of his body ceased. "Did you not just call me mad for my delusions?"

"You are mad. And you have already proven you need someone to watch your back."

"What about your brother? Do you think him addled as well?"

"Robin would see the sense of it, especially if it saved him the aggravation of having to rescue you again." Griffyn shook his head. "Even if he allowed it, I would not."

"Why not? I am perfectly capable of looking out for myself and you know full well I would be more help to you than hindrance."

He groaned and sank into her clinging heat. "You are a hindrance each time I look at you and think only of being where I am now."

"Perhaps"—she bit her lip at her boldnes--"if you were there more often you would not think of it as much."

He stopped himself again—with somewhat more difficulty this time—and peered intently at her. "Is that a woman's logic? Or is that simply how you imagine you would come to feel after the ravages of boredom set in?"

She curled her nails into his flesh again and squirmed to maneuver him where she wanted to feel him most.

"Boredom"—she gasped into his ear—"is not a fear just yet."

He laughed softly and obliged her urgent whimpers and, when they had both settled again, kissed her soundly on the mouth. "But it does not change my mind."

"Perhaps this will," said a gruff voice from the darkness above. Griffyn flinched as the cold bite of an arrowhead touched his neck and Brenna's cry was cut short as she saw the silhouettes of five, six men emerge out of the mist to surround them. None of them were familiar. None of them were her brothers, and none, save for the one who had his arrow nocked and held against Griffyn's throat, looked the smallest part amused by the sight of the naked lovers twined together on the forest floor.

Brenna smoothed a hand over the disheveled mass of her hair and stumbled slightly as her toe caught on a half-buried rock. Griffyn's hand was on her elbow to steady her, and he gave her an additional squeeze for courage as they were prodded in the direction of the farmer's cottage.

She had been permitted to dress, at least, though she had felt the leering eyes of the strangers on her the whole time.

Griffyn's clothing had been tossed at him a garment at a time after it was given a thorough search—one that resulted in a small collection of blades and concealed weaponry. Only the one man spoke to them, his orders blunt and to the point, emphasized with a threat from his bow if they were not met quickly enough. Brenna waited, her heart in her throat, for Griffyn to explode into the same kind of lethal violence she had witnessed against her attackers at Gaillard, but he remained oddly calm and kept looking at their tall, lanky leader out of the corner of his eye.

The first to mark their approach to the cottage was Centaur, whose gray head swung up and around with a snort of suspicion. The cottage itself had been far too small for the

men to crowd inside, and they had rolled themselves into blankets on the ground around the fire, enjoying the first dry night in several days.

"Brenna?" Robin's voice was rusty with sleep as he lifted his head and peered across the flames. "Is that you?"

"We have visitors," she said unnecessarily as the surlyeyed strangers fanned out in a circle, each picking a sleeping form to stand over with bow and arrow.

Robin propped himself on one elbow and knuckled his eyes. "So we do. Are there any among them who speak something other than Saxon English?"

The lanky man nudged Griffyn forward, then stepped into the ring of firelight himself. He was tall—taller even than Littlejohn, with most of his seven feet owing to legs as long and thin as the stilts used by jongleurs to walk above the crowds at a fair. His face was hidden behind a ratted beard and there were signs of a childhood disease pocking the skin that was visible. His eyes were as dark as the midnight sky and burned with a mixture of contempt and insolence.

"I speak the Norman language of your king," he said, curling back his lip with disdain.

"Are you the leader of this motley group?"

"They have been known to obey an order or two."

"Good." Robin smiled. "Then we shall have no misunderstandings between us and you will be most precise when you advise your men to lower their weapons before they find their heads sadly parted from their shoulders."

A second rustling of branches and boughs brought Richard, Dag, Will, Geoffrey, and Littlejohn out of the shadows behind the archers, their swords drawn, the gleaming edges of the blades resting against the newcomers' jugulars.

The leader was impressed but not worried as he looked at the rolled and stuffed blankets positioned around the fire.

A moment and a soft whistle later, and the reason for his bemused expression came clear. A dozen or more silky swooshes brought as many more foresters sliding down vines suspended from above, while an equal number emerged from the mist surrounding the cottage, seeming to fill every gap and firelit space in the clearing with frowning faces and glittering arrowheads.

"You mentioned something about lowering weapons?" the leader commented dryly.

Robin pushed carefully to his feet and cast a cold gray eye around the crowded glade. They were outnumbered four to

one—not normally cause for concern to a knight facing forest bumpkins—yet while his hand itched to reach for his sword, he agreed with the cautionary look in Will's eyes as he noted the steady bowarms. These men were not unfamiliar with their weapons and, unlike the turnip farmer, would not cower on their knees and beg mercy for killing one of them.

Robin acknowledged a second subtle glance from Will, one given to indicate the trees overhead and remind him that Sparrow was up there somewhere. It was small comfort, to be sure, but they had all been amazed on more than one occasion by the woodsprite's ingenuity, and so he nodded to the others and, one by one, grudgingly, they relinquished their weapons to the foresters.

"May I ask to what do we owe the pleasure of such an unexpected surprise?"

"We were curious to know who you were and what brought you into our forest. You ride with enough arrogance and make enough noise"—he glanced pointedly at Griffyn and Brenna—"to be the king's men, yet you cover your shields with bunting and wear the hooded cowls of humble pilgrims."

"If we were the king's men?"

"We would expect you to pay a generous toll before we let you go any further."

"And if we were but humble pilgrims?"

The outlaw grinned. "Your armor is too rich, your horses too well fed. You would still have to pay a toll in order to pass through our forest."

"That is the second time you have called it your forest," Griffyn noted. "May we assume your name is Guy of Gisbourne and you hold title over the lands of Nottinghamshire?"

The forester glared at Griffyn—having to tilt his eyes down at least a hand's width to do so—and spat rather vociferously on the ground at his feet. "There is the toll we pay to Guy of Gisbourne, for the only title he holds has its boundaries in hell."

"An amiable overlord, is he?" Robin asked, drawing the midnight gaze back. "I had an occasion to make his acquaintance once, several years back, and do heartily share your opinion. If I am not mistaken, we too have met, and under somewhat similar circumstances."

The outlaw's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "We have met? When?"

"I do not doubt you have no memory of it, as I was a mere lad at the time. I recall it most clearly, however, for I thought you were surely as tall as one of the spires on the cathedrals we had recently seen in Angers."

It took almost a full minute for a glimmer of recognition to dawn in the outlaw's eyes and when it did, it came with a grunt and a frown. "That was half a lifetime ago, Norman."

"Half a lifetime," Robin agreed. "And I see you have not mended your ways overmuch, despite the promise you gave my brother Eduard when he let you go."

"It has not been by choice, I assure you."

Richard whuffed out an impatient breath. "Would someone care to let us in on the conversation?"

"We met," Robin explained, "in another ambush set in another forest much like this, only the company he kept was far less proficient at skulduggery. Our friend here took an arrow in his arm for his trouble—one of Eduard's, I believe—and his name ..." He paused and rubbed a thoughtful thumb across his chin. "... is Alan. Alan, son of Tom, yeoman of the Dale of Sherwood."

The other villains shifted uncomfortably on their feet, an indication that Robin's memory was without fault.

"I was only thirteen at the time and squire to my brother," he added. "Your courage left a strong mark on my mind, although when you thrust that arrowhead through your own flesh and handed it back to Eduard ... I very nearly lost my stomach right there on the forest floor."

Alan of the Dale hesitated a further moment before offering up a rueful smile. "It hurt like hell. And I did lose my stomach, though not until after I was prudently out of sight." The half smile gained a curious twist as he regarded the firelit group of knights with new eyes. "You were bound for England then ... and you are come again now. I should warn you, we take no kindlier to spies of the French king."

"We are not spies to any king," Robin assured him. "Nor have we come to your forest to cause you any trouble."

"Fresh graves are rarely any trouble. But tiresome to dig, nonetheless."

Robin laughed. "Will you and your men share our fire? There is some venison left and a pot of stew pieced with hare if the cotter can be persuaded to part with it."

The dark eyes flickered to the inch-wide slit in the door of the cottage, which instantly creaked shut again.

"We are too many and my uncle's stew tastes of too many turnips for my taste. Moreover, so many feet leave too many tracks on the ground, and he would be hard pressed to explain the crush once we are gone. Why not come with us instead? Our main camp is but a few hours from here and better suited to entertaining such noble guests."

Robin was not misled by the politeness of the invitation; he doubted they would have a choice even if he declined.

So polite were the foresters, in fact, they helped the knights pack up their belongings and saddle the horses. And so swift were they in removing all traces of any visitors to the turnip farmer's cottage that Brenna's clothes were snatched up from the fire and hastily packed away with the rest of the blankets and clothing before she could change. Her protest died on her lips as Griffyn put a cautionary hand on her arm.

"Let it go. Let them think of you as a mere woman awhile longer." "What?"

"Look ... they do not even know what to make of them."

She followed the tilt of his head and saw two of the foresters examining the longbows. They were frowning, scratching their heads and comparing them to the much shorter, English-style livery they wore slung over their shoulders.

"Are your men good archers?" Griffyn asked Alan of the Dale.

"The best in England. Nay, I warrant the best in the world."

"Yet they look in amusement upon the best bows ever fashioned in all of Christendom."

"Those poles? You would need the arms of a Hercules to shoot them!"

"Not if you know how. Tell your men to have a care how they handle them and we will ask the lady here to give you a demonstration on the morrow."

Alan of the Dale looked down upon Brenna, who returned his gaze with a directness that made him blush.

"We would happily invite her to demonstrate other talents," said another voice nearby, coarsened by laughter. "We would handle her with care indeed."

And that was all he said. Griffyn's fist came up and caught him square in the face, smashing his nose and knocking him clear across the firepit to land unconscious in the arms of two startled companions. It happened so swiftly and with such exquisite violence, none of the foresters had time to react, not even Alan of the Dale, who found himself staring down the blade of the small but extremely sharp misericorde that was depressing the skin below his left eye socket.

"You will advise your men," Griffyn murmured in guttural Saxon, "to hold their tongues in the presence of my wife

... lest her brothers and I decide to add their livers to the stew pot."

"They meant no disrespect. I am sure they thought she was just—" "Just what?"

The forester blinked and clamped his jaw shut. "I will advise them."

Griffyn's pale, unearthly gaze continued to hold the outlaw pinioned while he lowered the misericorde and resheathed it in a hidden fold of his belt. The forester

watched the blade disappear but wisely made no attempt to believe him of it.

Brenna, who had understood only a few of the whispered words, waited for Griffyn to turn toward her before she hissed up at him herself. "Wife? You said I was your wife?" "What else would you rather they think you were, considering where they found us and what we were doing?" She did not have an opportunity to do more than splutter, for two of the foresters were trying without much success to saddle Centaur. The huge warhorse reared, pawing the air with his forelegs, lifting one man off the ground and sinking his teeth into the arm of the other. Griffyn whistled shrilly, which brought the stallion to a snorting standstill, but neither of the two men would go near him again.