What A Scoundrel Wants (34 page)

Face unreadable, a man of strategy and power, Robin placed the mug of ale on the desk. He turned and left through a rear door. Will stood there, his plea hanging in the air like a noxious stink.

His hopes plummeted. He had done too much damage. He had waited too long. And in doing so, he had failed Meg.

Anger surged past hurt and his sore pride. This was greater than Will or Meg or Robin of Loxley. This was about justice and the need to make right a dreadful set of wrongs. His uncle’s refusal to answer a humbled call for assistance pushed Will’s teeth into a gnashing rhythm.

Mistakes and bitterness aside, how could he shirk his duty? That Robin placed more importance on their paltry arguments than on the greater good, that he denied the very principles he preached, struck Will in the heart. He whirled and smashed his fist into the arching stone doorway. Blood seeped from his knuckles. Tears threatened.

Robin Hood, his hero laid low.

“Ay, Scarlet! You’ll need that hand.”

He spun. Ducking beneath the rear doorway, a giant bear of a man emerged. Furs doubled the width of his massive shoulders. Wild hair and a beard large enough to house a birds’ nest nearly concealed his face. Narrowed eyes danced a merry jig.

“John,” Will breathed. “Little John.”

The man laughed, stepping aside to permit Robin’s return. “You daft bugger,” John said, his happy insult banging through the room. “Did you think we’d let you have all the fun?”

Will blinked and looked again, tempted to rub his faltering eyes. But there they stood, the heroes of his youth and as great as ever. A grin insisted on peeking past his surprise. “You can have your fill of it, old man.”

John clapped Robin on the back, a hearty smack that sent the smaller man forward a pace. “What is this place, Nottingham, eh, Rob? Every passel of years, we need to scrub that pisshole clean.”

“Right on schedule with your baths,” Robin said.

Passing his pale eyes between them, John sobered. He shook his giant mane. “It’s set me sad, Will—you at a jangle with Robin here. Glad to have you home.”

He accepted the burly man’s hand, still disbelieving. John drew him into a massive embrace, cracking his back and laughing. The sour scent of pelts and musky sweat overcame him, watering his eyes. Or maybe that was simply relief.

Upon his release, choking for a bit of air, Will found himself face to face with his uncle. The span of a handshake separated them. Robin extended his hand, his gaze direct, respectful, and proud. “You have our aid,” he said. “We are brethren, howsoever it stands.”

Will accepted his hand and the embrace that followed. “By God’s half, I hate you still,” he whispered.

“And you are a stubborn menace to my health. Welcome home, Will.”

John clapped them both on the shoulders. Will winced. Robin stumbled. They exchanged a quick glace as the unwashed stink of their giant ally assailed them equally. “Now bring me to the point,” John said, his voice like an armored horse at charge. “We’ll ’venge this menace yet.”

He could do this deed. He and Robin, together.

Meg had received the news with relief but with no undue sentiment. She simply held him, stroking his hair—fine and fitting praise for a difficult afternoon. But her own restlessness, borne of a distress he could not identify, made her a prickly body to hold.

“I need your help,” she said.

Will said those same words only hours before, and he gloried in being on the receiving end of a request. And for Meg, even the impossible was easy to grant.

“Anything. What?”

“This could take most of the night.”

He raised his brows and kissed her neck, her collarbone. “You have my attention.”

She stilled his advance toward her bosom, catching the sides of his face with stiffly bound fingers. A petite smile lined her lips. “The sooner we accomplish this, the sooner you can resume your journey.”

“What is it?”

“My father’s book,” she said. “I would like you to help me read a passage.”

He sat and donned a billowing undertunic. “If it’s French, I might be able to help. Marian too. She’s very good with letters.”

She joined him, sitting up and partly dressed. A wild thatch of short brown hair haloed her face. “Part of the text is in French, yes. But not this.”

Dubious, he found the book among their meager pile of belongings, mostly weapons and borrowed clothes. Meg’s fire-eaten boots were fit for a rubbish heap. As soon as they dispatched Dryden, he would need to find a means of income. Dreams of wine, song, and a life of ease had been replaced by the necessities of home.

Taking the weighty, chaotic book back to the pallet, he angled it toward a small oil lamp. “What am I looking for?”

“Find the first entry that appears written in a child’s hand.”

As Will delicately burrowed into the meat of the book, pages crinkled and puffed dust into the air. Every diagram, every passage in a foreign code sang of ancient puzzles beyond his understanding.

“Here,” he said. “Uneven, large, but a few lines. The first word is fire. Then
fue
—in French, yes?”

She nodded. “My first observation.”

“And beneath it?”

“
Ignis
, in Latin.
Narr
, in Arabic.”

He chuckled. “Your father gave you a page in his book and you wrote about fire.”

“Ada wrote it, actually. She was a year older and already obsessed with language. I was too taken with burning leaves and strips of cloth to care about recording what I discovered.”

He shook his head. The woman he loved was as unknowable as the mysteries in that book. She frightened him just a little. “How old were you?”

“Eight.”

“Eight years old?” He grinned, sliding a hand up her leg. “You don’t want to know what I had done by eight years.”

“I do, but not today,” she said. “Look at the word in Arabic, then sort through the unbound letters to match the symbols. That is what we seek.”

“The Arab word for fire? And I shall read it to you before bed?”

“No.” Her mouth pulled tight and her brows drew together. “You can help me make the weapon to take down Bainbridge Castle.”

“What weapon?”

“You’ll know, betimes. Find that passage and we shall translate the formula.”

He grimaced. “A letter at a time, likely.”

Across the long scrawls on each letter, he pushed his gaze over bewildering symbols: boxy Greek letters, more familiar Latin ones, and the strange, slanting wisps of Arabic. Hours of tedious study cramped his shoulders and settled an ache in his bones. His eyes throbbed and grated, covered with dust and dulled by a fruitless search. Meg tended her injuries, washing and applying medicine to her hands. Will watched those hands, coveting a long, deep massage for his aching back.

He rubbed the rough bandage of his splint over closed lids. Then, eyes open, he saw the word. He checked again.

“I found it. I cannot make sense of it, but I found it.”

Hope and confidence finally loosed her tongue. “I want to go with you,” she whispered.

“No.”

She flinched. “I’ll stay out of danger, well behind the archers’ line.”

“No.”

“You want me to wait here, wait for news of your fate?” Pain seized beneath her ribs and robbed her of air. “I cannot—I, this will kill me.”

“The answer is no, Meg,” he said, touching her cheek. “You know that.”

She closed her eyes and pulled away from the symbols she could not see. Refusing to leave the cabin had protected against such a moment, when her impairment would leave her behind. But the pain was short-lived, surmounted more quickly than she feared. She could not handle a sword or fire an arrow or charge the ramparts at Will’s side, as Marian would next to her husband, but she could understand the book he held. She could make those symbols into potent magic that would aid in the fight.

“Yes, I know.”

“Keep this with you,” he said, curling her bare hand around the hilt of a dagger. He kissed both cheeks. “Just a little something to augment your natural fangs and claws.”

She laid the dagger and the book aside and dove into the shelter of his embrace. He grasped her fully, pulling her to the pallet. His arms crisscrossed her back, binding her close. Through the pain shooting across her palm, she touched his face, his dear features, memorizing him. That pain paled beside the gaping terror she felt. She had feared loving this man, and now she only feared losing him.

All fight faded, leaving a nightmare in its place. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held, hugged, and cried.

“You will come back to me?”

“I swear it.”

Will journeyed back to the forest, collecting Jacob from his father’s cabin and supplies based on her requests. He also ensured the servants’ compliance. Obeying the dictates of a former outcast, a purported witch, and a half-grown Jewish boy tested the obedience of the Loxley staff, but Meg was engrossed in her work and hardly noticed the nervous rumors. She studied and practiced, failed and started anew, until she produced a substance fit for the Devil’s own armies.

Inform the archers, she had said.

Other allies assembled too, including David Fuller and a ragtag band from Charnwood. Little John brought a merry company of men. Fletchers, iron workers, and men skilled with bows and swords. They came from surrounding holts, bringing with them a thirst for justice, a rowdy willingness to fight, and a sense of camaraderie Will had not experienced since his boyhood. He greeted each face, whether familiar or fresh, with humbled thanks.

Days later, Will and Robin rallied the men. Two barrels of Meg’s potion burdened a pair of horses—horses the forest folk avoided. Across the stables teeming with men and animals, Will caught sight of Marian standing alone. She wore a sad expression and a beautiful gown, not armaments for fighting. He led his mount by its reins and came to her side.

“I thought you were set to accompany us.”

She turned her deeply-set eyes to him, gracing him with a soft smile. “I thought to, but I cannot leave Robert. The chance…if—he needs one of us to survive, should the worst happen.”

“No more adventure and danger?”

“My son needs me, as does this manor. Meg and I shall keep company.”

“Thank you for that.” He matched her bittersweet smile, saying good-bye to the wild woman he had known. The mistress of Loxley Manor stood before him, and she knew lessons of steadiness and sacrifice he had yet to master. “Does Robin know?”

“Yes.” She flicked bright, sharp eyes over Will’s shoulder to where Robin mounted his horse. “We’ve said our farewells.”

A heavy sense of responsibility weighed on him, the dangers he asked so many to bear. But the task had grown larger than him, larger than Meg and her sister. Again they stood ready to unyoke Nottinghamshire from injustice.

“I shall bring him back to you, Marian.”

“Both of you,” she said. “No less.”

He kissed her hand, bowed, and faced the men. “Take to your horses! On to Bainbridge!”

But at least he did not crouch among the oaks, wondering at his purpose and the allegiances of the men beside him. He traversed through Sherwood with Robin, Little John, and threescore men, covering the distance into Barnsdale Forest by early evening. Clouds thinned and dispersed when they dined at midday, but storms fiercely fell near sundown.

He tightened his short cloak and drew the hood over his head. Although the leather lining provided some protection from the rain, droplets chased by hard winds lashed his face. He tipped his head toward the saddle and presented the hood to the worst gales.

Miserable.

But his boots were sound, his horse showed no signs of fatigue or ill temper, and he could trust the men at his back. A fair change, indeed.

Robin rode beside him, looking like the hooded outlaw of fame and fable. A gleaming bow hitched over his shoulder and a quiver of arrows with goose-feather fletching promised a wealful attack. He welcomed the opportunity to relinquish leadership to his experienced uncle.

“What are your plans?”

“Me?” Robin raised an eyebrow. “I made ready to ask the same of you.”

A sluice of panic drenched his skin more thoroughly than the rain. “You jest.”

“Not in the least. This is your gambit, Will. The lead is yours.”

“But you let as though you had ideas. I haven’t the experience to mount an attack of this scope.”

“Now you think to admit your lack of experience?”

“Yes, and aren’t you proud?”

His uncle grinned. The years-old tension banding Will’s chest eased at last. Apprehension about the pending attack pulled at his attention, yes, but he would not be alone. Robin no longer bore him ill will, and their easy, renewed camaraderie made him smile. A fresh start.

“Mounting an attack is different than understanding your enemy,” Robin said. “What do you know of Dryden? What can we expect of him?”

Will frowned, lips tight. Dryden’s thorough deception still rankled. “He acted a part. While he fought me initially, he behaved differently when he met Meg. As soon as he discovered her abilities as an alchemist, he demurred. We believed him a coward or a man reluctant to assume leadership.”

“But circumstances suggest he is neither.”

“Correct,” he said. “He was biding time, I wager. If not for Hugo’s mob capturing Meg, Dryden would have had both his alchemist and a dupe for the murders.”

“You?”

“Yes, and all without revealing himself as the perpetrator.”

“We shall reveal him this day, no matter how else we fare.”

He shivered, eyes on the forested horizon. “That won’t do, Rob. My aim is Ada returned safely.”

His uncle’s expression turned grim beneath the shadow of the hood. “Once Dryden discovers that we have no intention of trading or compromising, he’ll have little reason to keep her alive. Have you considered that?”

“I have.”

Robin adjusted his hold on the reins, gloves sliding on the wet leather. “Has Meg?”

“Possibly.”

Closing his eyes for a moment, Will clung to the memory of their good-bye. Desperate, rough loving. Mingled tears. Promises made and made again as they willed fate to be kind. Meg had stripped her bandages, endlessly touching his body and his face. They had endured too much to be bested at the final hour, but both understood the looming danger.

Night had vanished like a flashing spark. Holding fast to each other, the gathering daylight offered no reprieve. They could not forestall the inevitable.

“Our parting was…difficult,” he said. “I felt no cause to make the moment more dire by discussing bleak scenarios.”

Robin offered a tight nod. “I understand entirely.”

Thinking of Meg, of Marian, of home and safety—they would only distract him from the trials they faced. He forced the grief to a distant corner.

“Dryden sent that message to the manor,” he said. “He knows we shall come for him. Stealth may be of little use.”

“After what Meg showed us of that potion she created, stealth seems the last of our options. Your wife is a dangerous woman.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“Robin!”

His uncle turned to Little John’s rumbling call. “What is it?”

“We’ve arrived,” the burly man said. “Time for plans and action, not words. What say you?”

Robin flashed eyes of blue ice. “What say
you
, nephew?”

Will scowled, hardly the expression of a confident leader. A few dozen armed woodsmen—some of whom had been intent on hanging him weeks earlier—turned to him in a glade overlooking Bainbridge Valley. He had avoided responsibility for half the span of a man’s life, always wondering why Robin withheld his trust in difficult scrapes. The answer stared at him now. Asking Robin for aid was not the most difficult aspect of his venture; leading was.

“John, you and your men will come with me to the gates.” He found a sodden mop of curling black hair among the mass of armed men. Jacob, armed with his crossbow and curving knives, stood at the ready. But whereas Will had always resisted leadership and the advice of his elders, Jacob proved an able learner with a reluctant but firm grasp of his limitations. A man could not ask for a better fighter at his back, no matter his youth and heritage. “You too, Jacob.”

“Such a small envoy?” someone asked.

The faceless doubt irked him. He had no faith in his own command, but no one else needed to know. “We’ll take a small force to the castle, secretly. Keep as many people as possible out of the way of the archers’ arrows.”

The men in charge of tending Meg’s potion stood with a swath of leather draped across the openings of two watertight barrels. Another man removed a wide tub from the back of a donkey and turned it to the pouring rain, while a fourth pried the lid off a drum of sand, leaving the wooden slats to rest loosely atop it.

Robin edged his horse nearer to Will’s. His face unreadable, he addressed his corps of archers. “To make ready, dip an absorbent arrow into the solution and then into the water. As much as possible, keep water out of the barrels.”

“And separate them,” Will said, gesturing to the men guarding Meg’s concoction. “Put the barrels at either end of the line.”

Robin nodded. “We’ll hold fire until Dryden proves unreasonable.”

“Only two or three minutes, then,” John said. Raindrops beaded in his tangled beard and rimmed his eyelashes. “At least let us get to the castle gates, Rob.”