 
"You'll be swept back in time with the author's vivid descriptions of the era, while being immersed in the magic of legend itself. A must read!" ~ParaNormalRomance

"When the final secrets are revealed (and there is more than one!) this story of love, romance and fantasy will have you smiling incessantly." ~A Romance Review

"Magical mayhem, irresistible characters and a surprising conclusion make this a story that will stay in the reader's memory long after the book is finished." ~Romance Junkies

"It captures your attention from the beginning. Twists and turns keep you hanging on until the last word. Ms. Riser sends you on a thrilling mind vacation that you will not soon forget." ~Coffee Time Romance

### SHERWOOD

A Robin Hood Time-Travel Romance

Special Preview:

The First 7 Chapters

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MIMI RISER

www.mimiriser.com

Smashwords Edition:

Copyright © 2016 by Mimi Riser

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition, Smashwords License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

(Disclaimer: This novel is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.)

Note: This novel was originally published under the title Sherwood Charade.

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### Chapter 1

"Hey, man, how 'bout this one? Gotta cool lookin' castle on the cover."

"Castle? No way. Sounds like them hysterical romance stories my sister reads."

"Not 'hysterical,' Nelson. _Historical_."

"Yeah, well they're pretty hysterical, too. All that love stuff's a buncha crap."

"How the hell would you know? You ain't never been in love."

"Huh. And you have?"

"Know more 'bout it than you do."

"Yeah, I'll just bet. So what you got there anyway? If it ain't a love story, what is that castle book, huh?"

"If you'd shut up for two seconds, I could read the back and tell you. Some kind of adventure, I think... Yeah. Says here it's 'bout this dude who goes way back in time to..."

Camelot. Hey, why not? It sounded okay to Marian Allanson. Not as good as Sherwood Forest, which would have been her first choice, but not bad. More interesting than Philadelphia's North Broad Street where she currently sat—in general locale. In specific locale she sat behind the back counter of Mueller's Used Books. Even more specifically she sat behind Chaucer's _Canterbury Tales_ —original Middle English version, of course—or, rather, she hid behind it. Being one of those big doorstopper editions with lots of pictures and maps and stuff, it made a great hiding book. She used it a lot.

Peeking over the top she watched the duo in the front of the store. Their arms buried to the elbows in the overflowing paperback bin near the entrance, the two boys looked like a couple of pint-sized pirates eagerly sorting their booty. Last week they'd shoplifted _Treasure Island_ and _The Time Machine_. Today it looked like they were after Mark Twain's _A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court_.

Good choice. Marian approved. She'd read that novel herself when she was about their age. Her copy had been pilfered from Frank Mueller, too.

"The kids 'round here been stealing me blind for years," he'd confessed her first day on the job. "It's a sport, a right-of-passage for 'em. But it gets 'em reading, too. I figure it's better they snitch books from me than smoke dope in the alleys." His main business was in the back room anyway, where the antique manuscripts were stored in fireproof safes. "That's where the real money is. Buy low, sell high. Too high, if possible. But my big clients can afford a little rip-off," he'd said between puffs on his ever-present pipe. "I'm like Robin Hood. I rob from the rich to give to the poor."

Robin Hood?

Now there was an image for you: gray haired Frank Mueller—all five-foot, two and a half inches of him—romping through Sherwood in green tights and feathered cap. Would his pipe get tangled in the bowstring when he shot an arrow?

He must have known how the reference would grab her attention. He would have remembered how Robin Hood had always been her favorite character, how she used to scour the store looking for books about him. And how disappointed she'd been to read that her hero was just a myth, a fanciful folktale with no proven historical basis.

"Marian?" Mueller's gravelly voice broke into the reverie, pulling her back to the business at hand. Right. Mustn't make this too easy for the kids. That would spoil their fun.

"Forbidden fruit is always the sweetest," he whispered, his eyes blinking like an owl's as he peered at her from behind coke-bottle spectacles. "That's why I hired you, remember?"

Marian nodded. They went through this every day. She never believed him, but she'd given up arguing. This was Mueller's story and he was sticking to it. The job offer had nothing to do with the fact that he'd known her since she was shorter than he, that his store had been the one solid constant in her life, her home away from all those homes she never had. And it certainly wasn't because fresh out of college now, with no family and a ton of loans to pay off, she needed the work. Heck no. What did she think he was anyway? Some old softy? Him? _Tiger_ Mueller?

Not a chance. It was just that the old tiger had been spending so much time recently in his back lair, theft in the front of the store had tapered off to a trickle. It had become too easy, no challenge to it anymore—or so Mueller said. Thus he'd hired a clerk, a watchdog. Marian Allanson. Her job was to sit up here looking stern and menacing. That would keep these young hoodlums reading!

"I wanna take a closer look at that manuscript I bought yesterday," the old man declared loudly. With a scraping of wood and creaking of arthritic joints he slid out from behind his end of the long, cluttered counter. "You keep an eye on things out here, and mind you look sharp!" He shot her a conspiratorial wink, then shuffled out of view, wheezing like a bronchial pipe-organ with bad bellows.

Rising to the occasion as best she could Marian dropped Chaucer with a nice noticeable thud and put on her sternest expression for the benefit of the two young pirates at the paperback bin.

\-------

Mueller peeked back through the door of his office before closing it, shook his head at the sight of her glowering over the counter. She did try, bless her heart, but small, pale and delicate, with riotous ruddy curls hanging halfway to her waist, and big soulful blue eyes, she looked about as menacing as a piece of Dresden china. And as transparent as glass. He heaved a raspy sigh as the door clicked shut behind him. He couldn't help it. Neither could Marian, of course; he knew that.

Chewing on the stem of his pipe he unlocked the nearest safe and removed a fragile bundle of thirteenth century parchment, a quirky old Latin text by some obscure scholar called Roland of Hunterdon. Very rare, very precious. Very odd. Sort of like his clerk. The girl didn't belong in this kind of world. She was like someone from another era almost, like a character in a Jane Austen novel, or some princess out of a fairytale. How she'd survived this long was a mystery to him. Considering her background, it was a miracle.

He shuddered to think what could have happened if they'd never met. It must have been Kismet that brought her into his store twelve years ago. Poor kid, looking so sad and alone. She'd been the first shoplifter he'd ever let escape. Instead of calling the cops on her that day, he'd called them _for_ her. Pretty damn ironic to consider that stealing a book might have saved her life.

Which one had she filched? A novel wasn't it? Dickens? Stevenson? Twain! That was it. Mueller's owl eyes crinkled as he paused a moment to fish the title out of his memory. Not _Tom Sawyer_ , not _Huckleberry Finn_ ...

\-------

" _A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court_ ," Nelson read off the cover of the book he'd been handed. He sounded indignant, cheated. "Lando, you dumb-ass, I thought you said this was a time-travel story."

"Dumb-ass, yourself. It _is_ a time-travel story."

"Oh yeah? Well, if it's got a Yankee in it, it looks like a _baseball_ story to me."

"It doesn't mean _that_ kind of Yankee. Man, Nelson, if buttheads had wings you'd be a jumbo jet."

So it went every time the pair entered Mueller's Used Books—also known as "Mueller's Reading Program for Underprivileged Youngsters" to those honored few in the old man's confidence. Glaring sternly from her post behind the counter Marian fidgeted with a loose thread on her sweater and wished they'd settle the argument and make their getaway, because she doubted her glare would hold out much longer. Orlando Demitrios Konstantinos and his sidekick Nelson were like a ghetto version of Abbott and Costello.

The street door banged opened and closed, bringing a blast of blaring horns, city dust and traffic fumes into the store. Booted steps thudded over the scarred wood floor. Swallowing back a sudden flutter of nerves Marian rose from her perch to greet the newcomer. "Can I help you?"

Hmm, just an average looking man in leather jacket and jeans, but the way his eyes scanned the place he certainly seemed like he needed help. Unfortunately. Was he here for the antiques? Not that he looked wealthy enough—or academic enough—for the good stuff, but you couldn't always go by looks. Maybe she'd better call ol' Tiger.

She started toward the closed office door, then hesitated when she heard mumbled Latin on the other side. Mr. Mueller must be reading to himself again; he did that a lot. What a pretty passage. It sounded like poetry. Darn, he'd probably hate an interruption. Her gaze wavered between the door and the newcomer, whose eyes met hers and then raked over her as though she were part of the merchandise.

"Don't mind me, sugar. Just browsing." He flashed her a crooked grin.

Or was that a leer? Whatever. Marian didn't smile back.

"Quite a place you got here," he offered—pleasantly enough, she supposed, but he still gave her the willies. "Don't think I've ever seen so many books before."

"We try to keep a good stock." She kept her eyes on him as he worked his way toward her and the back counter, picking up a volume here, laying it down there. Just browsing, huh? Why didn't she believe him? His manner seemed almost too casual for a simple browser. And those eyes. And that grin... Apprehension raised gooseflesh on her arms and she shivered, her pulse skipping, her breath suddenly short and shallow.

_No, not a panic attack, not now._ This was ridiculous. There was no reason to be frightened. The poor guy was probably only killing time while he waited for a bus or an appointment or something.

Mentally slapping herself she drew a deep breath and rubbed the goose bumps away. This had nothing to do with him. It was just her paranoia raising its ugly head again. Most males made her skin crawl, except for the very young or the very old, like Orlando and Mr. Mueller. And Robin Hood... But since he wasn't real, and would be dead now even if he were, she supposed she shouldn't count him. Too bad. Or maybe not. She should probably stop thinking of Robin Hood, period. It was stupid. An "unhealthy fixation," her late uncle had once said, and if anyone knew about unhealthy fixations it was her uncle. She wished she hadn't remembered.

Damn, this was giving her a headache. Why didn't the man just buy a book and leave?

Glancing toward the front she noticed Orlando acting oddly. It didn't help her mood. Crouched by the paperback bin he was elbowing Nelson and watching their browser the way a wary rodent watches something it's unsure is a cat or not.

"Hey, man, stick your head out the door and see if you can spot any cops," the boy whispered. "You see one, tell him to get his ass in here quick."

"You nuts? What the hell you want a _cop_ for?" Nelson obviously found the request a sick joke. "You hopin' maybe a uniform'll convince me this Yankee book's 'bout time-travel? Huh?" He gave a disgusted grunt. "I _know_ better, Lando. It ain't got no time-machine in it. The cover just says this dude gets knocked in the head and when he wakes up he's thousands of miles away, right?"

"Thousands of miles away _and_ hundreds of years in the past." Orlando's eyes never left the browser. "The knock on the head is what sends him back through time, okay?"

"No. It don't make no sense."

"Nelson, I ain't got time to argue. Just shove your fool head out that door and do like I told you. Move!"

"I'll move, but it still don't make no sense. How can a knock on the head send someone back through time?" Nelson grumbled.

But his friend no longer listened. As the browser reached for something in his jacket Orlando launched forward, straight down the center aisle, and vaulted over the counter. He hit Marian with a flying tackle that sent her crashing down like a sacked quarterback on the line of scrimmage. Her head snapped back against the floor with a sickening thud, and that was the last thing she remembered... Until she awoke with a throbbing skull to find herself thousands of miles away.

And hundreds of years in the past.

*****

"Uh-oh." Orlando's voice, small and hushed, sounded younger than she'd ever heard him. "I think Mark Twain might have been on to something."

_He had?_ Marian was afraid to open her eyes and find out, but she had the awful feeling Orlando was right. The feeling intensified as she inhaled. Her nose wrinkled. What was that smell? Something...moist, green...something lush and alive.

Fresh air.

She almost choked on it. Yikes. This didn't smell like the city. Didn't sound like the city, didn't feel like it. Instead of floorboards beneath her back, she felt a damp cushion of...

Blindly, she groped to the side. Her fingers closed around a handful of... _Old salad?_ Really gritty old salad. _Ick._ That couldn't be right. She explored further by touch.

Leaves, twigs, earth... Damn.

Her stomach turned over. She was lying half buried in mulch. Where no mulch should be. Either she or the ground was in the wrong place, and somehow she doubted it was the ground.

From all around came soft scrapings and rustlings. Small bodies scurrying through brush? Her stomach did another flip-flop. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, listening, concentrating, trying to separate the sounds.

Chirps and twitters above... Birdcalls.

Airy whispering... A breeze in high branches.

Forest noises.

Marvy. She'd never been in a forest before, but she'd imagined plenty. Well, one particular forest anyway, and this was exactly what it sounded like.

Marian stifled a sob. If it were just her, she'd know where she was, know she was dreaming. But this couldn't be a dream, could it? She wasn't alone. Orlando lay half on top and pressed against her side, his breath feathering her face, adding a hint of beef and grilled onions to the earthy green smell. He must have had a cheese steak for lunch—not that it had any bearing on their current predicament, but she couldn't help noticing.

The boy's heart raced, pounding like a jackhammer against the outside of her ribs. Her own heart pounded with it. Her head pounded even harder. _Steady, Marian, he's just a kid, he's scared. Get a grip on it—for his sake._ She forced open her eyes to see him staring down, his nose nearly touching her own. He looked so worried. She didn't blame him. She was worried, too.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his dark eyes huge with concern.

He was worried about _her_? What a sweet boy. She managed a weak smile. "My head's sore, but I'll be all right." _I hope._ "How about you?"

"Me? Hell, I'm fan-friggin'-tastic! I was just waiting on you. If you're okay, let's go." He let out a whoop as he rolled off her. "C'mon, I wanna find out where we landed."

_He would._ Marian groaned. So much for the kid's terror. This was a grand adventure to him; he was loving it. She should have known. Orlando was a survivor. Nothing fazed him. She wished she could say the same about herself.

Nimble as a monkey he scrambled to his feet and stood grinning at her. Marian stared back, feeling her eyes pop. A silly reaction really. No reason to be so surprised. He looked perfect—if they'd just flown back through time, that was.

Good grief, what am I thinking?

"Hey, you think we're near Camelot?" Orlando's eager gaze fixed on her face. "Man, I wish Nelson was here. I'd make him eat every page in that damn Yankee book." His grin faded as she continued to stare. "Whatsa matter? Oh shit, don't tell me my fly's open."

His hands flew to his crotch, froze as they landed on coarse brown wool instead of the zipper of his jeans. He looked down at himself, gave a low whistle, then studied Marian, his gaze traveling over her entire length. His expression soured.

"I like your new dress, but mine sucks." He plucked at the knee-length hooded garment he wore.

"You're not wearing a dress. That's a tunic and hose you have on. They're guy clothes, I promise." _Why_ he had them on was a whole other question—one she wasn't sure she wanted answered. She took a moment to examine her own gown—long, loose and green, with scarlet ribbons at the neck, and full sleeves.

Classic medieval.

Of course. Why not?

She sighed.

Orlando coughed. "Oh, right. I knew that. I was just testing to see if you knew."

"I have a master's degree in history." Carefully, Marian pulled to her feet, the gown's fabric swirling about her legs. "I probably know more about the past than I do the present."

_The present?_ Oh God, what if their current present really was the past? She scanned their surroundings, searching for clues. Finding only trees, brambles, and more trees. Big help.

"No kiddin'. History, huh?" Orlando looked impressed.

Marian was glad one of them was. Heaven knew her degree hadn't done her much good so far. Although she had a gloomy suspicion the studies that led up to it might come in handy soon.

Orlando thought the same thing. "So, if you know history you can figure out where we are, right?" He shot her a lopsided grin. "Or should that be _when_ we are?"

Cute kid.

"Both," Marian said with a sigh. She seemed to be sighing a lot lately, but it was probably better than burying her head in her arms and shrieking, which was her only other impulse right then. "I need more to go on though. This forest could be almost any time period, and our clothes aren't much more specific. Styles changed slowly during the Middle Ages. To pinpoint exactly where and"—she sighed again—" _when_ we are, I'll need to see a town or a village—some buildings, activity. Preferably from a distance."

Orlando squinted up at her, his dark brows pulled together. "Why 'a distance'?"

"For safety. If we really are in the"—she shivered—"the past, we can't just go barging in on people, saying, 'Hi, I'm from the future. Could you please tell me where I am and what year this is?' Number one, they probably won't be able to understand our speech, and number two—"

"They'll think we're nuts," Orlando interjected.

"Worse. They might think we're witches or demons. People of the past had a very different way of looking at things than we do. They were... Um, do you know what superstitious means?"

"Yeah. You're saying they're dumb." Orlando grinned. "So? Nuthin' different 'bout that. Most people are dumb."

Marian blinked at him. "That's pretty cynical for a twelve-year-old, don't you think?"

He blinked back. "What's 'cynical'?"

Oh hell, his attitude was probably healthier than hers. When she was his age she'd viewed most people as evil and frightening. In some ways, she still did. Her lips curled in a sad smile. "It means you're a smart boy."

"Oh. Right. Glad you noticed." Orlando glanced down, suddenly fascinated by the play of shadows on the forest floor.

Was he blushing? It was difficult to tell in the dappled light under the trees, but she'd bet money he was. What an adorable little rogue. If she hadn't felt on the verge of a nervous breakdown she would have been tempted to grab him and hug him. She squinted upward instead, searching for the sun through a webbed canopy of branches and leaves, trying to gauge the hour of the day. Late, it appeared. A dusky lavender tinged what little of the sky she could see. She rubbed her arms as a chill crept over her.

"You're right, I don't think this is the kind of place we wanna be caught in after dark. Better get moving," Orlando said, as though reading her mind—even though he'd read it wrong.

She hadn't been thinking of moving anywhere, just praying that whatever had sent them here would— _please, please, pretty please_ —send them back. The hell with being caught here after dark. She didn't want to be caught here, period.

"Hey, I wonder if there are wolves in these woods," Orlando added cheerfully.

"Wolves?" Marian stiffened. Good lord, she hadn't even considered wolves. Or bears maybe?

"Don't worry, I'll protect you."

Damn the boy, he sounded like he actually _liked_ the idea of wild animals.

"Wolves are just big dogs, right? I can handle dogs." Squatting down, he rummaged through the brush till he found a stout looking stick.

Not stout enough for his companion though. "What do you think you're going to do with that? Teach them to play fetch?"

"Ha-ha. Glad you still got your sense of humor." He started poking with his stick through the undergrowth, parting bushes and peering behind trees. "Must be a path 'round here somewhere," he muttered to himself.

"I wasn't trying to be funny," she grumbled.

"I know. That's why I ain't laughing." He turned back to his rooting, looking like a forest sprite in his tunic and hose.

Great, just what she needed. A smart-ass elf who was twelve going on thirty.

"Orlando—"

" _Shhh_." He cut her off with a raised hand, cocking his head and listening.

To what?

Marian strained her ears. Then she heard it, too. Distant shouts, cries, the clang of metal, a sudden crashing through the brush. The last sound close, and getting closer—

"Watch out!" Lunging forward, Orlando grabbed her about the waist, dragged her back and down. A split second later a flash of white and red broke through the trees and sailed over them where they lay panting in the mulch. The white was a small snowy horse, eyes wild, nostrils flared. The red, a young woman in a crimson gown, clinging like a limpet to the beast's saddle (whatever the heck a limpet was). She was either mad or pursued by demons to be riding so recklessly.

"Damn. Wonder what her problem is." Orlando lifted his head to stare after her. "Oh shit—" He dove back to earth, taking Marian with him as he rolled to the side just in time to avoid being trampled by a second horse—a large bay ridden by a muscular figure in leather and mail, a young man armed to the teeth with broadsword, dagger and longbow.

Marian gasped.

So did the man. "My lady!" He pulled back on the reins so abruptly his mount reared.

For several dizzy seconds Marian saw nothing but flailing hooves. She almost fainted.

Cursing, the man yanked the reins across the horse's neck and swung his weight to the side. With a loud snapping of twigs the animal swiveled and landed back on all fours, scant inches from Marian's and Orlando's heads. Speechless, they stared up at the rider, who stared back at them, his eyes wide, his breath coming heavy.

"Elaine?" He sounded as though he couldn't believe it.

Marian agreed. She didn't believe she was Elaine either. "N-no. We're...um..." Her brow furrowed. "Who _is_ Elaine?"

"I think he means the chick who almost ran us down." Orlando scrambled to his feet and pointed off through the forest to where the flash of white and crimson could just be seen. "She went thataway," he told the man.

"Orlando!" Marian wanted to smack him. Whoever Elaine was, it seemed obvious she was fleeing something. What if that something was the fellow before them now?

He guessed her thoughts. "Nay, lady, I mean her no harm. I seek only to protect her from those who do." He squinted through the trees at the speck of fleeing white. "Blessed Virgin Mother—she'll kill herself!" Fear darkening his features, he started to spur his mount forward, then halted short to gaze back at Marian. "'Tis most curious," he murmured, shaking his head.

She had no idea what he was talking about.

"Your page?" He nodded toward Orlando.

"Um, yes." She pulled to her feet and drew the boy close to her side.

"Who's he callin' a page? I ain't no book," Orlando complained, and got an elbow in the ribs for his trouble. "Ow, what was that for?" He shot Marian a wounded look. She shot him a warning glare back. "Okay, okay. Yeah, I'm her page," he agreed. "Makes me feel like a friggin' piece of paper," he added under his breath.

"Then get your lady hence, and quickly. 'Twill not be safe for her should you be discovered, or I know not my lords." With those words the man tightened his grip on the reins and charged off in pursuit of Elaine, his horse sounding like a full cavalry as it tore under branches and zigzagged between ancient oaks.

Marian gazed after him, her head spinning.

"Think he'll catch her?" Orlando said.

"I think they're both going to break their necks."

"Yeah, well ain't much we can do to stop 'em. C'mon." He tugged on her hand.

She scarcely noticed. Something else tugged at her, something strange—something that didn't fit with the other strangeness. What was it?

He tugged harder. "Marian, c'mon. We gotta get moving. It ain't safe here. You heard the man."

_That's_ what was strange. "You're right. We did hear him. And he heard us."

"Duh. Yeah." Orlando gave her a look generally reserved for the feeble-minded.

She ignored it. "And we all understood each other." Amazing.

He dropped her hand and stared, blankly. "So? We were all talkin' English, right?"

"Wrong. You and I speak modern American English. That man's English was hundreds of years older. The two forms are very different."

Orlando shrugged. "Didn't sound too different to me."

It hadn't sounded all that different to Marian either. That's what she couldn't figure. She stared down at her gown, absently brushing it clean, and thinking. When she'd been reading Chaucer, medieval English on the page had looked like another language, but to her ears now it had sounded almost normal—just like this gown she wore felt normal. It was like all her senses had somehow been reprogrammed to match the period she was in. Could that be caused by whatever bumped her and Orlando back here? Did a person's system naturally readjust when they jumped through time?

Who the hell knew? It seemed pointless to worry about it. Just being here was bizarre enough without bothering over the details.

She looked down at Orlando, who scowled up at her. "At least that man's language told us where we are. England. Thirteenth century, I'd guess. His armor was too light for the later periods, but I don't think a longbow like he carried was introduced here until about 1200. Longbows originally came from Wales. Did you know that?"

"I do now." Orlando tapped his foot. "Can we go?"

A crackling of twigs sounded behind them. Marian gasped as heavy hands latched on to her upper arms. Her knees buckled, but the man who'd grabbed her held her upright and steered her forward through the trees.

"I _told_ you we should move. Sonofabitch—" Orlando cursed as a second mailed figure hoisted him half off his feet by the back of his tunic and dragged him along in Marian's wake. "Hey, man, don't wrinkle the material. I just got these threads. Kinda like to keep 'em nice for a while, y'know?"

"Silence, whelp," growled his captor.

Slipping on decaying leaves and stumbling over roots, Marian strained around long enough to see Orlando raise his hand and extend his middle finger under the fellow's nose. Good thing the man didn't know what the gesture meant.

### Chapter 2

The soldiers shoved them out of the trees onto an open ribbon of road cut through the forest. Marian's heart lurched. Her stomach quickly followed suit. All around them clanked men in mail shirts rounding up skittish horses, wiping gore off sword and dagger blades. Very businesslike, all in a day's work. While their day's work itself—the slashed corpses of several fat friars and a skinny old woman in nun's garb—lay strewn about the forest road like so much deadwood. Already ravens gathered in the nearby branches, their beady eyes glowing like coals in the leafy shadows, their calls ringing hungry and hoarse. An evil stench of sweat and blood hung heavy in the air.

"Ew, gross," Orlando said as they were hauled across the road to a mismatched pair on the opposite side. One of the men, big and broad as a bear, paced back and forth, barking orders. The other, sleek and dark as a weasel, stood silently at ease. A sardonic grin played about his lips as he surveyed the carnage. Both turned and stared when the two prisoners were pulled to a rocky halt before them.

"Here she be, m'lords!" Marian's captor released her and stepped away. She was almost sorry to see him go, since it was largely his grip that had been holding her on her feet. She locked her knees to stay upright.

Orlando's guard let go of the boy's tunic and pushed him forward to stand beside her.

"Didn't get far, she didn't," the man reported. "Horse must have thrown her, but she seems hale."

"Indeed." The weasely man studied Marian. "She seems, also, to have changed her gown." His gaze shifted to Orlando. "And acquired a new companion. A Saracen, by the look of him. Most interesting." He turned to the bearlike figure who stood glowering alongside him. "Do you not agree, Sir Guy?"

"Sara what? I thought I was supposed to be a page. I wish you jerk-shits would make up your minds."

" _Orlando_ —" Marian grabbed for him. Not fast enough.

Sir Guy of Gisbourne's hand lashed out, bloodying the boy's lip and knocking him into her. "Silence, Saracen! We'll have no infidel oaths here."

"All right, already. Sheesh. You want me to be a Saracen, I'll be a Saracen," Orlando grumbled. "Mind tellin' me what the hell a Saracen _is_?" he asked Marian over his shoulder.

" _Shhh_. It means he thinks you're an Arab. Just be quiet. Don't make this any worse." Her arms tightened protectively around him.

Orlando mopped the blood off his mouth with the heel of his hand. "How can it be any worse?" He glared up at the burly form of Sir Guy looming over them. "Hey, man, ain't toothbrushes been invented yet? I ain't smelled anything like your breath since the sewer line busted. Sonofabitch—"

_We're dead._ Who knew if the man understood all those terms? He obviously recognized an insult when he heard one. Hardly surprising. Looking and smelling like he did, he probably heard a lot. Marian squealed as Orlando was jerked out of her arms.

Sir Guy's hand arced out with a dagger. "Filthy little dog! I'll have your tongue for that—"

"No!" She lunged forward, only to be caught by an arm about her waist. _Umph._ Weasel-man was stronger than he looked.

"Gently, Gisbourne, gently. All in good time." He deflected the dagger with a swiftly drawn sword. "Your impatience has already sailed you into treacherous waters, I fear. But happily"—he grinned—"you have me to steer you out of them."

"Happily, Nottingham?" Sir Guy threw Orlando aside. "With you for my helmsman, good Sheriff, 'tis a wonder I've not yet been foundered on the rocks."

"That _is_ still a possibility. Though if you sink now 'twill be your own doing and none of mine." The sheriff chuckled. "Poor fellow. Pay him no heed, my sweet," he whispered in Marian's ear. "His temper always sours in direct proportion to the increase of his debts. And he happens to be extremely indebted to me at present. Sir Guy's luck at dice stinks worse than his breath." With another chuckle he released her.

She stumbled back a pace, her thoughts whirling.

_Nottingham? Sheriff?_ No! This wasn't fair.

The sheriff sheathed his sword. "Can I trust you to stay here, my lady, whilst I speak with Sir Guy?"

_Do I have a choice?_ Too dazed to care, she nodded.

"Good. Then we shan't have to bind you." Motioning Sir Guy to follow, he strode off several yards.

Orlando picked himself up out of the dirt and scurried to her side.

"Assholes," he muttered, scowling at the two men.

Marian scarcely heard him. She gazed off into the forest, seeing it through new eyes, its power hitting her in the gut, stealing her breath. Raw primeval force. A place of shadows and secrets, green gold and pulsing in the last rays of light. Rich and vivid—more beautiful than it had been in her dreams—bigger and better than she'd ever imagined it to be.

Which made things all the worse.

"I know where we are," she said. "Sherwood." Her voice cracked on the word.

"Sherwood?" Orlando's brow furrowed, then his eyes widened. A broad grin split his face. "You mean Sherwood Forest like in Robin Hood? Kewl! Maybe he'll rescue us."

Marian winced. _No, just Sherwood._ No rescue, no hooded hero with a bow. No way. The forest was real, but its mythical outlaw was not. They couldn't hope to find him lurking behind any of these trees. _So close, yet so far._ This was too damned ironic.

"Uh-oh. Look." Orlando touched her arm. "If Robin's gonna show, _now_ would be a real good time."

"What?" She turned, followed the boy's gaze to the road. Her breath stuck in her throat. A grim-faced young soldier had just ridden in with a slender, auburn haired girl in a crimson gown slumped motionless before him in the saddle. Poor Elaine. Marian hadn't seen her face before, couldn't see it now. She didn't have to. That gown was a dead giveaway. Too dead.

"Hey, that's the guy we met before," Orlando whispered. "And that's—" He broke off as the man dismounted and eased his burden to the ground.

All activity stopped. A hush fell over the group as everyone stood and stared. Orlando sucked in his breath and let it out with a whoosh. He looked from Elaine's pale face to Marian's and back again. "Holy shit."

Marian knew exactly how he felt. She stood rooted in place, unable to move, unable to speak, barely able to breathe. For a moment she was sure her heart had stopped. Then she felt it again, hammering against her ribs like a wild thing trying to escape.

_Oh no, don't faint._ She gulped in air and fought back the panic. Elaine lay only a few paces away, the crimson gown rippling around her like a puddle of blood. She couldn't bear to look, couldn't tear her eyes away.

"Too weird." Orlando touched her hand. "You and her could almost be twins."

The sheriff glanced over his shoulder at them and grinned. "An excellent idea. We shall discuss it anon." He turned back to Sir Guy. "Well?"

Sir Guy glowered down at Elaine. "What would you have me say, Nottingham? That you were right?"

"I am always right." The sheriff chuckled. "You can see for yourself now that yonder maid is _not_ Lady Elaine." He flashed another grin over his shoulder at Marian.

She was beginning to hate that grin.

"Aye," Sir Guy growled. "I see." He leveled a scathing look at the young man who'd delivered the lady.

"The horse threw her, my lord. There was naught I could do." With obvious effort the soldier tore his gaze away from the body. He sounded more than sorry. He sounded devastated.

"You may spare us the details, Allan," the sheriff said, his voice both smooth and edged, a dagger voice in a silken sheath. "I only hope, for your sake, you in no way hastened the lady's demise. Hmm?"

Allan's clean-shaven cheeks flamed scarlet. "You know I did not, sire. You saw how her horse bolted. 'Tis why I gave chase—I could see she'd lost the reins. I was trying to _save_ her life, not take it. I...I'm no killer of women." His gaze fell on the crumpled form of the old nun, then slanted to a thickset, pig-jowled fellow slouched a few feet away.

The piggy fellow smiled, showing two rows of rotting teeth. "'Twere self-defense, that were. Old witch pulled a dirk on me."

"But of course. I thought myself she looked the most formidable of the lady's escort." The sheriff ended the confrontation with a flick of his fingers. He turned back to Sir Guy. "Knowing Mother Jennet's staunch character, 'tis certain she would ne'er have willingly released her charge to you. She had to be...eliminated." The flick of his hand broadened to include the rest of the bodies. "They all had to be eliminated."

Sir Guy glowered down at Elaine. "Aye, Nottingham, that much was agreed at the start of this. But Elaine was not to be 'eliminated' till our marriage was sealed and her dowry mine." He kicked her frail figure in the side. "Blast the ninny wench for not sticking her saddle!"

"Tsk, tsk." The sheriff clucked his tongue. "Better to blast yourself for your temper that blinds you to our ready solution. We may have lost one bride, but providence has miraculously afforded us another." He grinned. "Your luck may be improving, Sir Guy."

All eyes turned to Marian.

She paled.

"Aw shit," Orlando said.

Marian heard him through a pounding in her head, the noise of her heart laboring to pump oxygen to her brain. _Typical, just typical._ Nothing ever changed, did it? Not even here, thousands of miles and hundreds of years away. Some people were born to be commodities, used. She was one of them.

"Marian, are these guys thinking what I think they're thinking?"

Through a gray fog she gazed at Orlando's face. A beautiful face, if boys were allowed to be called beautiful. Classic Greco-Roman features topped by thick, glossy dark curls. Eyes such a deep luminous brown they were almost black. He looked like a Byzantine angel—an angel with a heart-stopping, devil's grin.

Except he wasn't grinning now. The tension on that perfect face hit her like a slap, shocking her into action. Not action for herself—she'd looked in enough mirrors to know a lost cause when she saw one. Orlando, however, was another story. With no family but an older cousin who was never home, who couldn't be bothered with him, the boy had been surviving independently in the streets. He was everything she hadn't been. From her perch in the store she'd watched him like a caged canary admiring a young eagle. She was damned if she'd let that beautiful eagle be shot down now.

"Never mind what they're thinking," she whispered. "Just be ready to run. When they come for me, I'll try to keep them busy long enough for you to get away."

His eyes widened. "Run, hell. It's probably my fault we're here. I'm the one who was flappin' my big mouth 'bout knocks on the head sending people back through time. And _I'm_ the one who got us knocked out." He paused, chewing his lip. "But I was only trying to help. You knew that, right? That jerk in the store wasn't looking for books. I saw a gun in his jacket...I think." He blew out his breath. "Shit, if I couldn't let him hurt you, I damn sure ain't gonna leave you alone with these creeps."

Marian's chest constricted. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He didn't really blame himself for this, did he? That was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard. Also the bravest. She wanted to shake him and hug him at the same time. She couldn't do anything for a moment but stare. A large lump filled her throat. She swallowed it down by reminding herself that she was the adult and he was the child. His safety was her responsibility, not the other way around.

"Orlando, it's all right. Honest. I don't know how we ended up here, but I know it's not your fault." He started to interrupt, but she shushed him. "No, listen. The only way you can help is to get yourself out of danger. Okay? Now, promise me you'll run the second you can." She gave him her sternest glare, the one she used to frighten shoplifters. It worked as well in Sherwood as it had in Philadelphia.

"Okay, I promise," he agreed.

Marian breathed out in relief—then almost choked when Orlando's promise was followed by that incorrigible grin of his.

"But I get to pick _which_ second that is," he said.

God, he was maddening.

"Aw, come on, Marian, don't give up so easy. No one can hurt you unless you _let_ them. These guys may think they're tough, but they ain't half as bad as some of the pimps and pushers I've had to deal with. We can bluff our way outta this."

She clenched her teeth. "No, we can't. I am lousy at bluffing."

Orlando snorted. "You think I don't know that? After all those books you been lettin' me steal? Don't be so dumb. You just shut up and let _me_ do all the talking."

"Both of you, hold your tongues," the sheriff said over his shoulder, "or I shall have someone hold them for you." He turned back to Sir Guy. "Now then, you were saying, Gisbourne? Come, come, tell me what you have against"—his gaze slanted to Marian and back—"the Lady Elaine's fair sister."

" _Sister_?" Orlando shouted.

Marian gulped and clapped a hand over his mouth.

"What sister? 'Tis the first I've heard of this." Sir Guy shot Marian a wary look. "How do you know Elaine had a sister?"

The sheriff's brows raised. "How can you be sure she did not? Look at her, man. What more proof do you need than your own eyes? 'Tis clear she is Elaine's twin."

"A demon more likely, a devil sent to taunt us." Sir Guy glanced from side to side as though expecting attack from the shadows of the trees. "This stinks of witchcraft."

The sheriff chuckled. "Nonsense. The only stink here is yours. The boy was right, you know. You smell like a pigsty."

Sir Guy grabbed for the hilt of his sword. "Better men than you have lost their ears for less."

Watching, Marian held her breath.

The sheriff let out his in a harsh laugh. "Oh, please do not force me to arrest you for the murder of Elaine and her escort." With a flick of his hand, half the company on the road flanked him, their weapons at the ready.

The other half—Sir Guy's, Marian assumed—did nothing. Interesting. Guy of Gisbourne was not a leader who inspired loyalty in his followers. Why didn't that surprise her?

He reluctantly let go of his sword. "Will you arrest yourself as well, Nottingham? Do you think King John will thank you for plotting to kidnap his ward? This game was not my idea. 'Twas all your doing and you know it."

"Perhaps." The sheriff shrugged. "But you'll ne'er prove it." He waved his hand in a gesture that included the entire company. "My people are devoted to me." A grin curled his lips. "So are yours. They know who's been providing for them. And it has not been you."

"Elaine's dowry would have solved that," Sir Guy grumbled.

"And so it still shall," the sheriff said. "'Twill be even better this way."

Sir Guy sneered. "How so?"

"Yeah, that's what I wanna know," Orlando called out.

Marian clapped her hand over his mouth again.

The sheriff shot them a look. "Thank you, my lady," he said through clenched teeth.

"You're welcome," she murmured, feeling greener than her gown.

"Now then, where was I?" The sheriff turned back to Sir Guy. "Ah, yes, the difficulty with our original plan, that His Majesty had promised his ward to another. Or had you forgotten?"

"That coward Hunterdon? Bah!" Sir Guy snorted. "He wanted her not. If he had, he'd not have delayed the wedding. The man's more suited to a monastery than a marriage bed."

"No doubt," the sheriff conceded. "Nevertheless, he has gold enough to have bought difficulties for you should he have pressed his claim. With Elaine dead, however, he has no claim."

"Aye, and we've both lost her dowry. 'Twill go to the crown now, I'll wager."

"You know, Gisbourne, you really should stop wagering." The sheriff shook his head. "You've no talent for it. 'Tis why your coffers are empty. Without another heir, Elaine's dowry will likely go to her cousin in Paris—out of John's hands. Given the choice, I'd say he'd rather award it to one here than chance losing sight of it completely. Trust me, he'll be the last to dispute our story."

"I do not trust you. I do not trust her," Sir Guy said with a glower at Marian. "And I know not _what_ story you mean."

"The story of the twins—the ones separated at birth." The sheriff sounded like he thought that was obvious.

"Twins? Separated?" Sir Guy sounded like he didn't understand a word the sheriff said.

"Aye. Twin girls. In the Holy Land, where their father fought and died. Elaine _was_ born in the Holy Land, and her parents did die there—her mother in childbirth and her father in battle the same night. That much everyone knows." The sheriff folded his arms and raised one hand to rest his chin in it. He drummed his fingers against his jaw, thinking. "What is not so widely known is that Elaine had a twin. When Saracens attacked shortly after the birth, her father managed to save one babe ere he died, but Elaine's sister was carried off in retribution by a Saracen warrior who'd lost his own daughter in an English raid. He raised the child as his own till a knight who once served her father, recognized the girl and returned her to her native country with the lad who'd been her servant in the Saracen's household. What say you to that?"

"Bullshit. He just made that whole thing up," Orlando said.

"Aye." Sir Guy looked like he hated having to agree with the boy.

The sheriff chuckled, not kindly. "Well, I may have to adjust some of the details, but I think 'twill suit our purpose. We can forge a few letters for proof, pay a witness or two to add weight to the tale. You must admit, Gisbourne, it explains the evidence of our own eyes. By the saints, man, if 'tis not the truth, it ought to be! Now, take your new bride and let us be off. We tarry here over long."

Sir Guy hesitated, his expression a battleground of greed warring with fear. Marian froze as he eyed her up and down like he couldn't decide whether she was a godsend or a curse.

The sheriff clenched his jaw. "You play at caution? Now? With a cartload of bodies on our hands, and you still with a mountain of debt? To _me_ , I might add. 'Tis a bit late for caution, is it not? There are times to tread softly and times to dig in your spurs and charge. And your great paradox, Gisbourne, is that you never seem to know which is which!"

Sir Guy's ruddy complexion darkened. "What I want to know is who she is—and how she came here."

"What difference does it make?" The sheriff exploded. "She could be the daughter of the devil himself! If she comes with a rich dowry, what the hell do you care? Just grab the wench and her Saracen whelp and come. We can question them at the castle, you fool. This discussion will continue better with a joint of meat and some good ale in our bellies." He snapped his fingers and the men around him began readying for departure.

"Best news I've heard all day," the soldier with the pig face grumbled. "Bleedin' saints, me gut's so empty it thinks me throat's been cut."

"That can be easily arranged," said the young man called Allan, the one who'd carried in Elaine.

Marian had almost forgotten about him. She glanced up to see him clutching his sword hilt like a cross in front of himself. His gaze met hers for a moment, then lowered while his lips moved in silent prayer. Odd man.

Beside her, Orlando tensed. Sir Guy gave up his argument with the sheriff and strode toward them, scowling. Marian winced as his fingers bit into her arm, then staggered back as the hold abruptly broke. Before she could stop him, Orlando jumped in front of her and slammed upward, the heel of his hand connecting with Sir Guy's nose. A sickening crunch sounded and blood gushed out over the man's lips and chin.

Sir Guy roared. One hand flew to his face, the other lashed out and closed around Orlando's throat, lifting him straight off his feet. Gasping and gagging, the boy clawed at the hand holding him aloft, his legs kicking empty air.

"No! Stop it! You're choking him!" Without thinking, Marian tore into Sir Guy, pushing and pulling at him, pummeling his chest, none of it making a dent. She felt like an insect attacking an armored tank. Useless.

"Careful, Gisbourne," the sheriff warned. "She may damage herself, and we have need of her."

A light flashed in Marian's head. In one move, she snatched the dagger out of Sir Guy's belt and stumbled back, pressing the point of the blade to her own breast. A voice rang out. Hers, amazingly enough. The sound of it shocked her.

"Let him go. _Now_. Or I'll kill myself."

Everything stopped.

Sir Guy's eyes threatened to bulge out of their sockets, but his grip released. Orlando fell to the ground in a heap. Coughing, he picked himself up and scrambled to Marian's side.

"Cool move," he rasped out, rubbing his neck. "I didn't know you could bluff like that.

She shook her head. "I can't. It was no bluff."

On that thought, her legs buckled and she sat down hard in the dirt. The dagger dropped harmlessly into her lap. Gasping, she fumbled for it, only to find her hands shaking so badly she could no longer hold the hilt. It flew out of her fingers and landed several feet away. _Crap, now what?_ Her gaze darted to Sir Guy, expecting to see him charging forward, but he stood still and staring where she'd left him.

Then she realized he wasn't staring at her.

"You had best release these two, my lord. Swiftly! Or I shall more swiftly release you to the devil."

The voice came from behind her. _Allan?_ Marian struggled to her feet and turned to see him a few paces off, pulling taut the string of a weapon that at this range could drive arrows through armor like a knife slicing cheese. The legendary English longbow. Sometimes she really hated knowing things like that.

"Sonofabitch, I wanted Robin Hood to rescue us," Orlando muttered.

Marian groaned. No one was rescuing anyone. Allan was one man against twenty. He had to know he couldn't win. Those prayers she'd seen him uttering must have been for his own soul, his last confession. He was expecting to die. Damn it.

"For shame, Allan," the sheriff said. "What will your poor family say? They sent you to us with such high hopes you would distinguish yourself and return to them knighted. And you dishonor them by threatening your own lord. You know that if we take you alive, we shall have to give you a slow...very slow and very painful traitor's death."

"Better I be a dead 'traitor' than a live murderer," Allan bit out. "I've been full willing to fight in honest combat, but 'twould seem there is no honest combat to be found here—only bullying and thieving. And this business today is the worst. It dishonors us all." His biceps bulged as he drew the bowstring a notch tighter. "Kill me if you can, but we'll see how many of you I'll carry to Hell with me—"

He went down like a sack of over threshed grain as a stack of sweaty mail and muscle landed on him at a flick-of-the-hand signal from the sheriff.

The arrow, released just a fraction too soon, whizzed past Sir Guy's shoulder and stuck in the piggy fellow's as he lumbered forward to join the pile on top of Allan—who was thrashing like he was an entire pile of men himself.

"Man, that was dumb," Orlando said. Disgusted, he viewed the fight from beside a shell-shocked Marian. "Any fool should've knowed that asshole was just talkin' to buy time for his apes to sneak up." He kicked at a loose clod of dirt. "Where's Robin Hood when you need him, huh?"

_Ouch._ The name snapped Marian back to her senses. "Never mind Robin Hood. Just _run_." Grabbing the boy by his shoulders, she spun him around and shoved him to the edge of the forest.

"Whoa, wait a minute." Orlando dug in his heels. He strained over his shoulder to look at her. "You gonna run, too?"

Marian drew a deep breath. "Yes," she told him, while telling herself it was no lie. "Now go!" She watched a tense moment until he'd disappeared into the trees, and then she did run—in the opposite direction and straight for Sir Guy's dagger, which was still lying on the ground a short distance away. Somehow she had to help Allan.

The pig-faced man lurched about the road, squealing and clawing at the shaft in his shoulder. Marian dodged around him and landed by the dagger in a crouch. She grabbed its hilt and raised the blade point out in front of herself just as he tripped over the old nun's corpse and went flying. He crashed headlong into Marian, bowling her backward and pinning her flat while he gurgled, twitched, then suddenly stiffened and rolled off. The dagger went with him, wrenched out of her hands.

Struggling to her knees, she stared at the red oozing through the links of his mail. His own weight coupled with the force of his fall had driven the blade clean through his armor and deep into his heart. Her own heart twisted at the sight. So did her stomach. " _Eeuuhh_ ..."

I think I'm going to be sick.

"Clumsy oaf." A pair of legs moved into her view along with the voice. A toe stretched forward to nudge the body. "Fret not, my sweet, I shan't hold you responsible for this. 'Twas his own fault entirely. The man had two left feet."

Slowly, she lifted her gaze to see the sheriff peering down at her. He grinned. She felt sicker.

"I should move away from him though, if I were you. The fool also had an extraordinary number of lice. As his blood cools, they'll be seeking new territory." Chuckling, he pulled her to her feet and drew her clear of the body.

The man's touch sent chills down her spine. She twisted away and turned to see Allan, bound and gagged, being lashed belly down over a horse. He looked in one piece, at least, which was more than she could say for some of his opponents. Moans and groans filled the air.

"Gads, what a stout fighter he is. A pity we shall have to spit and roast him." The sheriff turned to Sir Guy who stood nursing his nose and supervising Allan's binding. "I know not about you, Gisbourne, but I shall be sore sorry to lose him."

Sir Guy grunted.

Marian suddenly felt like lead. "No, I'm the sorry one."

She choked back a whimper. Dear God, how had she come to this? Stuck in the past, captured by cutthroats, and a man was going to be tortured to death simply because he'd tried to help her. She was so sorry she wanted to shrivel up and blow away.

The only bright spot was knowing Orlando had escaped. What he'd do now, she had no idea. But he'd survived life in a large urban ghetto, so he could probably handle thirteenth century agrarian England.

Hell, with his skills, he'll probably end up king and turn history upside down.

"Sorry, my sweet?" The sheriff interrupted her brooding. "Why should you be sorry? Elaine's dowry will make you a wealthy woman. I shall personally speak to the king about it and arrange everything. His Highness is en route to Nottingham now, in fact. We can settle this matter in mere days. All you need do is marry Sir Guy of Gisbourne."

"Hey, man, don't make me puke. _Marian_ and ol' Guy of Heartburn? _That's_ why she's sorry," called a voice from the edge of the forest. "But she ain't half as sorry as you're gonna be."

Marian's heart sank as the voice's owner strode out of the trees. "Orlando, _why_ did you come back?"

"Why the hell do you think?" He jerked to a halt in front of her. "Damn it, Marian, don't you _ever_ do that to me again. I thought you were right behind me—nearly peed myself when I looked 'round and saw you _weren't_. It's just a lucky thing for you somebody else _was_." His frown flipped into a broad grin. "Guess who I just met."

She was afraid to.

Orlando told her anyway. "Robin Hood! Ran smack into him and some of his boys—this big dude named Little, and a little guy named Much, which makes no sense to me, but who cares, 'cause they were _real_ interested when I told them what's been happening. They'll be here in a sec. I was supposed to stay hid with this fat baldhead dude in a bathrobe, but I gave him the slip and ran on ahead. I wanna see the look on old Guy's face when he gets an arrow up his tin-plate ass." He shot a wicked smirk at Sir Guy, who cursed and charged straight for him.

_Ack!_ Marian's heart skipped several beats. _God, what a stupid bluff._ That boy's mouth would be the death of him yet. Quickly, she tried to put herself between him and Sir Guy—

Who lunged past with remarkable speed for a man of his bulk. "Out of the way!"

It took Marian several seconds to register the fact he was lunging for his horse and not her and Orlando.

"Hold, you fools! They're no demons, but men like yourselves. Stand and fight and you'll see their blood is as red as your own!" the sheriff shouted. But he was already astride his own mount, and a brittle edge underscored his voice.

The activity on the road erupted into a frenzy of yells, whinnying, pawing hooves and pounding feet. Mail clanked and scabbards slapped against thighs as men leapt into saddles and grabbed reins. The wounded groaned and cursed as they were hoisted and thrown across their mounts.

"Ouch. I'll bet that hurt," Orlando said when one of the battered was tossed too hard, overshot the mark, and landed in a heap at his feet. "Need a hand, bro?" Amiably, the boy offered him one.

The man shrieked and scrabbled backward. "Keep away, devil's imp!" Boosted by terror, he clawed his way into the saddle, swung the horse's head around, and galloped up the road on the heels of his comrades.

"Okay, be that way. See if I care," Orlando called after him. He let out a whoop and laughed. "Damn, did you see those suckers haul ass? Gotta be a record. I wish we could watch it again on instant replay."

_I wish I knew what just happened._ Why _did they run?_ Marian sat down where she stood, dizzy and weak all over, her legs too shaky to hold her. Around them, the forest had gone still as a stone, an eerie, waiting silence as if the very trees held their breath. She glanced from one side to the other, expecting... What? There was nothing to see but the empty road and the trees. The men had taken everything else with them. All that remained was trampled earth and a few dark splotches in the dirt where the dead had lain. Very creepy. Weird.

"Why would they take the bodies?" she wondered aloud. Her voice echoed oddly in the shadowy stillness.

"Who knows? Probably trying to get rid of the evidence. Won't do 'em no good. Robin'll—"

" _Don't_ say it." She stopped him with a look. One more mention of Robin Hood and she'd scream. That wound had been picked raw. It made no sense anyway. They wouldn't have run because of that. She shivered with a growing chill. The shadows lengthened; it would be night soon. _What now?_ They were stranded in a strange time, a strange forest...no food, no shelter, no idea what to do next...and definitely no hooded hero to save the day for them. She'd always known that, but this situation proved it with a vengeance. Damn.

And what if Sir Guy or the sheriff came back? Cripes.

With a groan, she pulled to her feet. "Come on, we better get out of here while we can."

She looked up and down the road, then scanned the trees on both sides. _Which direction?_ If they took to the forest, they'd be lost in no time—if they weren't eaten by wolves first. Not that they knew where they were going, in any case, but it was the principle of the thing, right? A road had to lead _somewhere_. Of course, a road also put them out in the open, at the mercy of outlaws besides Sir Guy. There were tons of outlaws in these times. The blasted woods were probably crawling with them—even if none of them were Robin Hood. Darn shame, that.

Oh, hell, now she was doing it. _Why_ couldn't she get Robin out of her head?

Because he's stuck in your heart, that's why. Because he's always fascinated you. Because when you were little you needed a hero and you thought being named Marian gave you some kind of personal claim on him. Stupid girl.

And, on top of everything else, because she'd somehow gotten herself stuck in the Middle Ages, in _Sherwood Forest_ , of all times and places to be. Which had to be the most warped joke of anytime, anywhere. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Get over it, Maid Marian!

She gave herself a mental slap, drew a deep breath, and looked around again. Okay, which way? _Choose._ Forest or road? God, she hated making decisions. She hated not understanding why the men ran, too. It was like they knew something she didn't. She hated not knowing things most of all.

A sudden thought struck her. Not a pleasant one. What if...

"Orlando?" She turned to see him standing in the middle of the road, gazing off into the mist-shrouded trees. Expecting someone? _Oh, joy._ On shaky legs she walked over to him.

He glanced up at her approach. "Whatsa matter? You look worried."

Worried? She was having visions of them both being ravished and killed by a band of Sherwood outlaws who could be lurking nearby this very moment. "Worried" barely scratched the surface.

The real outlaws had hardly been like Robin's mythical merrie men. In fact, "merrie" was probably the last thing any of them were. A brutal, bloodthirsty bunch, medieval criminals. They had to be with the penalties for crimes so harsh in this era. Once a man broke the law, he had little left to lose. Those who escaped capture lived like animals in the woods, doing anything to survive. If there _were_ outlaws close by, ones who knew they were here, who watched them even now...

Her stomach knotted as she stared Orlando in the eye. "Just tell me one thing. When you ran off before...um, you didn't really meet anyone, did you?" She held her breath.

"Nope."

Her breath whooshed out in relief. Thank God. He _had_ been bluffing. Which still didn't explain why Sir Guy's company bolted, but she'd work on that question later. One problem at a time. With a last look around, she made her decision. They'd follow the road, in the opposite direction the men took, but stick to the shadows of the trees. That would give them a little cover. Maybe. Hell, it would be full dark soon and no one would be able to see a damn thing anyway.

"Okay then, let's get moving." She grabbed Orlando's hand and pulled him to the edge of the forest.

He pulled back. "Hang on. We can't go anywhere yet."

"Why not?"

"Because they'll be here any sec. We gotta wait for them."

"Who's 'them'?" She wanted to shake him. "You just said you didn't meet anyone."

"That's right. Not _anyone_. Robin Hood and his men."

A shriek sounded. Marian's.

"Orlando, there _is_ no Robin Hood."

"Bullshit. There is, too. He _told_ me who he was. Who do you think chased off Sheriff Sleazeball? You saw what happened. They heard he was coming, and hauled ass." Orlando paused, his brows pulled together. "Huh. Maybe I shouldn't have warned them. I didn't realize what a badass reputation he's got. He must be cooler even than he is in the movies."

Marian clenched her teeth to keep from screaming again. Things were becoming too surrealistic. She closed her eyes and counted to ten, then rested her hands on his shoulders and leaned forward. "Orlando, listen to me. Whatever those men were running from, it was _not_ because of anything you said."

He blinked and stared past her. "You might be right about that."

"I know I'm right. And you did _not_ meet anyone who told you he was Robin Hood. There's a good chance no one around here even knows who Robin Hood _is_. The earliest known legends about him haven't been written yet. Do you get what I'm saying? He's not a real person."

"Does he know that?"

"He doesn't _know_ anything. Robin is just a myth, a folktale, a literary invention. Understand? Historians have been researching him for years. I've researched him myself." God, how she'd researched him. "But I've never found any solid evidence he really existed—not now, not ever." _Only in my dreams._ She drew a deep breath.

"Yeah? Well maybe you just never looked for him in the right place."

Marian stepped back and planted her hands on her hips. "And where would you suggest looking for him, Mr. Know-It-All?"

Orlando grinned. "Right behind you."

What?

She spun about—froze.

"Shit," she heard someone say. Herself. Surprising. It wasn't a word she often used, but she couldn't think of a better one just then. She couldn't think at all. The woods were moving, shadows detaching from shadows. Weird shapes materialized in the mists between the trees, figures on two legs, crowned with antlers and horns. Some wore leaves, some feathers, some fur. One had a wolf's head, one a bear's. And one...

Her legs went weak. She knew him—the tall one who stood in a tunic of forest green, his bow in hand, his face hidden behind the folds of a deep hood.

A dream, just a dream...

He stepped toward her.

Marian forgot how to breathe. Dizziness swamped her. She swayed, locked her legs to keep from falling—crumpled anyway.

The hooded man caught her, just as he had a thousand times before.

### Chapter 3

Safe in Robin's arms. Sheer bliss. Such a pity it couldn't last. But then, it never did.

The second she saw him, Marian forgot all else, knew she was dreaming. She'd had this dream too many times before. It was always the same. She'd find herself deep in Sherwood, captured by the Sheriff of Nottingham. Dreadful man. How she got there, what he wanted with her, she never knew. It hardly mattered. She was Maid Marian, the outlaw's lady. That was reason enough.

She'd be frightened, but never for long, because Robin always rescued her. She never saw his face. She didn't need to. She knew him by his voice, his touch, his scent—by his effect on her. Other men left her cold. Robin set her on fire. He'd sweep her into his arms and carry her off into the trees where they'd make love— _real love_ —and live happily for the rest of their lives. Or until she awoke.

Knowing that waking couldn't be far off, Marian groaned. She leaned into his embrace, laid her head on his chest, and fastened her arms about his waist, determined to hang on for as long as she could. His arms tightened in response. _Yes._ She wanted him to hold her close—the closer the better.

"Easy, my lady, easy," a voice whispered out of his hood. A voice she loved, never more than a murmur, but husky and warm. A voice that set her skin to tingling.

"You're safe now," he said.

Big news. His arms were the only place she ever felt safe.

"But we mustn't tarry here. Can you walk?"

Not if she could avoid it. She hid a pout against his chest. He was supposed to carry her, darn it. It was how the dream went.

"I...I'm too dizzy." Well, she was. A little peculiar, that, to feel so dizzy in a dream. Not that she was complaining.

"No matter. My legs can carry us both." He shifted his grip on her and swung her high against his chest.

She snuggled in, resting her head on his shoulder, wrapping her arms around his neck. She felt like purring. "Yes, I know. You've carried me before."

"I have?"

"Mmm-hmm, lots of times. Thousands. Maybe even millions."

"Indeed. Lucky me." He settled her more securely in his arms. Not a twig snapped under his feet as he carried her off the road and into the greenwood.

Nestled against him, the only sounds she heard were the steady beating of his heart and the quiet rasp of her own breath. She buried her face in his tunic and inhaled. Mmm, he smelled of wood smoke and fresh-cut herbs, spicy and sweet, with just a hint of something magical, mysterious. Moonlight perhaps? Did moonlight have a fragrance? Who cared. It was luscious, whatever it was. A warm woodsy scent, uniquely Robin.

She smiled. "I love you."

"You do?" He faltered in mid-step.

Why did he sound so surprised? Silly Robin.

"Of course. And you love me." _Wait a minute..._ Had he ever told her he loved her? She couldn't remember. It was one of those things she'd always taken for granted. "You do love me...don't you?"

The muscles in his arms and chest tensed. "I adore you... I just didn't realize you felt the same."

He didn't? How strange. "I'm Maid Marian. Who else would I love but Robin Hood?"

"Hmm, who indeed?"

A fresh wave of dizziness hit, forcing her to cling to him tighter. "At least in my dreams I'm Maid Marian. In real life, it's just plain old Marian."

"There is nothing plain about you, my lady."

Hah, he had no idea.

"You wouldn't say things like that if you knew me out of my dreams." She didn't realize she'd spoken the thought aloud until she heard him inhale sharply.

"Um...are you dreaming now?"

"I must be if you're here."

"Ah. I see. Very logical."

_Logical?_ Who was this, Robin Hood or Mr. Spock? She lifted her head from his shoulder to look at his face, found it still lost in the dark of his hood so she couldn't see a darn thing. Stupid of her to even try really. She should have known better. She wondered how he saw anything from under there himself, wondered how much longer before she awoke. An uneasiness pricked her. Was there something else she should be wondering...worrying about? Someone?

She couldn't remember. Everything blurred around her. _So dizzy..._

Robin shifted her in his arms to hold her closer, and she gave up thinking. What the hell, so long as the dream lasted she could handle some dizziness, right? Sighing, she shut her eyes and reburied her face in his shoulder.

When she looked up again, they'd entered a small clearing. Across it a ghostly white mount waited beneath the trees, its legs half hidden in the evening vapors rising from the forest floor. Feathery wisps of steam curled out its nostrils, increasing the spectral illusion, heightening her sense of surrealism.

"About bloody time you got here." The call came from a fair-haired, bearded man in a red-feathered cap, with a lute slung over his back. He stood in the deepening shadows, holding the ghost horse's bridle, staring curiously at Marian.

She stared back.

With a wink and a grin, he doffed his cap and swept a small bow before her. Her face flushed.

"Be needing some help?" the fellow offered, looking hopeful.

Robin's arms tightened around her. "Dream on, Will Scarlet. I'd as soon ask a wolf to help me guard a lamb."

"Hey, I'm the one who's dreaming," Marian said.

Will's brows quirked up as he shot her a glance, then he raised his eyes to peer into Robin's hood. He cleared his throat. " _Ahem_ ...all right is she?"

"She's a bit fuddled it seems. No great wonder considering all she's suffered today." Robin heaved a small sigh.

"Ahh," Will said. "Sir Guy the Gross and old Notty, you mean."

"That and...other things. 'Tis all bound to take a toll, if not sooner than later." In two easy motions Robin lifted Marian into the saddle, then swung up behind her.

She leaned against him and winced when the back of her head met with the ridge of his collarbone. Her hand explored the sore spot. "Ow. How did I get this lump?"

"A bump is it?" Will handed Robin the reins. "Poor lass. I'd be pleased to kiss it and make it better."

Robin pulled the horse around so its hindquarters stood directly in Will's face. "Kiss this instead, why don't you?" he said, and trotted them off.

Will's laughter followed them into the trees.

Cheeky fellow, wasn't he?

"One of your 'Merrie Men,' I suppose," Marian said.

"If he gets any 'merrier' he'll find himself missing some teeth." Robin slowed the horse to a walk. "In truth, my lady, the man's a...traveling minstrel...for the moment. He's but recently arrived in Sherwood. My men tried to rob him a fortnight ago, and we've not been able to rid ourselves of him since. He claims to be wandering the land in search of a wife. I suspect anyone's wife will do."

He clucked to his horse and turned its head a fraction to the side. Like magic a secret trail materialized before them. The night shadows closed in, and the forest swallowed them up.

Marian stared about, trying to pierce the gloom. _So still and dark._ Nothing around her but the sounds of the horse, the whispering leaves...and Robin. Surrendering to it all she settled back to enjoy the ride. A new experience. There'd never been a horse in the dream before. She'd never been on a horse before, waking or dreaming. She liked the motion of the animal, the feel of it under her thighs.

She liked even better the feel of Robin's arm around her, his masculine torso supporting her back. Snuggling closer she wrapped both arms over his at her waist, turning her face so her cheek nestled in the hollow of his throat. He lowered his chin and rested it on top of her head. _Perfect._ Now they fit in the saddle like two spoons nestled in a drawer.

The motion of the horse rocked their hips together, her back to his front. _Mmm, what would happen if..._ She experimented with arching her back so her buttocks ground into his groin. Something twitched and hardened behind her.

Robin sucked in his breath and released it in a groan. "If you keep that up we may never get where we're going."

That was a problem? She arched again and felt the hardness lengthen and grow. "You know what? If you keep _that_ up, I won't care if we don't."

Good lord, did that come out of _her_ mouth? Never would she act this way with anyone else—she'd slit her wrists first. But Robin wasn't anyone. He was the only one. And this was _her_ dream, darn it.

Make the most of it while it lasts.

Using the rhythm of the horse as a guide she pressed her hips against him again. And again...

He made a strangling noise in his throat and pulled back on the reins. "Whoa, Marian, whoooaa..."

Whoa? He was ordering her to stop like she was a horse? The heck with that.

As they came to a halt she realized he _was_ talking to the horse. She frowned. "You named your horse Marian?"

Why?

"Um...yes. After you. Do you mind?"

_Oh my..._ How could she mind anything when his voice touched her like silk? Feeling warm flutters inside she leaned forward to stroke the mare's neck. "Actually, I think it's sweet."

With both hands Robin pulled her back and lowered his head to hers, his breath tickling her ear. "'Tis you who are sweet, my maid." His lips grazed her cheek, a touch tender as new leaves, as timelessly sensual as the forest around them.

It was all she needed to tip her over the edge. A delicious heat spread through her. Her nipples hardened. She went damp between the legs. "Well, if that's the way you feel, let's forget the ride and do 'sweet' things to each other in the bushes." She twisted around and latched onto his shoulders, intent on finding the lips in that hood and kissing them.

Robin grabbed her wrists, holding her off. "No, wait—"

"I can't wait. Who knows how long we have? I could wake up any second." The thought drove her straining toward him.

His hands tightened on her. "No, we can't do this—not now—you don't understand—"

"What's to understand?" She grappled with him, trying to pull free. The movement sent a fresh wave of dizziness crashing over her, leaving giddiness in its wake. "I'm just having a wonderful dream is all. Let me enjoy it while I can."

"Lady..." A desperate edge sharpened his voice. "You are _not_ dreaming. This is _real_."

God, if only that were true. It wasn't, but it was nice of him to take her fantasies so seriously, especially since he was the main part of them. She demonstrated her appreciation by leaning in against his hold and rubbing her body against his.

Robin groaned. "Marian—"

On hearing her name, the mare nickered and stared over her shoulder at them, coyly batting her big brown eyes.

"He doesn't mean you, dear. He's talking to me," Marian the human told her. "Why don't you take a long walk and come back for us later. Find some grass to nibble on or something."

Her namesake snorted and bobbed her head up and down, pawing the earth, then suddenly—

Wow, just like the Lone Ranger. Hiho, Marian!

"Bloody hell—" Robin grabbed for the reins as the mare reared high. Too late. He toppled backward and landed with a grunt on the ground. " _Oof_."

"Oh!" Maid Marian landed face-first flat on top of him.

Both lay panting as their transport disappeared down the path.

"Thank you," Marian called after her.

"Wench." Robin rolled them over, pinning her beneath him. "Are you happy now?" His whisper reverberated in the darkness.

Marian peered into the shadows of his hood, trying to guess where his mouth was. "I'll be happier when you kiss me. How about it?"

He made a noise between a groan and a growl.

Was that a yes or a no?

She felt his breath on her face. _So close..._ Her arms snaked around his neck and pulled him closer.

"Never mind, I'll kiss you instead," she said, and joined him in his hood. Her mouth found his on the first try.

He tensed, jerked back—then caved in completely, pressed her hard into the ground.

Lips parted. Limbs tangled. Time stopped.

_Electric._ The kiss struck her like lightning, burned clear through to her core, sliced her open and left her quivering, bleeding, dying for more. Hot need pulsed deep inside, a hungry ache between her thighs—

"Lady...please..." Robin pulled back, panting.

_No, no, no—don't stop!_ She grabbed his hood with both hands, yanked him down and dove straight back in. Her mouth plundered his, licking, nipping, sucking...

A crazy woman. Crazy for Robin. _Mmmm..._ She wanted to eat him alive.

He stiffened against her, his whole body rigid—one part of him especially. A steel rod dug into her abdomen.

Robin groaned, dragged his lips away from her. "Marian..." His breath came ragged. "We have to stop this... Now... There's something I have to tell you—"

"Later. I'm busy now." She locked her legs behind his knees when he tried to push away. One hand pulled him back by his hood, the other raked down his back...made a marvelous discovery.

"You're not wearing anything under your tunic," she murmured against his mouth.

A shudder racked through him as her hand touched his buttocks. "My ap-pologies," he choked out. "I had...no time for the niceties of braes or hose today."

"I'm not complaining. I don't seem to be wearing any panties either." She'd just noticed that, in fact. How historically accurate. And how convenient. "Want to see?"

"No!"

Too bad.

She stroked his bare flesh. Smooth, warm, firm... Goodness, he had a great ass. She dug in her fingers and squeezed—then gasped as he bucked free from her legs and heaved back. Clinging to his hood she went with him. He landed on his great ass. She landed on her stomach with her face in his lap.

_Oh my._ He had a great erection, too.

Marian let go of one head to examine another. She lifted his tunic and stared at the shadowy monster hiding beneath. Her eyes went wide in the darkness. Good God, he was huge. Had he ever been this big before? Her breath hitched. How had she fit him inside? She had a flicker of panic wondering if he'd fit now.

_Oy..._ Only one way to find out. Trembling but determined, she rose to her knees and hoisted her gown.

"W-wait!" Robin's voice cracked. "What are you doing?"

Stupid question.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Wriggling forward, she advanced on him.

"Oh no—" There was a frantic crunching of twigs as he scrambled to his feet.

Marian's hand shot out and closed around his shaft. "Oh _yes_."

"Arrgggh!"

Why did he sound like he was strangling? She wasn't tugging that hard. "This is _my_ dream, and if I say we make love, we make love, damn it. Use it or lose it, big boy."

"Will you _please_ listen to me— _Uhhh_." His rump reconnected with earth as he lost the tug-of-war. "This is no dream," he finished weakly.

"How the heck would you know? You're part of it. Now shut up and sit still. I don't know what you're so worried about. You've got the easy part." Without loosening her hold on his erection, she braced her free hand on his shoulder and climbed aboard his lap, straddling him. His breath rasped out as she positioned him at her opening and locked her legs around his waist.

" _Easy_?" He grabbed onto her hips.

Marian couldn't tell if he was trying to push her away or pull her closer. Perhaps he couldn't decide either.

"Lady, you are making this most hard for me."

"Good. It's supposed to be hard. There's not much we can do with it otherwise." She rubbed against the length of his shaft, making him slick with her own juices.

Robin let out a low guttural growl. His hands tightened on her. "Marian, for the love of God—"

"No, for the love of _you_." Before he could stop her she lifted up, then pressed down, driving him all the way into herself with one hot, heavy thrust. They both gasped as her muscles contracted around him.

O Lord have mercy... Robin was right, this was no dream, she wasn't asleep. She must be dead, because this was heaven.

With another gasp, she lifted again. He met her this time, pushed up as she came down. In wordless agreement they moved together in a dance older than time, more natural than breathing. The rhythm of waves kissing shore, sky hugging earth. The ebb and flow of life itself. With each thrust he sank deeper, filled her more—pulsing, pounding, throbbing, swelling—until there was nothing left inside her but Robin. Only Robin. Loving Robin, she exploded into sparks.

She felt his arms tight around her as they collapsed back onto the forest floor, the world suddenly spinning, the woods receding into fog.

"You know what you've done, don't you?" he whispered. "You've made yourself mine forever. I'll never let you go now."

The words fell on deaf ears. The dream had already dissolved into dark.

*****

Light pricking her eyelids. A hard cold surface at her back. A colder ache in her heart.

Marian knew the reason for all three. She'd fallen asleep with the lights on again, sleepwalked her way out of the bedroom again, and been dreaming of Robin Hood.

Again.

The first was rough on her electric bill, the second rough on her health, and the third... The third was just plain rough. More than rough. That damn dream was destroying her sanity. Not that she didn't have plenty of other problems to make her crazy, but she kept hoping she could get past her other neurosis—eventually—if she could just get past the one in the hood who smelled like herbal shampoo.

Which raised an interesting question all by itself—the idea that she could smell him at all. Dreams didn't usually have scents, did they? None of her other dreams did—when she had other dreams, which wasn't often. Mr. Moonlight-and-Magic monopolized her sleep time. He was there almost every night. And it was so damn depressing waking up alone. Like now.

Marian groaned, put her hands over her eyes, tried to pretend he was still lying beside her. Or had he been under her this time? Already the dream had faded into the back alleys of her mind. She could barely remember it, except for the beginning. How weird. Usually, it was the parts with Robin she recalled, with everything else a fuzzy blur. This time Robin was the blur and...

She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, concentrating, replaying the details one by one. Hmm, this time she remembered the sheriff, the capture—even what brought her to Sherwood in the first place.

_Time-travel?_ With little Orlando? Where on earth did her subconscious dig up that that scenario? Maybe she should tell the kid, just to give him a laugh. He might get a kick out of it. Then again, he'd probably think she was nuts.

And I'd have to agree with him.

She let out a deep sigh.

_Marian, this proves it, your brain is dissolving. Get up and go to bed while you can still move, you idiot._ Sheesh, what a headache she had. Her skull felt ready to split open.

"Uhh, I think I'm getting a migraine," she muttered aloud.

With a grunt she heaved onto her side. She was almost afraid to open her eyes and see where she'd ended up. The last time she'd sleepwalked she'd awoken in the back of her closet; the time before, scrunched into the cubbyhole under the kitchen sink, with water dripping on her. Yuck. It was always some close, confined space, as though she'd been trying to hide. Why, she had no idea. Or, rather, she did know; she just didn't like thinking about it.

Okay, that's enough.

"To bed—now!" she ordered herself. Her voice rang out shrill and sharp. _Ouch._ The noise did nothing to help her headache.

A throaty rumble sounded nearby. That didn't help either.

_A snore?_ Marian's eyes popped open. Her heart stopped.

"Oh. My. God." She was still dreaming, right? She must be.

There in front of her loomed a blocky gray stone manor house. She was lying in a circle of torchlight before its massive wood door. A few feet to the side of the door, propping up the wall, slouched a bleary-eyed sentry—the source of the snore. It looked like he'd been dozing at his post and only just come to his senses.

Marian wished she hadn't come to hers. Holding her breath she blinked up at him. He pulled away from the wall and peered over her head into the darkness outside the circle of light.

"Who goes there?" he barked.

His voice brought an answering chorus of barks from inside, behind the great door. Real barks. Terrific.

She girded her loins and hauled to her feet, dusted off her gown—the green one, she noticed morbidly.

The man's gaze landed on her. His eyes opened wide. He snapped to attention. "Lady Elaine!"

Oh no, not again.

### Chapter 4

" _Nooooo..._ "

A blood-curdling shriek split through Hunterdon Manor.

"'Tis monstrous! I'll not bear it—not bear it, I tell you!"

Lady Cymrica was not having a good night. The rushes on the floor scattered in all directions as she stormed about the great hall in a full-blown frenzy of grief. Several brindled hounds hurried to vacate her path, their ears pressed flat, tails between their legs. Firelight glinted off her saffron gown and raven black braids as she flung out her arms and wailed like a banshee. Her cries echoed high in the rafters.

"I'll kill myself! I'll drink poison! I'll jump in the well and drown!"

"I'll join you," Marian muttered under her breath. She wasn't having a good night either. Eyes lowered, she stared down into her wine cup, winced when Cymrica rattled the rafters again.

" _Aaahh_ , Allan my sweet, my heart, my only love! If they kill him, I shall hurl myself from the tower!"

"Nonsense. You will do nothing of the sort. Do sit down, _cherie_. Hush. You are disturbing the dogs."

The order came from a white wimpled, russet gowned woman seated by the hall's central hearth. Lady Isolde, the previous earl's widowed sister-in-law. Very plump, very French, and nearly out of patience with her Saxon niece's hysterics.

"Such a goose you are being, _ma petite_. If he dies, I am sorry for it, but we could never have let you wed him in any case," she scolded.

The indisputable logic of that prompted a fresh wave of wails from Cymrica. "I know, I know—'tis too cruel!" She clutched at her bosom as though stabbed. "Pray do not be harsh with me, dear aunt. Tonight I am the most miserable of maidens." Collapsing to her knees, she buried her face in Isolde's well-cushioned lap and sobbed long, loud and bitterly.

Isolde rolled her eyes and patted the girl's sleek hair, tutting and clucking like a bored hen. One of the hounds by the hearth lifted his head and howled in harmony.

Marian knew exactly how the poor creature felt. This was no dream but a horribly bad feudal soap opera—with herself one of the star players, appropriately costumed in an elaborate blue silk gown they'd given her for the occasion. How long had she been here? One hour? Two? She'd lost track of the time. Minutes crept by like snails. Father Boniface had been summoned, but Father Boniface was temporarily indisposed—a chronic occurrence apparently. He had a delicate constitution, she'd been informed. Like she was supposed to _care_? Good grief, he could take all night as far as she was concerned.

Seated in a far corner between a large, gargoyle-faced nurse named Godgifu, and the steward of the manor, an elderly knight called Sigurd who seemed able to sleep through anything, she could have enjoyed a good howl herself if the earl's younger sister had not been doing enough of that for both of them. To even things out, Marian was drinking enough for two. It seemed only fitting since half the Hunterdon household still thought she was Elaine. The other half favored the "lost twin" theory. Unable to think of a better story to explain her presence, she'd told the one the sheriff concocted. A ridiculous story, but safer than the truth, she'd figured. Stupid her.

The Hunterdons had been debating the issue ever since. Several fistfights had broken out over it, in fact. As near as Marian could tell, the "lost twin" faction just liked the romance of the tale. The "Elaine" side—the pragmatists—claimed she knew not what she said, that the ordeal with Sir Guy had been too much for her, that she was hysterical.

They weren't far wrong.

She downed the rest of her wine in two big gulps—one for poor Elaine, one for poor her—held out the goblet for more. An obliging young page refilled it. _Nice boy._ Marian managed a small smile of thanks for him. He smiled back, which made her think of Orlando, which turned her smile to a worried frown.

Where _was_ Orlando? She wasn't exactly in a position to go looking for him, and she hadn't seen him since passing out on the road. She must have passed out, of course. Her last clear memory was Sir Guy and company beating a hasty retreat into the twilight while dizziness swamped her. The next thing she knew it was full night and she was lying in front of this manor. She must have found her own way here. The manor wasn't far from where they'd been, she'd discovered from Sir Sigurd. If she and Orlando had walked a few hundred yards up the road they'd have spotted its tower.

I passed out, Orlando left me there to look for help, and while he was gone I sleepwalked here.

The explanation was barely plausible, but the only alternatives she could think of were impossible. So impossible they made the fact she was stuck in thirteenth century England seem quite sane by comparison. Hard, cold, miserably sane.

Stuck in thirteenth century England and responsible for the agonies of a man who was possibly being tortured to death this very moment. She couldn't blame Cymrica for wailing one blessed bit. She drained her goblet, gestured for more.

Got it. _Very nice._ She was beginning to really like that page.

Nurse Godgifu shot her a disapproving glare.

_You, I can do without._ Marian ignored the woman and took another drink.

Stuck in thirteenth century England and mistaken for a dead girl—or her lost twin, depending on to whom you spoke. Not that she could blame anyone for that either. Given the resemblance, it was only natural, right?

_Right. I'll drink to that._ She raised the goblet, gulped in, swallowed down.

Godgifu clucked indignantly.

Shut up, you old bat.

Stuck in thirteenth century England. _Merrie Olde England_ , during the reign of King John—when things were anything but merrie. Mistaken for a dead girl—or her sister—and expected to marry that girl's betrothed. Marry?

More wine.

Yep, she was supposed to marry Lord Roland, Earl of Hunterdon. Marry him tonight.

_Tonight!_ Good God, there wasn't enough wine in the world.

She gripped the goblet till her knuckles turned white, took a deep breath and fought back the panic.

_Why the rush?_ According to what she'd learned from the garrulous Sir Sigurd before he'd mumbled himself to sleep, Roland had already postponed the wedding three times in as many years. And always on the same pretext, that he couldn't spare the time from his studies. He was something of a scholar, this enigmatic earl. His family worried their lord would go blind from all the reading and writing he did locked away in that musty closet of his.

They worried more he'd never produce the desired heir. There was little Stacey (short for Eustacia, her mother's name), Roland's twelve-year-old daughter. He'd been married once before, but his wife died giving birth to the girl—a thought that sent chills down Marian's spine since she was expected to be the next broodmare. Stacey was currently with the sisters of some neighboring abbey, and seemed destined for the church—according to Sigurd at least, who saw no other reason for a girl being educated.

"Why else would she need so much learning?" he'd wanted to know, scratching his head. Then he'd explained that what Stacey really needed were brothers. A wealth of information was good old Sigurd. As one of the few Saxon families who'd managed to hold onto their lands despite the "thieving Normans," Sir Sigurd considered it doubly important the Hunterdons protect their rights and property with plenty of sons. He was extremely relieved Lord Roland was finally doing his duty.

"Bloody well took him long enough," the knight had mumbled right before his mumbles segued into snores.

Oh, yes, it was bloody wonderful, just peachy keen. But Marian didn't think duty had a damn thing to do with it. The real reason for the rush was another "D" word. Dowry. Whoever Roland believed her to be, the attempted kidnapping today had obviously spurred him into action. From his perspective either she was Elaine, who had almost been stolen from him and could be so again unless he finally sealed their union, or she was someone who looked enough like Elaine to have a chance at her dowry. Either way she was worth money. Hah. Wasn't that just par for the course?

Marian stared at the goblet in her hands. Gold, encrusted with jewels. Must be worth a fortune. The Hunterdons had wealth, she'd grant them that. But there was an addictive quality to wealth, wasn't there? The more people had, the more they wanted. Marian knew all about addictions.

Clutching the cup in a futile effort to keep her hands from shaking, she glanced across the hall and studied the bridegroom through her lashes by the flickering light of hearth and candles. Seated there with his close-trimmed black hair and clean-shaven face, his solemn brown velvet robe spilling about his ankles and an open book on his lap, Lord Roland looked every inch the scholar his family accused him of being.

Tall, lithe as a dancer, dark as the devil, he looked no more like Sir Guy than a falcon resembled a grizzly bear. Yet the two were cut from the same cloth, she decided—both predators, both shameless opportunists, both only too willing to substitute one bride for another. In fact, Roland was the worse. For Sir Guy had had the sheriff orchestrating things and egging him on. Roland acted on his own.

_And I don't give a damn._ The wine had finally done its job, and old training did the rest. Her eyelids drooped, her pulse slowed. Cotton filled her head, apathy her soul. A thick, familiar lethargy settled over her like a cloak. The defense mechanism she'd perfected as a child, an almost catatonic trance that never really dulled the pain, but at least made it seem less important.

Aw, come on, Marian, don't give up so easy. No one can hurt you unless you let them.

A voice? It stung her like a slap. Her eyes snapped open. She jerked alert.

Orlando?

Her gaze swept over the tapestry hung hall. She half expected to see him come striding out of the shadows. But the voice had been in her head, just an audio memory called forth by some quirk of the subconscious. The only footsteps coming toward her were the catlike tread of Lord Roland. Several paces behind him waited a wizened little man in priest's robes. Father Boniface? Whoopee. The old priest looked remarkably blissful, as though his long vigil in the privy had resulted in some deeply satisfying spiritual insight. At least someone felt happy.

Roland looked like his patience had run out ages ago and was being held in check only by the thinnest threads of courtly protocol. No longer the quiet scholar, he seemed like a jungle beast ready to pounce. His dark eyes glittered down at her out of a face almost too handsome to be real. Ruthlessly handsome. He looked more like some imperious eastern emperor than a Saxon earl. By comparison with their stocky, fair-haired kinsmen, he and his sister Cymrica looked like a couple of exotic blooms growing in a field of common daisies.

"They favor their grandmother," Sigurd had whispered earlier. "She was a Byzantine princess the old earl rescued from shameful straights in Constantinople. 'The Black Rose,' they called her. 'Twas said Lord Cymric abandoned a caravan load of riches in order to bring her home posthaste, and ne'er regretted one penny of the price."

"Lady? You will accompany me, please?"

Roland spoke the request gently, but Marian wasn't fooled. An autocratic command if ever she'd heard one. She glanced at the hand he held out to her—sensitive and long fingered, a poet's hand—then quickly lowered her eyes, gripping her goblet so tightly its contents quivered and splashed burgundy red drops onto her lap. They stood out boldly against the pale blue of her gown. She stared at the spots, unblinking. For some reason they fascinated her. Maybe because they looked so much like blood.

"There now, see what ye've done?" Scowling, Godgifu pried the goblet out of Marian's frozen fingers and set it aside. "'Twill stain, that will, and this be Lady Cymrica's best gown."

Roland's expression tightened. "Cymrica has more gowns than the queen herself. But if 'twill soothe your sense of loss, good nurse, I shall buy her a new gown to replace this one. In fact..." His gaze slanted to his sister who was still crumpled before Isolde, sobbing hysterically. "I shall buy her _two_ new gowns _if_ she will cease howling long enough for me to be wed with some small degree of peace."

Cymrica twisted around and glared at him. "I want not a new gown! I want nothing from _you_." She scrambled to her feet and stood backlit by the blaze of the great central hearth, looking like some fiery avenging angel. "If you were half a man, you'd not be thinking marriage now. You'd be attacking Gisbourne and demanding Allan's release! If not for his sake, for your own honor! The swine tried to steal your bride, didn't he?" She shot a hateful look at that bride, letting everyone know whom she blamed for Allan's plight—a sentiment Marian couldn't help but share.

Roland's ebony brows arched upward. "Me? Riding about the countryside at this time of night? In the damp air? Really, Cymrica, you know how easily I take chill."

"'Chill' is it? Is that your newest word for _cowardice_?" With a haughty sniff the girl spun about and stormed down the hall to a far door. "Well, if you'll not do anything about it, _I_ will!" Sounding like a thunderclap, the door crashed shut.

Roland groaned. "God's ribs, she's headed for the armory."

Isolde sighed. " _Oui_ , my lord. She has her father's temper, that one. You should be thinking marriage for her as well as yourself. A strong husband is what she needs, one who will not be afraid to beat the stubbornness out of her."

"I've been looking, believe me," Roland said. "But I've not yet found any man I dislike enough to inflict her upon."

"Ah well..." Isolde rose to her feet, took an unhurried moment to adjust her wimple and smooth her heavy brocade gown. "I fear you must excuse me from attending your wedding. I had best see if I can talk some sense into the silly child. Otherwise we shall have to lock her in her chamber again. A pretty thing that would be for your marriage bed, no? She would be screaming all night. None of us would sleep."

Her ample figure swished languidly to the door Cymrica had slammed. She pushed it open, then paused to flash a sly grin over her plump shoulder. "Not that you will be sleeping much this night, in any case, eh, _mon chere_?"

With a ripple of laughter, she disappeared into the gloom beyond the door.

Marian swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. Next to her, grumbling and fussing, grim-faced old Godgifu hauled her bulk up off the bench and made to follow.

"Stay, nurse. Your duty here is not finished."

Her master's curt command halted her in mid-step, though not without some effort on her part. With a sharp-eyed glance at both him and Marian, Godgifu grudgingly reclaimed her seat.

"Sigurd? Sir Sigurd!" Roland nudged the steward awake with the pointed toe of his shoe.

It looked like the dictatorial eastern emperor had completely pushed aside the quiet Saxon scholar. A pity, because Marian had been hanging onto the slim hope she might yet be able to reason with the latter.

"Hie you to the stables and tell that rascal Dirk to keep a close guard," Roland ordered. "If he allows Lady Cymrica even to glimpse a mount tonight, I'll have the hide off his back."

Sir Sigurd chuckled. "In one of her battle-maid moods, is she? The old blood runs strong in that lass. She's a true Hunterdon, she is."

He chuckled again, ignoring the warning look in his lord's eyes.

"When you have finished with that," Roland carefully enunciated each syllable, "you may inform our battle-maid herself that I shall look into the matter of Allan on the morrow. If the fellow is indeed facing harsh punishment, a few coins in the right palms may at least buy him a speedier death."

"Aye, 'tis about all we can do, I suppose." The old knight sighed, ruefully scratching his head. His eyes met Marian's and whatever he saw there made him feel an explanation was in order. "Mind you, m'lady, there be nay fondness 'twixt the Hunterdons and Gisbournes, and Sir Guy's actions this day have given us grave insult, but the lout has the favor of the sheriff, and together their forces outnumber ours."

"Meaning that a direct assault would prove nothing but our own idiocy," Roland cut in crisply. "There are other ways of handling these matters."

The sudden hooding of his eyes offered Marian an ominous clue as to what one of those other ways might be. Her chest tightened.

"Aye," Sigurd agreed. "Like the wedding and bedding of your bride afore that Norman swine gets another chance at her!" He snorted his approval, then turned beet red beneath his earl's blistering black-eyed glare. He coughed. " _Ahem_ ...right...the stables. I'll see to it now."

He bobbed a hasty bow and retreated as fast as his old limbs would carry him.

"One wonders what that tongue of his is connected to these days. Not his brain certainly." Roland's hooded gaze followed the steward out before returning to Marian. "My apologies for his impudence, lady, but his point was well, if crudely, spoken. 'Tis not safe for you to remain unwed."

Her face flushed. "Are you saying this marriage is for _my_ good?" _What a hypocrite._

He had the cheek to actually grin—a small one, just a slight curling at the corners of his lips, but a definite grin. It deepened Marian's blush. The tightness in her chest increased.

"Oh, 'tis possible I may get some good out of it as well. But 'tis your good that concerns me most."

Yeah, she'd heard that one before. Her eyes narrowed.

His grin disappeared. "You do not know Gisbourne and the sheriff as I do, my lady. Whoever you are, you will be in danger from them till securely wed." He gave her a long, appraising look. She flushed hotter under it. "But if it eases your mind, I have decided to accept your story. Your face is very like Elaine's, but your manner is very much your own. Therefore I am willing to wed you as _Marian_ , if that be your wish."

He had a voice like crushed velvet—husky soft, deep, rich—an elegant diction warmed by a deadly sensual purr. The sound of her name in that voice sent an odd flutter through her. She shivered, but not from cold. This was a very dangerous man. She didn't want to marry him, period.

"My _wish_ is to be left alone. If you believe I'm not Elaine and still insist on this marriage, you're as bad as Sir Guy."

His brows lifted. "I think not. All he wants is Elaine's dowry. I am happy to forego that if needed, and take you as is."

_Bullfeathers._ Medieval marriages didn't work that way, not among the upper classes. They were based on money and politics. No one in their right mind gave up a dowry, and definitely not happily. He was lying. On top of which he was being a jerk. What else would you call a man who married another mere hours after his intended had been murdered? So, okay, she could think of some other terms for him, but they weren't ones she generally used. Although she was fast nearing the point where she would.

More wine. That's what I need.

Quickly, she reached for her cup.

Quicker, Godgifu moved it out of range.

_Rats._ Marian shot her an I-hate-you look.

The old woman didn't seem to care.

_She wouldn't, the hag._ Marian switched her look to Roland, who didn't seem to care either. _Arrgh..._

"For God's sake, _why_?" She tried not to sound as desperate as she felt.

She failed.

His lips curled in that maddening grin. "For _your_ sake, my lady." He answered as though he thought that was obvious. And also as though he thought that particular phrasing might mean something to her.

The odd thing was, it did. Except she didn't know what—only that a weird prickle ran through her, and she suddenly felt like she'd forgotten something. Something important? Her brow wrinkled. She struggled to remember. Drew a blank. Decided it made no difference. She had bigger things to worry about, one of them six feet tall with the attitude of a cat tormenting a mouse. And she was the mouse.

He leaned close and she let out an involuntary squeak. Good grief, she even sounded like a mouse. Marian clapped her hand over her mouth.

Roland stared down, his grin fading into the tiniest of frowns, a narrowing of eyes and lips, a tensing of the jaw. "We will marry because you are in speedy need of sanctuary, and marriage is the surest way I can provide it," he explained calmly, logically. "Because if I had married Elaine as planned, very likely she would still be alive. And..." He drew a deep breath, let it out in a sigh. "Because I'll not have your death on my conscience as well."

Marian sighed, too. "How noble."

She didn't dare meet his eyes. She focused instead on the blood red drops on her gown and wondered at a curious sensation stirring within her, wondered what to call it, because she'd rarely experienced it before. She felt his gaze burning into her, felt her face heating again. Her stomach knotted, her thoughts raced.

All right, maybe she'd judged him too harshly about Elaine. He did sound genuinely sorry about the poor girl. _But that doesn't excuse what he's trying to do to me._

If he really wanted to protect her, he could do it without marriage, and he knew it. All he had to do was stick her in a convent. Wasn't that what most medieval noblemen did with their troublesome women? She'd _like_ being cloistered, darn it. Calm, quiet life...time to study, read, write... No men. It was perfect for someone like her. It would certainly be safer than here—from her perspective anyway. He just wanted that damn dowry. She hoped like hell King John refused to give it to him.

"Noble or not, it operates in your favor. You should be honored. I am giving you my house, my name, and my protection in exchange for the simple matter of a son or two." He extended both hands to her. "Now come."

_Awfully sure of himself, wasn't he?_ Marian suddenly recognized her feeling. Her heart began hammering. She glanced once at Roland's hands—to let him know she saw them—then deliberately clasped her own hands together on her lap.

_Rebellion._ That's what she felt—inside and out. Rebellion against him, and against her own quiet nature. It was a long overdue digging-in-of-heels inspired by Orlando's words, or maybe just the thought of free-flying Orlando himself.

Holding the boy's image in her mind like a beacon, she cleared her throat and said, "Um, no, I don't want to."

"No?" Roland appeared not to understand the word. "Lady, we are wasting time. Father Boniface awaits. We had best make use of him before the...ah, the necessary claims his attention once more. He had eels for supper and they don't agree with him."

"Fine. Father Boniface can live in the necessary for all I care. He can move into it lock, stock and barrel." She kept her gaze lowered and clasped her hands tighter, held on to herself for dear life. "We don't need Father Boniface because I'm not going to marry you. I said _no_."

A sharp sigh hissed out above her—impatient, exasperated, the sigh of a man in no mood to argue. Which was good, Marian thought, because she had no intention of arguing either.

"Ah," Roland said, "I see. And am I to assume that this is your final word on the subject?"

_Damn straight._ She took a deep breath to steady her voice. "You assume correctly."

"So be it." His robes swished as he turned away. "Nurse Godgifu," he called over his shoulder, "'twould be unseemly of me to lay hands on the lady before we are wed. I leave it in your charge to see that she reaches the chapel in good speed. Try not to handle her too roughly."

### Chapter 5

She will...

It sounded like a death sentence. Worse. Marian's ears still rang with the words.

She will...

Father Boniface never should have accepted it, but the old priest obviously knew which side his bread was buttered on.

She will... She will...

She had, anyway. And digging in her heels hadn't helped one blessed bit. Godgifu had pushed her straight to the door of the chapel like she'd been on greased skids. So much for rebellion. All her protests fell on deaf ears. The ceremony was short and to the point—the abridged version apparently, made up in honor of the occasion.

Roland kept waving his hand at the priest and saying, "We can dispense with that part. Move on."

Marian wasn't sure why her own presence had even been needed. When they got to the vows, Roland answered hers before she could open her mouth and scream.

"She will," he'd said. Just like that. "She will."

"No, I won't!" she'd hollered. Too late. Father Boniface had already declared them wed.

"You may kiss your wife, my son."

"We can dispense with that part," Marian had choked out. Fortunately, Roland hadn't pressed the issue, had even allowed her to leave the scene of the crime under her own power, with some small degree of dignity. Unfortunately, she'd been escorted to his bedchamber immediately thereafter. There was nothing dignified about her position now.

Huddled naked under the covers of a massive canopied bed, hidden behind tapestry bed curtains, she listened to Roland enter the room and dismiss a giggling young woman named Solemnia of all things. She was Isolde's personal attendant, but until they could find her a chamberer of her own, Marian would be sharing her. Earl's ladies had to be attended, of course; there was no escaping it. The giggles were grating, but the only alternative would have meant sharing Godgifu with Cymrica, and Marian had had enough of Nurse Godzilla for one night.

There sounded low, masculine murmurs as a stocky, fair-haired youth called Hodge performed the same services for Roland that Mistress Giggles had just completed for her. The boy looked a tad dull-witted, but obviously devoted to his lord. Marian supposed someone had to be. Through a crack in the bed curtains she watched him laboriously smooth the creases out of the brown robe, then fold and lay it in a carved oak chest. She couldn't see what the robe's owner was doing and didn't want to. She focused on Hodge instead, tried to use his slow plodding movements to lull her into lethargy, tried to detach, go numb. Tried to not care.

Failed miserably.

She did care, damn it—always had, always would. But it was no use. She couldn't stop what was coming. She'd been taught too early to lie still and take it, that fighting only made things worse. Old training died hard.

A shudder racked through her. Tears filled her eyes as the memories filled her head. Feeling like an open wound, she lay there shivering and waiting, hating her weakness. Wouldn't Orlando be disgusted if he could see her like this. Wherever he was right now, she felt like she was letting him down, knew she was letting herself down. Knew even better there wasn't a thing in hell she could do about it. There never had been. Self-defense was a grand concept, but there wasn't much a little girl could do against a grown man.

Swallowed up in the big bed, Marian felt like a little girl again, felt filthy inside, helpless all over. A long, hard, brutally strange day, with the recent rebellion such a ridiculous flop, she couldn't think what else to try, could hardly think at all. Wouldn't think. She'd just hope that Roland would be fast, and that she wouldn't disgrace herself anymore than necessary. She had a little pride left. Not much, but some—a tiny ragged shred. She'd cling to that.

The chamber door clicked shut with Hodge's departure. Marian blinked back the tears, braced herself. _No crying, no begging, no struggling. No response, period. Don't give him the satisfaction._ She'd just grit her teeth and concentrate on surviving this connubial farce as best she could. Afterward...

She squeezed her eyes shut. Afterward, maybe she could escape into sleep, if he'd let her. And dream, if she was lucky. God, how she'd need a good dream tonight. Her dream. She needed Robin now more than ever.

The swish of the bed curtains being drawn back brought her eyes flying open. She found herself staring at a taut-muscled male torso that rippled like molten copper in the soft glow of the bedside candle. Her breath hitched. He looked like a Greek statue, utterly motionless, shocking in his physical perfection. Then the candle was snuffed and he was only a moonlit silhouette with a rich velvet voice.

"You are on my side of the bed."

_Huh?_ She blinked. Was that supposed to be funny?

"I need the side closest to the door," he explained, "in case, ah, a crisis should arise during the night."

_Oh._ As far as Marian was concerned this night was already a crisis, but she wasn't about to argue the point. After that single shattering glimpse of him she doubted she could make a sound anyway. Doubted, too, that simply gritting her teeth would get her through the coming ordeal. He'd looked dangerous enough dressed. Naked, he looked lethal. Her breath snagging in her throat, she rolled to the far side of the four-poster, in her haste dragging most of the covers with her.

Without comment Roland slid into bed and methodically hauled everything back into place. Blankets, sheet...and Marian, her fingernails clawing at the mattress the whole way. She ended on her side, trapped in the curve of his body, her back to his front. His arms wrapped around her middle, his thighs pressed up behind hers, and only a few folds of the sheet stood between her and the dreaded inevitable. She felt his heart beating into her spine, his skin hot and smooth against hers. Her body tensed. Suddenly she couldn't stop shivering.

The arms around her tightened. "Lady, you are trembling."

Perceptive, wasn't he? Why did he sound so surprised?

"Is the room too cold for you?"

Actually, it was starting to feel like an oven, but she was damned if she'd tell him that.

"You are...nervous perhaps?"

Hah. Guess again.

"Frightened?"

Try terrified.

"Not of me, surely?"

Is there anyone else here?

His breath released in a small sigh. "I think there are a few things we had best discuss."

Marian bit her tongue to keep from strangling on it. She'd been braced for sexual assault, not conversation. This was absolutely depraved.

"I don't want to talk. If you're going to rape me, I'd prefer that we get it over with as quickly as possible, if you don't mind."

With an agonized groan Roland heaved away from her onto his back. "God's blood, lady, what kind of a monster do you think I am?"

"You don't really want me to answer that, do you?"

"No, I suppose I don't." Throwing back the covers, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "And I fear anything else I might say or do this night would but lower me further in your esteem."

Marian yanked the covers back up to her chin. "Not really. You're already about as low as you can get."

"Indeed." Without warning he turned and captured her face between his hands. "Since I've nothing to lose then, I'll be damned if I'll not even get a kiss for my trouble."

She stiffened. Sudden panic locked her lips tight against the expected invasion. His mouth pressed down warm and soft on her brow instead. Then he was out of the bed, back into his robe, and striding for the door.

"Rest you well, my lady. No one shall disturb you tonight. You have my word on it." The door closed quietly behind him.

Marian lay stunned, eyes wide, staring into the darkness, all the wind sucked out of her sails by his departure. _He's gone?_ She strained her ears, listening for his return even while knowing he wouldn't. He'd given his word. Why she should believe him, she had no idea, but she did. He could have forced himself on her so easily. She'd expected it, expected the worst. Yet he'd left her with no more than a kiss.

On the forehead.

Good lord.

He'd left her alone! _Why?_ Because he didn't want her to think badly of him? Because he'd realized she was frightened? Why on earth should he care about that? No one else ever had. Even worse, why should she care that he did?

A sharp smack broke the silence of the room—Marian slapping herself in the head. Why the hell was she lying here like an idiot when she finally had a chance to escape? If she wanted out, _now_ was the time to run.

There was just one slight problem.

"I don't know where to escape to. Or how." Her voice sounded small in the shadows. With another groan she sat up in the center of the bed, feeling dwarfed by its size and the magnitude of her own predicament.

Something creaked. Either her brain was cracking from the strain, or the door was opening.

Marian's breath released in what was almost a sigh of relief. _Roland._ He'd returned, had he? And here she'd been worrying that she might actually be starting to like him. _Hah._ Well, it saved her the trouble of trying to decide what to do next. On with the wedding night frolics. Bastard.

Her faith in his rottenness restored, she sank back into the pillows and waited, listened to him padding across the floor...heard the lid of the oak chest squeak open...heard the rustle of fabrics...metallic clinks...

Coins?

The lid dropped shut again with a hollow thud and she could no longer stand the suspense. What was he doing? Counting his money? _Now?_

Suddenly more irritated than frightened, Marian scooted to the edge of the mattress and peeked out through a crack in the bed curtains. Her eyes widened. Moonlight filtered in through the window, illuminating the chest and the figure crouched in profile before it, dark curls peeking out the rim of his tunic's hood. The scene overlapped in her mind with the image of a boy in a bookstore, stealing paperbacks out of a bin. Same pose, same boy, same basic activity. Too shocked to speak, she watched him stuff a leather pouch down the front of his tunic, rise, and tiptoe to the door.

"Orlando?" she finally managed to rasp out.

Her whisper coincided with the sound of the door shutting.

He was gone.

Damn.

Marian flew out of bed and fumbled for clothes. Her undergarment, a white shift, lay neatly on a carved stool. She yanked it over her head, not knowing if she put it on frontward or backward, not caring. Slippers and stockings lay beneath the stool. She skipped the stockings and shoved her feet into the shoes. The blue silk gown was nowhere to be seen. Off for cleaning? Fine. She hated that gown—bad memories—but she needed something besides the shift. She spied the green gown she'd arrived in hanging on a hook in the corner. It had some unsettling memories attached to it, too, but she scrambled into it, regardless, then darted out the door.

Groping her way through the dark outer chamber, she nearly stumbled over Hodge asleep on a pallet by the exit to the courtyard stairs. He grunted as her foot bumped him. Marian caught her breath, froze in mid-step.

Hodge rolled groggily to his side and was snoring again in seconds. No problems with insomnia for that boy. She released the breath she'd been holding, pushed opened the door, and stared down into the moonlit courtyard with its scattered shrubs and benches, its cobbled well...

And not a soul in sight.

Her skin prickled into gooseflesh. What the heck was going on? She _had_ just seen Orlando, hadn't she? But he couldn't know she was here, too, or he wouldn't have been—her stomach turned over—robbing the Earl of Hunterdon, for heaven's sake. How did he get into the house? How did he know where to look for loot? She'd known the kid was resourceful, but not _this_ resourceful.

A hundred questions tumbled through her mind. Half of her thrilled at the knowledge he was all right; the rest teetered on the edge of panic wondering how long he'd stay that way. Lord have mercy, he hadn't wasted any time, had he? Just what was he up to? Who had he gotten himself involved with? Someone put him up to this—some outlaw—she was sure of it. A medieval band of thieves would probably love to have a clever kid they could slip through windows and such. Did Orlando have any idea how harshly crimes were punished in this era?

_Crap._ She had to find him before he got himself captured and killed.

As she stood shivering and staring, debating what to do, a flash of movement caught her eye. A boyish figure in hose and hooded tunic slipped out of the shadows at the base of the stairs and hurried across the courtyard in a semi-crouch.

The little imp.

Like a silent shot, Marian was down the stairs and after him. She didn't dare call out for fear of waking the household. Racing diagonally to cut him off, she came within reach as he rounded the yard's central well. A forward lunge—a grab—and she had him.

Yes!

Or maybe no. Too late she realized the boy she'd caught was taller than Orlando. When straight he was a bit taller than she. As they stumbled to a halt his hood flew back and two raven dark braids tumbled out.

"Cymrica!" Marian let go as though burnt. "What are you doing here?"

Furious, the girl whirled to confront her. "I might ask you the same thing. Looking for Roland? What a pity. My brother seems well finished with _you_ this night. I watched him ride out a short while hence. He'll be petting his little Tabby cat by now." Her lips curled in contempt. "So much for his fear of a night chill."

Marian felt a suspicious chill of her own. "A cat?"

"Aye. A two-legged one." Cymrica grinned like a cat herself. "The widow Tabitha. Her cottage lies in the forest." The girl's eyes glittered in the moonlight as she glared down her nose at Marian. "You'd best accustom yourself to sleeping alone. Your lord spends most nights in that trollop's bed. She's been his whore for years. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you."

I'll just bet you are.

Marian forced a smile onto her lips. "That's his business, not mine."

This was hardly disturbing news. It might have been nice to think Roland's earlier gesture had been pure gallantry, but she'd never really believed it was. And the truth of the situation certainly took part of the pressure off her. Didn't it?

"I'm glad he has someone else," she said, while telling herself she honestly meant it. "I never wanted to marry him to begin with—in case you didn't notice. I don't want to be here at all."

"Truly?" The concept seemed a perplexing one to Cymrica. She wrinkled her brow in thought. Her eyes narrowed, then suddenly opened wide. "'Tis good! Then you'll not mind going to Sir Guy's instead, will you?"

Before Marian could draw breath enough to gasp, she was spun round, with Cymrica's left hand buried in her hair and a dagger pricking her throat.

"One sound, _sister_ , and I'll slit you where you stand."

_Oh, honestly..._ The "sister" bit back a surge of hysterical laughter. Poor Cymrica was an amateur at this; she couldn't know how ridiculous she sounded to someone who'd been threatened by pros.

"If you're planning on delivering me to Sir Guy, what makes you think I wouldn't prefer to just be killed right now?" A strangled gulp sounded behind Marian and she knew her point had hit home. To anyone familiar with Guy of Gisbourne, the logic was, of course, irrefutable.

The gulps became muffled sobs, the dagger dropped, and Marian was released as quickly as she'd been captured. Turning with a sigh, she stared at Cymrica who sat crumpled in a dejected heap on the ground, mopping at her tears with the hem of her knee-length wool tunic.

"I should be horsewhipped." The girl's gaze lifted to Marian's, her eyes large and dark, overflowing with despair. "Forgive me. I did not truly wish to harm you. 'Tis just that I am so...so d-d-desperate to save Allan!" she moaned. "I...I'd planned on bribing the guards to release him to me. But my purse may not be heavy enough. Roland rarely gives me money of mine own. So I thought mayhap 'twould be better to..." Her eyes lowered in shame. "To bribe Gisbourne himself."

"By trading him me for Allan?"

The teary gaze flashed up again. "'Twould not have been for long. Roland would have ransomed you back swiftly, I am sure."

_Oh, really?_ Where the enigmatic Earl of Hunterdon was concerned, Marian doubted one could be sure of anything. Besides...

"If I'm already m-married"—she tried not to choke on the word—"why would Sir Guy want me?"

Slowly Cymrica pulled to her feet, moving like a weary old woman instead of an active eighteen-year-old. She sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve. "You are right. 'Twas a foolish plan."

Marian stood without speaking a long moment, her eyes closed in concentration, trying to see some reason to not do what she was about to. But all she could see was Allan's bruised face as they'd lashed him on his horse like a beast being carted off to slaughter. And only because he'd tried to help her.

"Yes, foolish. Very foolish," she agreed, not sure if she was referring to Allan, Cymrica, or herself. All three probably. Her eyes opened and she met Cymrica's hopeless stare. "But it's still the best plan we have."

They didn't have to tell Sir Guy she was married.

The sniffles stopped. Cymrica's gaze locked onto Marian's. "You...you'd do that for me?"

"No. Frankly, Cymrica, I'm not even sure I like you. I'm doing it for Allan, of course."

"Why?" The girl's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Are you in love with him?"

_What?_ Jealous little twit, wasn't she? Marian just looked at her. They didn't have time for stupid games. "Don't be ridiculous. I feel responsible is all. It's my fault he's in trouble. I owe it to him to help if I can."

"Oh." Cymrica chewed on that, her brow wrinkling anew. "That's what I thought, too," she muttered, seemingly to herself. "But I ne're thought a weak little poppet like Elaine would feel the same."

She peered at Marian as though seeing her for the first time. Slowly her lips curled into a small smile. "You are not Elaine, are you."

It was a statement, not a question.

To Marian, it was simply a relief. She answered Cymrica's smile with a tiny, tired one of her own. "No, I'm not."

"So Elaine did have a sister? You _are_ her twin?"

Marian's smile faded. She was no good at subterfuge was what she was. "No, not that either. But please don't ask who I really am. It would take too long to explain, and..." She sighed. "You wouldn't understand it. I don't understand it myself."

She turned away to stand by the well, rested her hands on the cool stone rim, and stared down into its inky dark depths, trying not to think. She didn't bother to glance up when Cymrica moved to join her.

Without preamble the girl reached out and placed her hand over Marian's on the rim. "I know who you are. You're _my_ sister now, and I already like you far better than I like most people—certainly better than I liked Elaine. I'm glad you're here, howe'er it came to be."

Marian heaved another sigh. It probably made no difference—with what lay ahead, she doubted she'd live much longer anyway—but between Roland not forcing the wedding night issue, regardless of his reasons, and Cymrica's easy acceptance of her, these Hunterdons were making it very difficult for her to continue hating them. Damn it.

Cymrica's fingers closed warmly around hers and squeezed.

Unable to stop herself, Marian squeezed back.

* * *

Several minutes and one stealthy escape from the manor later found them still holding hands as they darted through a patchwork of moonlight and shadows toward the stables. Cymrica had a grip like iron and ran a steady course, pulling Marian, protesting, along in her wake.

"Cymrica, I can't ride! I've never even been on a horse before... I don't think." Marian suddenly wasn't sure about that. An odd half-memory tickled the back of her brain, too fuzzy to get a grip on. She pushed it aside as Cymrica pulled her onward. "Why don't we walk?"

"We _need_ horses. 'Tis simple, you'll see. I'll give you my old pony—a child could manage him. Hurry." She quickened her pace. "I told you, 'tis too far to walk. And too dangerous. What if we're beset by thieves on the way? How will we escape without mounts?"

Hell, everything they were planning was dangerous. What did a few thieves matter? Marian made another futile attempt to jerk free. "And I told you, your stableman won't give us any. Roland sent orders he'd have him whipped if he does. What if the man tells? You're going to get us caught before we begin."

"Hah!" Cymrica snorted. "Roland's too lily-livered to have anyone beaten. All our people know that. His threats are useless. _Mine_ are not."

### Chapter 6

"Did you have to hit him so hard?" Marian grumbled. Handling a horse was less daunting than she'd expected, but poor Dirk. She tightened her grip on the reins of the gray pony he'd saddled for her after Cymrica blackened his eye. And poor her. The pony's name was Featherfoot, but there was nothing feathery about him that she could tell. Rocky would have been a better name, judging by his gait. Her kidneys would ne'er be the same.

"Pish-posh." Cymrica slowed her elegant roan mare, Aster, to let Marian and Featherfoot catch up as they trotted down the forest road, sticking to the cover of the trees along its side. "'Twas but a tap—nothing to people of his sort."

Meaning peasants and serfs, Marian assumed—who would, naturally, be viewed as little better than animals by members of Cymrica's class. She gritted her teeth and let the matter drop. There was no point in blaming Cymrica for being a product of her times. The girl was flaunting convention enough as it was by daring to love a man beneath her station. As the youngest son of a lesser Welsh noble, Allan had no lands or title of his own, and no hope of any beyond what he could win for himself.

"He'll wed me as soon as may be, I know he will," Cymrica said, returning to their previous topic of conversation. "After he's knighted. He'll not always be poor."

"Not if you marry him, he won't," Marian muttered under her breath. An unkind comment, she knew, but bouncing on Featherfoot this past mile had soured her mood, which had been none too sweet to begin with.

"Once Allan earns his spurs," Cymrica continued as though there was no doubt he would earn them, "he can enter jousts and tournaments. There is much wealth to be won that way."

"To the victors go the spoils," Marian quoted glumly. "Yes, I know how jousts and tournaments work." What she didn't know was what she and Cymrica would do once they reached Sir Guy's. "This might not work, you know. What's to stop Sir Guy from keeping me and killing Allan?" A pity she hadn't stopped to consider that sooner.

"His honor?" Cymrica offered hopefully.

As though in response, Featherfoot snorted. Marian was inclined to agree with him. "Does Sir Guy have any honor?"

Cymrica sighed. "None that I've e'er heard of. Perhaps we'd best try bribing the guards, after all."

"I thought you said your purse wasn't heavy enough for that. How much did you steal from Roland tonight anyway?"

" _Steal_?" Cymrica reined up so sharply, Featherfoot bumped into her mount's flanks. The mare turned her head and shot Marian and the pony a disgruntled look in the moonlight. "I've ne'er stolen from anyone, least of all my own brother. What are you talking about?"

Marian was no longer sure. When she'd caught Cymrica in the courtyard, she'd assumed it was her she saw pilfering Roland's trunk. Now she was back to square one. It had been Orlando. Great, just great.

Cymrica waited for an answer, squinting suspiciously from under the shadows of her hood.

"Never mind. I, um...made a mistake." Marian shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. Featherfoot took it as a sign to continue forward, for which she was most grateful. "Why don't you tell me more about Allan?" She might be a lousy liar, but she could darn well change the subject.

"I know no more. Only that I love him, and I am sure he loves me. We have...shared looks."

"Shared looks?" Meaning that Cymrica had never actually met him? Good lord, what a marvelously medieval courtship.

"We've ne'er spoken," the girl explained. "But I've seen him well nigh a score of times. Thrice at the market in Nottingham, and often at the abbey when Aunt Isolde and I go there to visit Stacey."

"Stacey?" Marian felt like she was turning into an echo.

"Yes, my niece, Roland's daughter."

Oh, that was right. Sir Sigurd had said something about her being educated by nuns.

"Elaine lived at the abbey, too, though she was the king's ward. The sisters raised her after her parents died."

Probably safer for her than living at court, if the history books were correct about King John and his eye for the ladies. Marian supposed she'd better keep that thought to herself.

"What brought Allan to the abbey?" she asked instead.

"The abbess is his aunt, so Elaine told me."

Marian suddenly felt sick. "Mother Jennet?"

"Yes," Cymrica said, a smile evident in her voice. She'd either missed part of the story Marian had told about the adventures on the road, or forgotten the grislier bits. And Marian had neither the heart nor the stomach just then to remind her. "Elaine said he was most dutiful in paying his respects to the reverend mother. Though I am sure he did it to see me as well. Why else did his visits so often match my own, hmmm?"

"I see your point," Marian said, seeing also the mental image of an old nun lying in the dust like a broken doll.

Either something in her tone jarred Cymrica's memory, or the girl read her thoughts.

"Oh no." Her whisper sounded like a ghost in the darkness. "I've been so frightened for Allan, I've scarce considered the rest. I forgot. I'm so sorry."

She glanced over her shoulder at Marian. "It must have been horrible for you and... Oh, my poor Allan—to lose his aunt so cruelly! And Elaine..." Her voice cracked. "I did not like her over much, yet..." She choked back a sob. "Yet I would not have wished her such an evil end. I'm sorry I called her a weak little poppet—even though she was. I...I..." The sobs would no longer be held at bay.

Marian stared in horror as Cymrica slumped over her mount's neck, the girl's whole body shaking as the mare speeded her step in response to her rider's forward thrust of weight. Remembering the scene at the manor, she could only imagine what was coming next. The forest would soon be bursting with banshee wails. _Spit._ How the hell could she get Featherfoot to close the gap between them? Pulling back on the reins slowed him—she'd figured out that. Almost anything slowed him, in fact. But nothing seemed to make him go faster.

Damn, damn, damn.

"Cymrica? Please don't cry. _Pleeease_ , not now." Vainly she stretched out her arm, and almost fell out of the saddle when the girl abruptly ceased sobbing and pulled up in front of her, causing Featherfoot to slam on the brakes, too. He was so good about stopping, that pony was.

"The bloody bastard," Lady Cymrica cursed, sounding little like a lady. She glared furiously to the side, her eyes glinting in the moonlight.

Marian followed her line of vision to see additional light spilling out in a single beam across the road ahead, its source the window of a tiny cottage nestled back between the trees. A woman's laughter rippled out from the dollhouse dwelling along with a husky masculine murmur. The man's words were muffled, but his voice was unmistakable. Roland. Marian didn't need anyone to tell her who the woman was. But Cymrica informed her nonetheless.

"Tabitha." She spat out the name like poison. She turned toward Marian, her expression livid, her eyes brimming afresh. "I...I am sorry for what I said before about Roland...and _her_. 'Twas monstrous of him to leave you. And on your wedding night, too, the beast! If he were _my_ husband, I...I'd..."

" _Shhh_ , they might hear you." Marian was amazed how brittle her own voice sounded. One would think she was upset or something, when nothing could be further from the truth, of course. The only thing that upset her about Roland was having been forced to marry him in the first place. She told herself she didn't care what else he did, or with whom, if it gave him reason to leave her alone. She even tried to believe it. "Let's get out of here."

For heaven's sake, a man's life was in danger and they were wasting time. She tugged on the reins, trying to turn Featherfoot away. The pony stood like a lump. Marian felt like crying, and had no idea why. "How the hell do you steer this thing?"

Cymrica stared at her a moment, then tapped Aster with her heels, maneuvering the mare across the road and forward. The pony blew out a soft snort and plodded after them.

"If he tries that again, kick him," Cymrica whispered over her shoulder. "Just remember, he'll do exactly as he pleases unless you make him behave."

Somehow Marian got the impression she was talking about more than horses.

*****

The road ran straight for the last leg of the journey, broadening as the forest gave way to fields. They sighted the Gisbourne stronghold, looming massive into the night sky, the moment they left the trees. They smelled it not long after. High stone walls and towers rising out of the ground, looking like an earthquake couldn't raze them, the whole complex surrounded by a moat that doubled as the castle's cesspool, judging by the stench. Overhead hung a fat full moon, bright enough to cast shadows, bathing everything in a cold white glow.

Marian stared down at the stagnant water as they skirted its edge, saw several dead rats bobbing about like corks among other objects she couldn't identify and didn't want to. _Ewww._ "We're not going to have to swim this, are we?"

"God forbid," Cymrica said nasally. She held the reins with one hand while pinching her nostrils closed between the thumb and forefinger of the other. "There's a foot bridge at the back. We'll present ourselves at the postern gate. The guard there can announce our arrival."

"I'll be surprised if we haven't been announced already. They must have a watch posted." Marian tilted back her head to study the top of the great bailey wall, thought she saw figures lurking behind the parapets. "Are those sentries?" She pointed.

Cymrica didn't bother to look. "Most likely. But they'll do naught. I doubt we appear much of a threat." She flashed Marian a wry grin.

Marian couldn't grin back. Her eyes widened in horror at sight of the footbridge, such as it was. A rotting, sagging plank laid haphazardly across the moat, looking ready to topple in at the first stiff breeze. Besides, it was already in use. A family of rats scurried across it.

"Cymrica, we can't cross _this_."

"You'd rather swim?"

A rhetorical question obviously. No need to answer.

Cymrica pulled up the mare, dismounted, and tethered her to a nearby tree, which had possibly been planted for just that purpose. God knew it was a sick looking tree and seemed not much good for anything else, poor thing.

In a dozen fluid strides the girl was across the plank and waving at Marian from the other side. "Wait there, if you like. I'll meet with Sir Guy alone. If he agrees to our terms, I'll come back for you."

"Um...what if he doesn't agree?"

"Then crossing the moat will be the least of our worries."

Without another word Cymrica turned and bounded up an incline to the postern gate. She unsheathed a dagger from her belt and rapped its hilt on the wood, a series of sharp staccato taps, echoing in the night.

Slowly, with an eerie creaking of hinges, the heavy gate swung inward. Cymrica poked her head in, then stepped through the portal and disappeared into the darkness beyond. The gate hung open behind her, swinging to and fro, its timbers groaning like a lost soul.

Weird. Why hadn't the guard shut it? Had there even been a guard? Marian hadn't heard Cymrica speak to anyone. Yet the gate opened. _Very weird._ A chill crept down her spine, a sudden sense of being watched. She twisted around in the saddle, stared in all directions. Saw no one, nothing but the empty moonlit field, the dark brooding fortress, and the filthy moat. But still her skin prickled, like bugs crawled over her.

Suddenly, the plank bridge looked pretty good. With a scramble of aching limbs she half slid, half fell off the pony, and tied him to the tree next to the mare the way she'd seen Cymrica do it. Then she darted to the edge of the moat. Setting her jaw she stepped onto the plank and miraculously made it across without falling off or having to yield the right of way to any rodents. Her step slowed as she approached the postern gate; her heart rate quickened. She hesitated before the opening.

And squealed as an arm shot out and hauled her in.

Cymrica clapped a hand over Marian's mouth. "Hush! They'll hear you."

Not likely. _They_ seemed busy with some sport elsewhere, judging by the muffled sounds of merriment Marian now heard. She pulled away from Cymrica, sucked in air and blinked, waiting for her pulse to calm and her eyes to adjust to the gloom. With the high bailey wall blocking much of the moonlight, it was darker inside the castle complex than out. The back part of the yard where she stood lay deep in shadows. She heard Cymrica breathing close by, but could barely see her.

"I thought you were going to wait outside," the girl's voice hissed in her ear.

"I changed my mind," Marian said, without elaborating why. Her skin still crawled with the sense of unseen eyes watching her. "What's going on here?"

"I wish I knew." Cymrica drew closer and took hold of her hand. She felt the eyes, too. "There was no guard, nor was the gate locked. It fell open as I knocked."

"I know, I saw." And it made no sense. Unless Sir Guy was as slovenly about his fortress's security as he was his personal hygiene—which she doubted. Cleanliness wasn't a top priority in these days, but armed defense was. Castles were more military camps than they were residences. Sir Guy might be a pig, but he couldn't be _that_ stupid. "Something's not right. The big question is what to do about it."

"Follow the voices?" Cymrica suggested.

She would.

Marian girded her loins. "All right. But this time I'm coming with you."

"Why? I only want to look, and I can move faster in this tunic than you can in that gown. I'll not let anyone see me. They might think I was a spy."

_Oh, for heaven's sake..._ "Cymrica, we've sneaked in unannounced. At this point, we _are_ spies, so we'll be safer together. If we separate we double the chances of being discovered."

_Besides, I'm_ not _staying here alone._

Marian peered through the shadows, trying to get her bearings. Hmm, a classic Norman stronghold, built for battle and to withstand siege. She'd studied scores of photos and diagrams of such places. They were all constructed along similar lines. Where she stood had to be the inner ward: a broad stretch of bare ground with the towering _donjon_ , or keep, to her left and a few smaller structures to the right—probably the cookhouses, all quiet and dark. Too quiet. Wherever the activity was, it wasn't in this half of the fortress.

"They must be in the outer ward." She pointed to the high wooden wall several dozen yards before them, which ran the width of the yard, cutting the castle's interior grounds into two portions. "There, on the other side."

"Obviously," Cymrica said. "'Tis certain there be no one on this side."

Marian wasn't entirely sure of that, and she didn't think Cymrica was either, but she wasn't about to argue. She'd just caught a whiff of wood smoke—and it didn't seem to be coming from the silent cookhouses. Not a good sign.

Hiking her skirt to her knees she sprinted across the yard to investigate, with Cymrica close on her heels. Together they landed in a crouch by the gate in the wooden dividing wall, the smell of smoke stronger and the voices louder, no longer muffled. Marian could understand what they said now. So could Cymrica. But neither of them believed what they heard—sobs and laughter, coughing and hacking, and the sheriff's smooth tones sounding above it all.

"Gads, such a fuss. You should be thankful we discovered your secret affection before killing him outright. Whether he lives or dies now is in your hands. The longer you refuse Gisbourne, the longer your lover suffers—'tis that simple. Agree to the marriage and I'll cut him free."

"No! Hold firm, I beg you!" gasped out another voice, harsh and raspy. "I am happy to die for your honor—" The words broke off in a fit of coughing.

"The swine!" Cymrica said. Before Marian could stop her, she shoved open the gate a crack and peeked through. "I hope he falls in head first and roasts!"

" _What_? Let me see." Marian elbowed the girl aside, looked and froze. Her blood turned to ice water on the spot.

At the far end of the outer ward, ringed by torchlight and jeering men, hung Allan upside down, his ankles caught in a noose suspended from a scaffolding, his head several feet above a fire. A small fire, but covered with green branches. Smoke billowed up from it directly into his face. He'd asphyxiate before anyone need worry about him burning. Very nasty. But then she'd expected something nasty. What she hadn't expected was the woman across the yard.

The woman in a crimson gown, staring in horror from Allan to Sir Guy.

The woman who looked like her.

"All those times at the abbey when I thought he was visiting to see me... It must have been _her_ he was there for, damn him." Cymrica sounded ready to kill Allan herself if the smoke didn't get him first. She turned an accusing eye on Marian. "I thought you said Elaine was dead."

"I thought she was. Apparently she got better."

Marian pulled back from the gate and collapsed against the wall, her head reeling. Elaine must have only been unconscious—a state she felt dangerously close to herself at the moment. Not that she begrudged the lady for being alive, but there was no way now she could offer that damned dowry in exchange for Allan. Spit.

She rubbed her temples, mentally scrambling for an alternative. Couldn't find any. Oh hell, it had been a long shot anyway, since the dowry hadn't been awarded to her yet. But now there was no chance it ever would be. She wondered what Roland would think of that—decided she didn't care. It served him right for jumping the gun and forcing her to marry him.

Cripes, what a mess. Maybe he could have their marriage annulled now and take Elaine as planned—if Sir Guy didn't take Elaine first. Of course, if Elaine really was in love with Allan, she wouldn't want Roland, but the choice probably wasn't hers. King John would never let his ward marry a penniless would-be knight. And between Sir Guy and Roland, Elaine would have to prefer the latter. Anyone would. "Even me."

Oh God, what am I thinking?

"'Even you' what? Marian, what are you mumbling about?" Cymrica whispered.

Marian swallowed, hard. "I think I've figured a way to save them, but I'll need your help."

And she told Cymrica the plan.

Cymrica balked. "No. Absolutely not. I shan't let you do it. They might kill you!"

_Duh._ "Well, why did we come here then? You were willing to let me risk myself before."

"I know. And I regret that." Cymrica's eyes filled with tears. "I thought wrongly before. I was blinded by...by..."

"Cymrica, _don't_ start crying. I know you loved Allan—you couldn't help it. It's all right. People can't always help how they feel. Just like Allan can't help it if he loves Elaine. He shouldn't have to die for it, don't you see?"

Cymrica sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve. "Well, neither should you have to die for it."

"But it's partly because of me he's in this mess!"

"Originally, perhaps. But he's Elaine's problem now. If she truly loves him, _she_ can save him."

"How? By marrying Sir Guy?"

"Yes! If I were in her place, I'd do whatever was needed to save the man I loved. If it meant sacrificing my own life, I'd do it." Cymrica sounded dead certain of that.

So did Elaine. "All right— _yes_ —I'll marry him!" her voice rang out. "Now, please, _please_ let Allan go."

She dissolved into sobs as Allan tried to protest between coughs and gasps.

"Bloody hell, she does love him," Cymrica muttered.

"Not so fast, my lady," the sheriff said. "We shall release him _after_ the wedding. Summon the priest, someone—quickly. Poor Allan will not last forever." He chuckled.

Marian seethed. "I really hate that chuckle."

"Get back!" Cymrica flattened against the wall as the gate flew open and a man hurried through en route to fetch the priest. His eyes focused ahead, he never saw them. But with the gate swinging wide, the sobs and coughs sounded even worse.

Cymrica balled her hands into fists. "If the rest of you can play martyr, so can I. _I'll_ wed Gisbourne. All he wants is a damn dowry, and mine is nearly as large as Elaine's."

Marvy. Roland would adore that. Marian grabbed her as she started through the gate. "No, 'nearly as large' might not be large enough, and if you let them know you're here, we'll lose our chance to do anything else. Besides, if he _would_ marry you, you'd be stuck with him. If I do it, it won't hold, because I...I'm already...m-married."

"You sound not overly sure of that."

Marian's mid-section tightened. She wasn't sure, not of anything. The marriage hadn't been... _gulp_ ...consummated. Was that grounds for an annulment? In this day and age, maybe not, but added to the fact she hadn't spoken her own vows it might make grounds enough. Certainly Roland would _want_ to let her go now so he could marry Elaine. She couldn't think of a single reason why he wouldn't. That was what she wanted, too, wasn't it? Just so long as he waited till she was free of Sir Guy.

Cymrica's lips twitched at the corners as though she couldn't decide on a grin or a frown. "Roland will want you back, have no doubt of it. I saw how he looked at you tonight. Especially how he looked at you when he thought no one watched him. I've ne'er seen him look at any other woman that way—not Elaine, not even Tabitha."

_Yes, and we both know what a stellar interpreter of expressions you are, Miss Allan-And-I-Have-Shared-Looks._ Marian decided not to mention that. She might be a lousy liar, but she was fairly proficient at suppressing the truth, having had a lot of practice in that area. She'd have to rely on that skill when she pretended to be Elaine. It was the only chance they had.

Just look the part and keep your mouth shut.

She reached out and squeezed Cymrica's hand. The girl couldn't help it if she was a starry-eyed romantic.

_And I can't help it if I'm not._ Except for in her dreams maybe. But then she was never herself in those dreams; she was "Maid Marian." That made all the difference.

What a darn shame she wasn't dreaming now. If it were Maid Marian about to face the Sheriff of Nottingham, they could be sure Robin Hood would save the day. But this wasn't a dream, she was definitely no maid, and Robin wouldn't be around to save anything.

In other words, kiddo, you're on your own with the sheriff this time.

Plain old Marian would have to muddle through as best she could. Heaven help them all.

### Chapter 7

Plain old Marian was in her element. Hiding in the dark. Crouched against the dividing wall, she tried not to think of the times she'd played the hiding game before. And lost. She couldn't lose this time. The safety of two others depended on her. Three, if she counted Cymrica, but Cymrica seemed to be doing fine on her own. All the girl had to do was create a diversion to get the men out of the outer ward.

Cymrica had created a dandy, aided by the fact that thatched roofs caught fire so readily. She'd set the cookhouses ablaze. Perfect because it could so easily be a natural accident. No one would suspect sabotage.

Marian crouched farther into the wall's shadow as the fire lit up the opposite side of the yard. She watched Cymrica scurry safely out the postern door to await the arrival of Allan and Elaine, then turned her gaze to the center gate.

One, two, three... Any second now...

_Crash!_ Men tumbled through the opening like the Keystone Cops in mail. When all were out, and their attention on the blaze, she darted down the line of wall and through the gate.

The moon dipped low in the sky, the towering bailey wall blocking its light. Smoke hung heavy in the air, deepening the dark, but the wavering glow of torches set in the ground marked the spot where the captives were, the one huddled weeping near the scaffold, the other dangling in midair and coughing his lungs out. Fighting fear, she sprinted across the outer ward toward them. Elaine jerked upright, her eyes going wide. Marian's eyes widened, too, as another figure clanked out of the smoke and into the torchlight.

They'd left a guard? _Crap._

With a low growl he lunged, and Marian turned and fled. She heard the man's heavy breath—felt the swish of air as he made and missed a grab—saw almost too late the bailey wall looming up in front of her—

Gasping, she dodged to the side.

The guard didn't. He smashed face-first into the wall and landed backward on the ground like a toppled ton of bricks.

_Ouch._ She peered at him a moment to make sure he wouldn't be rising anytime soon, then relieved him of sword and dagger and stumbled back to the scaffold.

"W-well done, my lady," Allan choked out. He looked vastly amused for a man in the process of suffocating.

"Save your breath." Using the blade of the sword Marian raked away the fire he hung over, scattering it to burn out in pieces against the hard-packed earth.

Elaine watched her, stunned. "I... You... I..."

"I know. I felt the same way the first time I saw you," Marian said. "Speaking of which, I'm glad you're not dead." With the ground below Allan now clear, she cut the bindings off his hands and arms with the dagger, then climbed the scaffold and began sawing at the noose on his ankles.

"Allan, watch your head," she warned—a little too late. He hit the ground with a thud and a grunt. "Oh! I'm so sorry. Are you all right?"

She scrambled off her perch and rushed to his side. Elaine was already there, kneeling over him and kissing him, wetting his face with her tears and getting soot all over herself in the process.

Marian tapped her on the shoulder. "Um, excuse me, but we really don't have time for that now. You two have to get out of here. Quickly."

"How?" Elaine looked up, her expression tragic in the torchlight. "They'll ne'er let me go."

"If this works, they won't even know you're gone," Marian muttered.

Allan struggled to his feet, swaying and coughing. "Give...give me that sword and I'll take us out of here, or die trying."

He would, too, Marian thought. Die, that was. The man obviously had a suicidal streak. So did she, probably, to be planning what she was.

She shook her head. "No, there's another way. Elaine and I will trade gowns. Then I'll run into the other yard, pretending I'm trying to escape. When they chase me, you two can slip out the postern gate. Cymrica's outside with horses. She'll take you to Hunterdon Manor. You'll be safe there."

Allan looked doubtful. "What about you?"

"I'll stay here and make them think I'm Elaine." _I hope._ "That way they won't follow you. It's her they want."

"Everyone wants me." Elaine stood wringing her hands. "'Tis that cursed dowry. Oh, why could I not have been born poor?"

"Trust me, sweet lady, 'tis no great blessing to be poor," Allan told her.

Elaine stopped wringing her hands to grab his. "But I've no more wish to go the manor than stay here! What if Roland decides to finally marry me? What then will happen to us?"

Good question. Marian wondered if she should tell her that Roland had already married another—decided not to since she was a little uncertain on that point and there was no time to explain. Besides, it was Roland's job to explain it. Why should she make things any easier for him?

"We'll go on as we always have," Allan said, his voice thick with emotion. "'Tis not as though the king would give you to me whate'er befalls. But mayhap Lord Roland will allow me to join his household. If I can only be near you, my lady, to guard you and serve you, I ask nothing more."

He dropped to his knees before her, brought her hand to his lips and kissed it.

Marian wanted to smack them both. "If you don't get going, you won't be serving anyone ever again. Allan, check the other yard, see if they're still busy with the fire. Elaine, give me your gown. Hurry, there's no time to waste."

Without waiting for an answer, she pulled her own gown up and over her head, becoming lost for a moment in a tangle of fabric. She heard Elaine gasp, then a series of muffled thuds.

Oh no.

"How nice to see you again, my sweet. And to see so _much_ of you." The words were followed by a hated chuckle.

_Damn._ Marian let her gown drop back down to her feet.

"Oh, please do not stop on my account," the sheriff said. "If you were going to disrobe, by all means, continue." He held a teary-eyed Elaine by the wrist. Allan lay on the ground a few feet away, unconscious again.

Poor man. Marian stared as several soot-streaked guards replaced his bonds. Well, her luck was certainly holding. It was lousy as usual.

"I...I..." She thought fast. "I was not taking it off. I was _putting it on_."

The sheriff's brows lifted. "Ah, I see. And why would you be doing that, if I might ask?"

"'Tis obvious, is it not?" She tried hard to imitate Elaine, and even harder to not think about how poorly she did it. "We...we switched gowns, hoping to fool you. But you are not fooled. I can see you are not." That last came out on a desperate squeak.

"You can see that, can you?" The sheriff's brows lifted another notch. "Perhaps 'tis just a trick of the light."

A comedian, he wasn't.

"Of course I see it. A man of your intelligence, you must know I am Elaine and _she_ is the imposter." Even to her own ears she sounded ridiculous.

Elaine stared at her in horror.

Marian caught her eye, trying to will her to silence. "'Twas a worthy plan, good maid, and I thank you for it, but I have changed my mind. I cannot allow you to sacrifice yourself for me. 'Twould be most dishonorable. I...I should ne'er survive the guilt."

"Your survival is a debatable point in any case." The sheriff grinned. "I've not yet decided what I shall do with you. All I know for certain is you are _not_ Elaine."

Blast the man, he could at least sound a _little_ doubtful. If her legs hadn't been shaking so badly Marian would have stamped her foot. "You can't be sure of that, damn it!"

The sheriff chuckled and she wanted to stomp him. "Oh, but I am sure, my sweet. You've just proved it. The well-bred Lady Elaine would ne'er say damn."

"I might if I were angry enough," Elaine piped up.

_Big, big help._ Marian buried her face in her hands. This was hopeless.

A crash sounded—the dividing wall gate flying open.

Her head snapped up and she saw Sir Guy's bulk filling the entrance. He paused a moment, staring, then stalked forward, scowling and soaked to the skin. Some of the water they'd used to extinguish the fire must have landed on him, probably the first bath he'd had in years. He didn't look happy about it. Behind him the rest of his soldiers poured into the ward, with a fat friar bringing up the rear, huffing and puffing to catch up.

Marian swallowed, painfully, as the entire company ground to a halt, none of them wanting to get too close, all of them gawking like she had two heads. Yeah, her appearance here must seem a mystery, like black magic. Wary mutterings rose up—"demon" and "witch."

Sir Guy glared, anger battling fear in his expression. Elaine looked on, trembling, while Allan groaned on the ground as he regained consciousness. The friar pushed to the front of the crowd, holding aloft a crucifix in one hand, a staff in the other, and uttering prayers. Marian choked back hysterical laughter. Only the sheriff took it all in stride. He stood calmly in the center of the scene, chuckling and grinning like a cat surrounded by mice, very amused. He would be.

"I warned you she was a demon," Sir Guy bit out.

The chuckle exploded into a full belly laugh. "Nonsense!"

"Who is she, then? How came she here?" Sir Guy looked like he was afraid he knew, that she must have appeared in a puff of hellish smoke.

"We were just about to discover that—if only to satisfy my curiosity," the sheriff said. "Not that it matters now, since we have Elaine for you to wed. But I do like to know whom I'm about to execute."

With Elaine in tow he stepped toward Marian.

She gasped as the friar threw himself in front of her.

"Nay!" the man boomed out. "She is one of Satan's minions. Smell you not the evil? Touch her not, my lord, lest she shrivel your flesh and devour your soul! Only a man of God can deal with such creatures."

He flung about to face her and the men behind her, his arms outstretched, brandishing staff and cross. "Stand you all back! Make way! I shall drive the witch from these walls and cast her back into the fires of Hell!"

"Been heavy at the wine have you, good friar?" The sheriff heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Leave off, Tuck. We called you here for a wedding, not witches. If yon wench is a demon, I'll eat your staff."

He pushed Elaine toward Sir Guy and grabbed the back of the friar's robe, intending to do likewise with him.

A maniacal gleam lit Tuck's eyes. Marian had already paled at the mention of his name. _Friar Tuck?_ She went whiter when he shot her a wink. In one quick move he shoved her away and turned on the sheriff with upraised staff.

"Start chewing, my lord!"

Marian stumbled backward, staring in disbelief as all hell broke loose—literally. From out of nowhere, it seemed, the yard was suddenly alive with...she didn't know what. Weird things covered in leaves and skins, bizarre hybrid creatures with antlers and animal heads. They ran out of the shadows on two legs, slid down ropes dropped from the battlements like spiders descending a web.

Cries of " _wood-devils—'tis the wood-devils_!" split the air.

Sir Guy's men scattered in all directions, shrieking their heads off.

"Hold, _hold_ , you idiots! Stand and fight!" the sheriff bellowed over the din. But he had his own hands full fending off the friar, who charged him like a man possessed.

Marian turned to see two of the devils helping Allan to his feet, cutting his bonds. Elaine flew into his arms as several more of the creatures surrounded them in a protective circle.

"Call for Tuck!" one of them shouted in a remarkably human voice. "We'll join these lovebirds before any can naysay them!"

"Aye, Tuck! Friar Tuck!" more voices sounded, with laughter ringing between the words. "He was summoned for a wedding—we'll give him one! Here, Tuck! To us, man!"

Allan and Elaine clung to each other and kissed.

Watching the scene, Marian's eyes stung, both from emotion and the smoky air.

The stables in the yard broke open and panicked horses galloped out, joining the rout. One of the beasts bumped the sheriff as he blocked a blow from Friar Tuck's staff with his sword. The sword went flying, its owner lurched back, and Tuck finished the job with a stout crack to his head. The sheriff's knees buckled and he collapsed in a heap on the ground.

Marian gaped, dumbfounded, as the friar made the sign of the cross over him, then darted off toward Allan and Elaine, swinging his staff at anything in mail.

More heads cracked.

She dodged to the side to avoid being flattened in the crush, stumbled and landed on her knees beside the sheriff. Something crashed into her from behind and she pitched forward onto his chest. Gasping, she pulled back and rolled away, but not before feeling the rise and fall of his breath. As she scrambled to her feet again, a shadow fell over her—Sir Guy, his eyes blazing, the stink of alcohol mixing with his sweat. Marian had seen drunken fury before, knew she was looking at it now.

She froze.

His gaze slanted from her to the sheriff. "Is he dead?"

"No." The word came out a dry croak. She swallowed and tried again. "Just...unconscious."

Slowly, carefully, she backed away, one tiny step at a time.

"A pity. 'Twould serve me better if 'twere otherwise. There'd be nay debt if the one I owed were nay more." Sir Guy crouched by the sheriff and felt the pulse at his neck. His lips twisted into a snarl. "Curse your hard head, Nottingham. You wanted payment, did you? Mayhap I should pay you now and have done with it, ay?"

He groped at his belt and unsheathed a dagger.

Marian halted in mid-step as the glint of the blade held her mesmerized. Sir Guy hauled up the sheriff by his hair, knelt behind him, and slit his throat from ear to ear. Her stomach turned over as the blood spurted out over everything.

God...

"There you go, Nottingham, _payment_ in full. And we'll blame the wood-devils for your death, shall we?" With a grim smile Sir Guy dropped the body to earth and stood up, the dagger, sticky red and dripping, still clutched in his hand. He peered about, saw Marian, and his smile hardened into murder. Again.

"Witch! I'll not have you witnessing against me." Growling like a bear, he lunged for her.

She spun about and ran, zigzagging through the chaos. The bailey wall rose up sooner than expected—no chance to avoid it this time. She could only swivel at the last second, slamming into it with her back. The impact rattled her teeth and knocked the wind out of her. Battling for breath she flattened herself against the cold stones, hanging onto consciousness by a thread, a butterfly pinned to the mounting board.

Sir Guy appeared before her out of the smoke. In a dizzy blur she watched his hand raise, saw him throw the dagger, waited for it to pierce her heart.

Heard a metallic ping and a dull thud instead.

_Huh?_ Drop-jawed, she traced the sounds downward, and blinked. There on the ground lay the dagger, beside it the arrow that shot the blade straight out of the air.

No. This isn't real.

She lifted her head, looked. Her heart stopped. She was dreaming, she must be. For she saw _him_. A tall figure, his face hidden in the folds of a deep hood. As she stared, he lowered his bow and moved forward.

Marian's legs crumpled out from under her. Darkness closed in and she slid down the wall into mindless oblivion...

End of Chapter 7

To find out what happens next, please check out _Sherwood, The Complete Novel_ ( **ISBN 9781310469602** ), available now at all major online bookstores. Thanks for reading!

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About the author:

http://www.mimiriser.com

Mimi Riser is a longtime author of both fiction and nonfiction, including several series and spanning a variety of genres (with flavors ranging from sweet to spicy hot). Her books celebrate the upbeat, the offbeat, and "beating the odds." She began life in the urban northeast, but now resides in the rural southwest with her best friend and husband Rob.
