Page 115 of Queen of Sherwood

I snorted. “I suppose I have a soft spot for weak women.”

She laughed, sharp and snide, to combat my mean-spirited barb. “A regular almshouse nun you are, Guy.”

I smiled while pacing. Our conversations were typically dripping with sarcasm and snotty attitudes. It was how we talked. There was no reason to put up any fronts now. I enjoyed her fire.

“I am assuming you came to Nottingham not just to see me . . .” I let the words linger, glancing over at her.

“You would be correct.”

I stopped pacing, tapped my chin, and thought. My mind whirled with possibilities, and one thing stuck out to me—one strategy above all others.

I marched to the bars, surprising Marian back a step with my quick movements. “Do something for me, then. One last thing, to repay the kindness I once showed you, as you say. Then you’ll be free of me for good.”

Her sharp eyebrows lifted. “Free you from your cell, I’m guessing?”

“No, I don’t care about that. Sheriff George will not harm me. He is too dependent on others making decisions for him, and with Bishop Sutton gone . . .”

“For how cunning and diabolical you are, Sir Guy, you place a foolish amount of trust in an unhinged man.”

“I don’t deny it.”

She tapped on the bars, leaning forward. Imploring me with her eyes in a seductive manner, batting her long lashes. “What is it you want from me, then?”

My eyes swerved down to her ample cleavage on the other side. Back to her face, and I frowned. Leaning closer, with my lips past the bars, I whispered into the shell of her ear.

If George was going to have sweet nothings whispered into his ear by my rival Sutton, then I would do the same thing with this woman.

Marian listened, raising her brow. “That is all? And after?”

I threw my arms out, pulling back. I noticed the gooseflesh along the nape of her neck. “You will be free of all your obligations to me.”

“You know that’s not what I mean, bastard.” Her eyes narrowed angrily.

I sighed. “Do this for me, and I will never lay eyes on your boy again.”

She inhaled sharply, her thin neck hollowing. I had not spoken his name in many months—ever since I started “looking after” the boy.

There was one threat that no woman—no mother—could go against. I had been holding it over Marian’s head ever since her rise from squalor, after the death of Robin’s father, Sir Thomas, and Marian’s loss of that connection. She had needed a place to stay, and a job to do.

I gave her all that and more . . . with the understanding that if she didn’t do what I asked, harm would come to her bastard child.

A child she hadn’t ever spoken with, and only watched from afar.

At its core, the brave “knight” named Barry was at the crux of every decision Marian had made over the last year or more. The direct influence over all of her betrayals and maneuvers. Only I knew that, and now I was freeing her of my treacherous hand.

It was an impossible offer to ignore, and it came with the smallest of prices.

Yet, some mischievous, angry part of me didn’t want her to feel like she had gotten one over on me and was winning this bout.

So, I pulled back, and with a curl to my lips, said, “I haven’t seen the boy as my ‘captive’ for quite some time now, in fact, Marian. My fondness for the young firehound has, unfortunately for my reputation, become something honest and true.”

She pulled back. I expected tears, or bulging eyes, or some look of surprise. An accusation of betraying her or fooling her—pulling the wool over her eyes. An espousal of harsh words directed at me, which often fueled my vigor.

Instead, she matched my smirk with one of her own. Except it was twice as smug, twice as diabolical.

And she said, “I know, Guy.”

Now it was my eyes bulging. A lump forming in my throat as a knot coiled deep in my belly. My world crashed down around me, so abruptly it made me stutter back a step.

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