Page 140 of Queen of Sherwood

“Aye, captain, but where’s the fun in that?”

A flicker of doubt chased across Guy’s face as he gave Sheriff George a sidelong glance. If I didn’t know better, I’d think his body had gone still and taut. Or maybe that was just the cold up here in the wind.

“Take her, men,” George said, nodding toward me with that vicious growl. “Disarm the little pest.”

I swallowed hard. My throat had gone dry. My stomach dropped and my heart pumped.

Yet I managed to remain calm as the three soldiers advanced. They wore the same cruel smiles on their faces that George did. These four were one and the same—tyrants ruled by a despot.

“The Merry Men will have your head, Sheriff George of Nottingham.” I made myself taller, throwing aside my fears of death.

If this was going to be my end, then I’d go down fighting. I wouldn’t beg for mercy or challenge him to a duel—something I knew he’d never do.

At his core, Sheriff George was a small, weak little man. Frail in every way. He raped John because he wanted to bring the strong, gallant bandit down to his size. He wanted John to feel, for once, how he felt all the time.

I just wished I had him alone. I wished I had managed to sneak up here unbidden, torn into his tent, and slit his throat without any questions asked.

The mission in my mind had been so clear and simple. Yet, in the execution of it, we had walked ourselves into another trap.

With a sigh, I gestured the soldiers forward with a curl of my hand. Taunting them.

They charged as one.

I swung at the first, screeching to try and deafen him.

He barreled into me and knocked my blade aside.

The second guard came in and kicked me in the stomach. The air whooshed from my lungs and I lurched back, kneeling.

I swung a fist on my way down, and my vision doubled. I blinked away the pain, seething as I stared up at the men from my back leg, with my ass biting into my heels.

“Just where we want her, boys,” said the guard who had kicked me. He strode forward. The other two snickered.

Rage pulsed inside me. I lunged forward in a charge—

Except this time, my rage failed me. My arms felt weak and heavy; my shoulders burdened by an impossible weight. My blade came reeling back in a wide arc, aimed to keep them at bay.

The third soldier simply batted my sword away again, this time knocking his boot against my wrist.

With a yelp, my sword went flying. It thudded to the ground nearby.

For all the darkness and hate taking root inside me, I had no outlet for it. I felt I was going to explode from the inside out.

Before I could implode, one of the guards rushed forward.

I gasped, putting my hands up to defend myself.

He caught my wrists.

Another one kicked me in the ribs, and I groaned and spurt a bit of blood from my mouth. Pain wrenched through my insides. My eyes rolled.

I struggled and writhed, crying out with every fiber of my being. Angry tears scalded my cheeks, burning hot and fierce.

“You may have dressed like a man in the past, but you’ll always be a silly, simple woman,” George said. His voice sounded faraway and frightening. Dooming.

One guard held me by the wrists.

The second pushed me onto my back.

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