Page 32 of Queen of Sherwood

He guffawed. “Join the outlaws?”

I pouted. “Sounds like the Templar Knights made you one without—”

“I would love to!”

“Oh.” I smiled crookedly at him. “Excellent. You can follow us or get on the back of my saddle—”

“And leave my four-legged friends by themselves? No, no. I know where it is, lass.”

Shock rippled through me. “You do? How?” When he opened his mouth, I waved a hand at him. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. I’m not surprised you know where we’re staying.”

“Robin,” Little John said, sounding skeptical. “We have children at camp.”

“My wolves don’t eat children, silly giant,” Wulfric said with an incredulous snort. “They’re quite domesticated, you’ll see.” Before anyone else could answer, he swept into a low bow. “My pack will arrive at your location by nightfall, lass. We appreciate your generosity.”

I scratched my forehead. “Looking forward to it, my friend.”

With that, we continued down the road, as Wulfric muttered to himself about a stick poking his ass from the bush. I wasn’t sure if he was talking to himself, a nearby wolf we hadn’t seen, or who.

I supposed it didn’t matter. Either way, we had another new recruit.

RUNNING ACROSS WULFRIC by happenstance helped lift our moods as we made our way back to camp. He was undoubtedly a queer fellow, yet I knew he’d be helpful.

“Bess will enjoy him,” Robert told me, once we were pushing through the last of the trees into our camp. I could already smell a cooking fire and hear a low din of chatter, though we couldn’t see anyone yet.

“Oh?” I said.

“Aye,” Robert said, “he has expertise finding herbs and remedies in the forest. So does Bess. Perhaps they could combine their forces—scavenging and cooking—and create truly marvelous meals. Though I know Bess doesn’t much like having a man near her cook-fires.”

I chuckled. “Perhaps it will be a learning experience for both of them.”

“Yes, maybe so. They are of a similar age, after all.”

When I glanced back at my brother on his saddle, he bobbed his eyebrows at me. I picked up his insinuation quickly enough, and rolled my eyes.

“Robin!”

The angelic, lovely voice cut through the branches and vines, and my heart jumped to my throat.

Alan-a-Dale appeared through the trees, near the edge of our camp, with a smile on his face. He made a show of counting how many people we had with us, and breathed a huge sigh when he realized we’d all returned. Plus Robert.

I dismounted from Mercy before she had come to a complete stop, and sprinted toward my mate through the branches.

He wrapped me in a fierce embrace when I lunged at him, twirling me around, and I tucked my face into the nook of his shoulder and smooth cheek.

I whispered, “I missed you so badly, Alan,” I murmured.

“Me too, little songbird. Me too. Thank heavens you’re okay.” He pulled me to arm’s length, searched my face with arched brows—analyzing me for damage—and kissed me.

I inhaled his taste, his scent, his essence. Alan-a-Dale was perhaps the most positive influence in my life, and the most positive for everyone else in camp. Maybe that’s what I was missing while I was gone, and why my thoughts skewed so dark? I didn’t have the music and lightness of my minstrel.

A smile came to my lips. “I’m fine, Alan. I promise.”

He checked my cheeks, my ears, narrowing his eyes as he doted over me like I was his pet. “I’ll be the judge of that, love.”

My smile widened.

Content with how I looked, Alan’s face twisted into a frown, catching me off-guard. “You won’t be keeping that smile for long, I’m afraid,” he said.

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