Page 90 of Queen of Sherwood

This was a conversation better had over a morning meal, perhaps.

I crouched in front of Sutton. “We will leave you tonight to rest, Bishop, because you’ve had a trying day. We all have.”

“Aye, you slaughtered the guards trying to escort me on my holy mission. God does not look favorably—”

“You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t give a shit what God thinks right now. I’m tired. But I’d like to paint a picture for you, if I may, so you might ponder it while you get some shuteye.”

He closed his mouth and studied my features, his eyes softening.

“A weighty bag of coins in a carriage, Father. And above the floorboards where the bag is hidden? Countless young women and girls, tied to benches, watching their lives and dignity slip away with each creaking spin of the carriage’s wheels that drags them further and further from their homes.”

I was inches from Bishop Sutton’s face.

Close enough that only I saw the momentary flash of shock on his face. The twitch of his sagging chin. The pulse of a vein in his temple. The fear in his eyes.

Fear that told me, without him needing to say a thing or try to defend himself, that I had him.

His momentary expression told me one thing, because I’d seen it on countless scheming men before.

Guilt.

Sir Guy wasn’t lying to us. Maid Marian wasn’t lying to us.

Bishop Sutton knew exactly what I was talking about.

And, with it being such a tight, well-kept secret, he could’ve only known what I was talking about if he’d somehow been involved.

I ENTERED FRIAR TUCK’S tent. He was reclined on his cot, using his habit as a blanket behind him, the garb loosely tied at the front. His hands formed a steeple on his slightly raised belly.

“Little heathen,” Tuck grumbled as I entered unannounced. “Have you beaten the truth out of Bishop Sutton yet?”

I frowned, then came to sit by his cot, resting my head on his arm and staring out. His body was warm, soft, and everything I missed.

“We missed you out there,” I murmured.

“I won’t apologize, Robin. You know I don’t condone what you’re doing out there. I simply can’t, in good faith.”

Even as he said the words, his hand came to rest on my head, absentmindedly twirling strands of my hair.

I closed my eyes, nearly falling asleep on the spot. With a soft purr, nuzzling closer to him, I said, “Please. I don’t want to argue right now.”

“Neither do I. Too tired for it.”

My hand crept up and disappeared under the loose hold of his habit. “Too tired for this, too?” I asked slyly, my hand trailing over his thick cock.

He grabbed my wrist. “Never. But is it right?”

My brow threaded together. “Right?”

“We lost three today, Robin. Even now, I hear our band drinking their losses and burying our dead. Jamie was a good man. I didn’t know the other two as well, but they were fighters, through and through.”

My hand lifted from his appendage and trickled off his body. Begrudgingly. I felt guilty for even prying, because he spoke true.

My mind wasn’t right—hadn’t been in some time—and I was looking for a feeble way out of thinking about all the misery that surrounded the camp. A meaningless gesture that I was trying only so Tuck would hopefully forgive me.

“I’m sorry,” I said shamefully, bowing my head.

He leaned over, tilted my chin, and kissed me with his soft lips. His voice caressed my ear. “Never apologize to me, little heathen.” He continued to run his hand gently through my hair.

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