Page 8 of Princess of Thieves

He’s not naked, I realize quickly—he has a towel around his waist, and his hair is wet, like he’s just gotten out of the shower. He’s standing at the kitchen island, drinking a glass of some green juice that I’m sure tastes absolutely foul.

“I...I...” I stammer.

Guy finishes his sip from the glass and nods, one palm up in apology. “I’m sorry, Maren. I didn’t mean to startle you, and I didn’t mean to be so—” He glances down at himself and chuckles. “I suppose I’m still very much in bachelor mode. Just finished my workout and, well, you know...”

“Sure,” I stammer. Idon’tknow, though. I’ve never been one for working out. Most of my life, I’ve been doing physical labor all day, and the last thing I want to do at the end of the day is jump on a treadmill or try to pretzel myself into a yoga pose. But I have to admit, whatever Guy’s been doing, well, it works. He’s in great shape—not super muscly, but lean and surprisingly tan, with a dark thatch of hair spreading over his pecs and down his abs.

“I trust Rosa brought you something to eat,” he goes on. “I wasn’t sure when you’d wake up, but I didn’t want you to be hungry.”

“Yes,” I say. “She did. I told her thanks.” It’s a little jab that he may or may not notice. I don’t want him to think I’m ungrateful to his housemaid for her work, but I’m not about to thankhim.

“Good,” he says. “Doing my best to get in shape for the Fourth of July 15k, you know. Always a wonderful Nottingham tradition.”

I purse my lips.

“One of my favorite things about the small town,” he says. “I’m sure you appreciated it growing up.”

I don’t answer. I guess I did—seeing all the red brick buildings in town decked out with their red, white, and blue bunting, holding Mama and Daddy’s hands as they bought me cotton candy and strawberry lemonade, and letting me stay up late to watch the fireworks. But I’m not eight years old anymore. Ever since going to live with Uncle John, I’ve always just thought of the Fourth of July as another day to cater to his whims.

“That reminds me,” Guy goes on, “you’ll need something especially to wear for that, won’t you?” He scribbles down a note on a piece of scrap paper with a fountain pen.

“What do you want with me?” I blurt out. It’s all too calm, too reserved, and the fact that he’s barely dressed is not making things any clearer or more comfortable. “Am I going to get to leave? Or what?”

Guy puts down the pen. “Maren,” he says. “Maren de Mornay.”

The way he says my full name doesn’t sit well with me. It’s too intimate, too familiar.

“Yeah?” I say “And?”

“I knew your father,” Guy says. “Well, I didn’t know himwell. I was a young up-and-comer, fresh out of law school. And he was—well, still is—a legend.” He pauses. “I wish I could presume to say he was my mentor, but we were never that close. I admired the hell out of him. He was the kind of person who was actually using the law for good, and I was this greenhorn lawyer so eager to get out there and fight the bad guys. That’s how I ended up in the DA’s office.” He smiles ruefully. “Turns out not a lot of people actually care about that as much as they do lining their own pockets. But your father”—he drums his fingers on the counter thoughtfully—“was the exception.”

A lump forms in my throat, and I don’t like it. I swallow, but it doesn’t disappear.

“What does that have to do with me?”

“It has everything to do with you, Maren.” Guy looks at me, eyebrows lifted, an expression of pity on his admittedly handsome face. “There was a whole life you were supposed to live—a whole culture, tradition, and family legacy you were supposed to embody. It was ripped away from you. When I found out, when I pieced together who you were and how you got to where you ended up...” He exhales. “Well, I don’t know. I couldn’t bear the thought of you under the thumb of someone like John Lackland. Someone who had the goddamn sheriff’s department on a string.”

He works his jaw.

“You’re not tight with the sheriff?” I ask derisively. “Isn’t he supposed to be helping you take down thebad guys?”

Guy snorts. “Supposed to be, yes. But does he?”

“It depends on who you define as bad,” I mutter.

“Exactly.”

I look up at Guy’s face as he continues.

“When I came back to Sherwood and realized that Richard de Mornay’s daughter was here, getting her hands dirty in an auto shop with no money to his name...I couldn’t stand it. I owed thatman my career, my purpose in life, and now his daughter was being treated like some good-for-nothing greasemonkey.”

Hearing Will’s nickname for me makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up and, surprisingly, makes my eyes prickle with tears.

I’d likely never hear him say it again, and even if I did, it wouldn’t be the same.

It couldn’t be the same.

“Do you mind if I get dressed for this conversation?” he asks suddenly. “I feel a little exposed.”

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