Colette Gale - Bound by Honor

His fingers loosened over her wrists and she pulled them away, aware that they were both out of breath.

“Will,” she began in a rough, bewildered voice.

“Stop it.” His voice sounded like a whip cracking. “I’ll not listen to your sobs.” He rolled away, tossing the blanket back over to cover her.

Marian gathered it over her hips and breasts and watched as he snatched up his boots and one of the empty buckets. “Do you not attempt to hide away in here tonight,” he said, half-turning back toward her. “You will be seen at dinner.”

From the distance, she saw that his eyes remained dark and flat. They swept over her briefly, but did not linger. And then he pivoted and slammed the door’s bolt from its moorings, leaving the chamber before she could speak again.

Marian heard the outer door close behind him, and she was alone on a bed damp from her own body. . but not from Will, or his seed.

She lay there for a moment, bringing her trembling body under control, scarcely able to comprehend what had just occurred. Yet, she did-she realized what Will had done.

Or, more accurately. . what he had not done.

One thing was certain: John had most definitely not been holding court this midday.

Will passed Marian’s sniffling maid, who’d loyally waited in the hall despite his orders to leave. She cowered back as he stalked by, but did not flee.

“See to your mistress,” he snarled, still carrying the bucket, folding his boots under his arm.

He made it down three steps of the shadowy side stairwell before he lost control and had to stop. Leaning against the wall, he emptied his stomach violently into the bucket, heaving until his belly ached.

Swiping the back of a hand over his mouth, he looked up to find Alys of Wentworth standing at the top of the stairs.

“Are you ill?” she asked, her blue eyes wide.

“ ’ Tis no concern of yours,” he snapped, standing upright with effort. Without a backward glance, he turned and made his way down the stairs, his fingers still trembling.

John the Angevin, Lord of Ireland, Earl of Gloucester, Count of Mortain, and current regent of England, was displeased.

He sat at the high table next to one of his most trusted cohorts, one who shared his ambition and confidences, as well as participated in his most private and vulgar of activities. A man so clever and determined John might have feared him if he hadn’t known that he was as determined as John to rid the country of its rapacious king. Richard’s foolish war had left England, lush, green, beautiful England, stripped to bare and bone. John could not abide by his brother’s vainglorious ways, his ignorance of the land he had the blessing to rule while he traipsed about far away in the Holy Lands.

He cast a sly, corner-of-the-eye glance at William de Wendeval. His performance this afternoon, though brief and-from the prince’s perspective-not nearly violent enough, had awakened John’s desire for the luscious Lady Marian.

Nay, “awakened” was too mild a word. “Emblazoned” was more appropriate. Emblazoned upon his heart-and his cock-the need to have her.

The sight of that glorious hair alone, strands of mingling gold and bronze and copper, streaming down the sides of the tub as her maid gathered it into a huge bundle to wash and rinse it, had sent frissons of lust through his body. He imagined it twining around him, thick, shiny, and heavy. But when Marian had been yanked from her bath, breasts jouncing and smooth hips shining with the cascade of water, that long glossy hair had plastered itself to her from shoulder to thigh like a well-fitting glove and set his cock to throbbing.

And Nottingham, knowing that his liege watched, had paused for a moment, holding her in clear view, so that John could admire the display of her long legs and creamy skin. From that moment, John knew he’d not be satisfied until he had Marian thusly garbed in his own chamber, at his own hands, beneath his own body.

He licked his lips, sliding his glance out over the occupants of the hall. . then back to the dark, silent man sitting next to him.

Therein lay the problem, and the root of his displeasure.

The man had claimed the woman for himself, and John had foolishly agreed to allow him to have her. For a time.

But he no longer wished to wait. The soft cry she’d made when Nottingham slammed himself into her could easily be imagined as one of pained passion-one of John’s specialties. Her wild struggles against the large, fully clothed man who strained over her John found arousing and delightful. Who did not want a woman who knew better than to lie there like a dead fish? He had a wife who did that. She could have been a statue made from ice-white porcelain for all she responded to his caresses. The most beautiful of women, true, with long, perfect golden ringlets of her own. . but Isobell was stone in comparison with Marian’s lush heat.

And yet Marian was, at the moment, unavailable to him.

John didn’t like to admit it, even to himself, but he knew better than to breach his agreement, such as it were, with Nottingham. The man knew too much about him, too many secrets, too much of his cunning plans to ally with Philip Augustus of France and to split Richard’s kingdom between them. Aye, ’twas true that Nottingham was nearly as deep into the plot as John himself, collecting funds and making allies here at Ludlow, even strategizing with him in between bouts of pleasure taking.

But most important, John knew that without William de Wendeval his plans to displace Richard would never be realized. For no traveler through the forest, from any direction to Ludlow, could reach the keep without the Sheriff of Nottinghamshire knowing who he was and from whence he came.

Thus John received no surprises, no messages that he did not wish to receive-for those messengers, oddly enough, often did not make it to the keep. Or if they did, it was after a delay. . and mayhap even to their physical detriment.

The outlaws were blamed, of course, but it was Nottingham and his control over the area that allowed for that selection. Aye, Robin of the Hood thought that he had full reign over the forest, but some of that freedom was at the pleasure of the sheriff. For if there were no outlaws, they could not be blamed for the ransoming or capturing of the messengers John wished to avoid or otherwise prepare for.

John’s real complaint over Robin Hood was that he stole his money, and those funds collected for taxes, not that he roamed the wood and frightened the travelers. The vassals would pay their fines whether they were robbed or not. John cared little for their hardship.

Thus he did not intend to offend the loyalty of Nottingham, who played such a vital role in this plot. For now, John had no choice but to make his way with care.

And Nottingham had never made any request of him before this. He had a personal grudge against the woman, and John could understand his need to put her in her place.

Nor was he the sort of man to look away, or to accept John’s reasons-whatever ones he might manufacture-for the breach of the agreement. De Wendeval was that rare breed of man who could be convinced to change his loyalty, yet maintain a strong sense of honor to that misplaced loyalty. And he expected it in return.

Thus, ’twas most unfortunate, but John could not afford to insult Nottingham, especially over a woman.

Even a woman such as Marian.

Yet. . John could not concentrate on the conversation he meant to have with Lord Tenselton, who sat to his left, when he was aware that the man to his right had had the delights he himself so lusted after. And had not even partaken of them as deeply or devoutly as John would.

Thus, during the meal, while Nottingham ate sparingly and spoke even less, the Angevin’s mind wormed about, seeking a way to have what he wanted. . but without offending the valuable, and dangerous, man next to him.