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The damned girl had me in knots.
“Well, er, let’s get to it, then,” I blubbered, and made space on a nearby log for her to sit on. “We have needle and thread. The linens and silk have already been dyed, fulled, and hammered. We just need to reshape the textiles into . . . smaller pieces.”
She furrowed her brow curiously. “Smaller pieces? For what?”
“You ask a lot of questions, girl.”
A small smile played on her full lips. How did I mistake her for a lad before? She is beautiful.
“Are you going to beat me for asking questions?”
I reeled, eyes widening. “W-What? No! Are you mad, you little heathen? What kind of question is that?”
“A proper one, given my history and experiences.”
I frowned. Unreasonable rage flared inside me, close to the surface. I had to keep it stuffed down, for her sake, yet she deserved an answer. “There’s a reason Little John has left to find the man who bruised your face, lass. And it isn’t to share a drink with him and wax poetic about Prince John’s taxes.”
She swallowed, nervous. “Oh.”
“Don’t fear, little heathen.” I patted her knee across from me. “I won’t harm you. Ever. In fact, I’ll kill anyone who does.”
“Father!” she yelped. “You’re a holy man.”
I snorted. “Don’t let the outfit fool you. I’m much more vengeful than a holy man . . . and that’s saying something.”
Her shocked face scrunched with a chuckle, and I smiled at her and winked.
Once she had the needle in her hands, I watched her work—unhooking seams, effortlessly plying them back together. She was a much better seamstress than me. I recognized her value immediately. She worked with an intensity I typically reserved for drinking.
“You still never told me why we’re making tiny shirts and dresses,” she said at one point, well into an hour of working in companionable silence. “But I can guess.”
“Take aim, then.”
“The orphans. I’ve seen you in Nottingham. You help operate the almshouse there.”
I nodded slowly, opting to focus on the piece of fabric in my lap, which was being a bitch to string together. “I’ve tried to keep a low profile, lest the whelps find out the gospel truth about me.”
Robin saw my struggles and took the garment from me, using her deft skills to do what I couldn’t. “And what gospel truth would that be?”
I grunted, deigning not to respond. She would learn.
A moment later, against the clacking of needles and clattering of Merry Men working around the clearing, she spoke in a low voice. “Your truth has been hidden well, Friar Tuck. It was me in the window you caught the other day, eavesdropping on you.”
My eyes lifted from my work. I tried to recall . . . Ah, yes, when young Emma came to see me. I gave Robin a small smile. “Sneaky brat, aren’t you?”
“The sneakiest,” she replied, matching me with a roguish smile of her own. “I had an ulterior motive being there.”
“Oh? And what would that be?”
“Escape.”
My hands paused on the threads. “Escape from what?”
“Peter Fisher. He tried to ‘rescue’ me from a group of orphan boys—Rosco, Jimmy, and Tick.”
“I know the lads.” Practically raised them, for all the good it did.
“Thing is, I didn’t need rescuing. I much preferred their company to the squire’s.”
