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“I think you’re getting too close, dear Robin.”
“What do you mean?”
“Where are we going? How will he find us? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you thought you were part of the Merry Men.”
I threw my hands up, flustered as he walked off. I yelled at him, “Well I am your prisoner, aren’t I?! I’m just trying to understand—”
Alan spun around and I crashed into him. His arms came out to steady me, holding my shoulders, and his firm touch sent a trill of excitement and fear down my spine.
“Little John and the angry lad will know where to find us, girl. This isn’t our first time breaking camp, in case you hadn’t noticed. We have a network in these woods. Sherwood Forest is as much our home as Wilford is yours. Got it?”
I blinked, stunned. He spoke fast and stern, yet the whole time I could only focus on those imminently kissable lips of his. They were so full and plush for a man. I gulped and nodded dumbly. “G-Got it.”
“Good.” He moved his hands, and I couldn’t deny the pang of disappointment once he didn’t have hold of me. I had felt safe with him there, as silly and backwards as it sounded.
“Please don’t get any ideas,” he said, and his face softened. It smoothed back to the high-cheeked, cordial man I’d met on the hunt. He patted the quiver on his back and donned a roguish smirk. “I wouldn’t want to have to put one of these in your ass.”
A smile slowly curled my lips, realizing he was teasing me. “If you could catch me,” I said, echoing earlier, “or hit me!”
He clapped his hands, turning away from me. “All right, all right. I’ll admit you’re a better shot than me. Let’s go, little ranger.”
I followed him to the carriage, where men loaded the stacks of newly sewn clothes Tuck and I had worked on. “Am I your songbird, or your ranger?”
“You can be anything and everything you want with me, Robin of Wilford.” He stretched his arms wide, smiling. “That’s the beauty of the wild forest.” As I joined him in the plush carriage, he sat on a bench and crossed one knee over the other, humming to himself. He pulled his lute from his shoulder. “Hmm. I like that. The beauty of the wild forest. I think I’ll write a song about it as we venture south.”
I hid my smile. “A song based on your own nonsense? Your humbleness is truly awe-inspiring, Alan-a-Dale.”
“What did I tell you?”
With an eye-roll, I quoted him from earlier, lowering my voice to mock him. “‘Humility never benefited the storyteller, little songbird.’”
He plucked a string lightly and winked at me. “Good girl.”
My insides twisted with heat. My blood quickened. Before I could open my mouth to respond, two Merry Men sat the bench at the front of the carriage and we jerked to a start.
Alan and I fell into silence, regaining our companionable rivalry. I felt good about that. It was much easier to be civil with my captors than at each other’s throats.
I listened to him formulate the dreamy song as we moved through the night. He was really quite good. More than that, it gave me wistful sounds to add to the moaning wind and sinister creakiness of the woods.
I stared out the aperture of the carriage and breathed in the chill night air. Alan wasn’t wrong: It was freeing being out here in the forest, on a grand adventure.
If I thought about it honestly . . . I didn’t want to go home yet. No, this excitement was much more preferable to the dull, painful existence I had in Wilford.
I missed Mama. I missed Uncle Gregory. I wasn’t sure I’d ever see them again, though I dared to hope I would. These men—Alan and Tuck in particular—didn’t seem horrid. I doubted they’d kill me.
But that was half the thrill, wasn’t it? The fear of being in danger every waking moment. Not knowing what awaited us under the canopies of the swaying trees.
Yes, I decided this wasn’t so bad after all. Because I couldn’t stand to miss it. I needed to know what happened next.
Chapter 24
Little John
My fist cracked on the large oak double-door of the Wilford estate, and I frowned, examining the thick wood. How ancient had the oak tree been when it was cut down to craft this ostentatious door?
It was a damned shame. The people treated Mother Nature like she was their enemy; a constant well of resources that would never run dry.
But she would run dry. Though Sherwood Forest and the other woodlands across England were vast, making up most the countryside, deforestation was becoming rampant. Despots only thought with greed, and Prince John was no different.
