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We hugged, then she repeated herself in a harsh whisper. “What are you doing, mistress? Why are you doing this? Do the Merry Men—”
“Hush, Emma. We don’t have time.”
“What—”
“Run, Em. And don’t look back. Not until you’ve reached our camp in Sherwood Forest.”
I pushed her past me, shielding her body as the two guards descended the hill in our direction.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw Emma staring at me and the guards, wide-eyed.
“Run!” I yelled, and the force of my voice got her moving.
Within seconds she was at the barleygrass. Staring over her shoulder again, and then locking eyes with me.
I gave her a small smile—
As the iron grip of the guards grabbed me by both arms.
I WAS IN MY FATHER’S old study. The same one where I’d confronted Uncle Gregory about the map Marian had sewn into one of our dresses, trying to undermine my success with the Merry Men, while also simultaneously giving away our position in the forest.
Maid Marian was nothing if not determined and audacious, and I was starting to believe that when she wanted something, she got it.
After all . . . here I was.
Looking past the closed door, I smiled. Mirages swept through the house, down the hall—
Memories of a younger Robert bursting in from the den, to swoop me up and ask me to chase lizards with him outside.
Mama Joan, appearing disheveled out of her workshop, hair standing at all ends and spun with strands of discarded wool. Scolding me like a colorful, wrathful storm, drawing out a giggle as her bratty daughter swatted the threads from her hair.
Father, pacing in this very room, going over building plans and workshops. Hiring strategies and all other sorts of business I was never privy to. Trying to lead the family to the next era of success, when he knew we were spiraling as my mother’s fabrics lost favor at court. The floorboards here were still worn by his boot treads.
I blinked away the burning in my eyes. So many memories . . . and yet, in this moment, I only remembered the good ones. The ones that made me smile and laugh with fondness.
Never the horrible memories. The ones I tried to block out—
Getting beaten by my father for the third time in as many days, because of some irrational mistake he had made. Being the outlet for his aggression and anger and jealousy. My mother, coughing up blood. On her deathbed, though we all pretended like she would recover some day. My brother, gone. The soldiers who shown up at the door on that fateful day, telling us he had died overseas in some nameless ditch fighting for a foreign land.
The door opened.
Marian entered holding a tray of mead. I could smell the strong fermented honey before she’d even made it three steps into the room.
I wasn’t bound to the chair. In fact, I had nothing keeping me down. I could have easily overpowered her, though the guards would quickly come in and beat me senseless.
She placed the tray down on a small side table, then stood over the chair to look down at me. Examining me and studying every line of my face.
I glanced overhead—anywhere but where she was standing—at the bookshelves and finery and dusty tapestries that filled the small chamber. More memories, more forgotten tales. Books were a rarity, and yet I had read many of the manuscripts on that shelf, because my father had always said suitors wanted a book-smart wife who could work the accounting. Not a snide, talkative one.
There was a fine line between a proper, esteemed heiress and a haughty bitch noblewoman. If I had to wager a guess, I’d put Marian firmly in the latter camp.
For me, I had read anything I could get my hands on because it was when I’d felt most empowered in my younger years. When I couldn’t leave the estate, and had no knowledge of bows and swords—that came later, once I was older—the manuscripts on these shelves were my Realm of Solitude.
“So,” I said, still glancing around aimlessly. “Who did you have to fuck to get my old estate?”
Marian inhaled sharply.
An auspicious start, to say the least.
