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“Really?” she spit back. “You are going to shame me? After fucking half the Merry Men? I’ve always done what I’ve had to do to survive, girl. You would know nothing about that, growing up as a posh, spoiled little brat.”
I blinked at her. At this point in the game, her words had little effect on me. I had done what I came here to do, and a weight had lifted off my shoulders.
Was I still in danger? Undoubtedly. My guys had likely caught on to my deceitful escape by now—because at least one of them liked to steal away into my tent in the late hours of the night. If not all of them.
I wondered if I had successfully pulled a fast one on Will—if he had been waiting in the woods for me to do something reckless, as I suspected he thought I would.
I thought about Emma’s harried words on the way past me: “Why?”
I didn’t have an answer for her then, but suddenly, finally, looking at the cold, alabaster mien of Marian, I did.
Why did I come for you, Em? Because you’ve lived your whole live in servitude. Either an orphan or behind the gilded cage of my family’s estate. No agency. No life beyond those who you served.
I never want you to be in that position again. And if I can do anything to stop it, and change your fate—which I knew in this moment I could—then I will do it.
I suppose it’s my turn to live the life you always had.
I smiled fondly. Sadly.
Plus . . . you’re my friend. And the only person who was there to lift me up after my father beat me down on so, so many occasions.
I haven’t forgotten that kindness.
I felt a twinge of guilt. If I could have penned a letter with such an eloquent response before coming here, and passed it off to her, I would have.
Alas. Missed opportunities.
“Stop staring at me, girl. It’s unnerving.”
“Shit.” I blinked and scratched behind my neck, glancing to the tray of mead. “Becoming a bad habit of mine, I suppose.”
“Are you ready to tell me why you exchanged yourself for that servant girl? An heiress for an orphan? Make it make sense, Robin.”
I blinked as she sat down in the chair between me the tray. “Does it matter?”
She barked a laugh and reached for the mug closest to her, lifting it and taking a sip. “I guess not.”
You wouldn’t understand anyway, Marian.
She stared over the rim of her cup at me. “I’m surprised your precious Merry Men let you out of their sights and allowed you to do something so foolhardy.”
A smirk cracked my lips. I crossed one knee over the other, feeling a bit freer now that I was back in my own home. Even if there were guards all around me, and the most untrustworthy woman alive in front of me.
“Oh. They have no idea I’m here.”
Marian hesitated, cup to her lips. Then she let out another laugh—sharp and quick—and put her mug on the tray. “Hm. I don’t know if that makes you cleverer or stupider than I already thought.”
I smiled at her. I know I’ve thought this before . . . but maybe in another life, one where I enjoyed gossip and curt insults and the finer things in life, Marian and I could have been friends.
Alas, I thought again. Missed opportunities.
I looked to the tray once more.
“Are you going to drink it or just keep glancing at the mug?” she asked, her pointy chin nudging toward the honeyed mead in front of me.
I frowned and took the cup in my palms. “Kind of you to bring two mugs. Unexpected, but kind.”
“I may be a cold-hearted bitch, Robin, but I’m not a barbarian.”
