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Desperately needing a subject change, I said, “Did you know what Sheriff George was doing to Little John?”
His head reeled, surprised for the second time. Perhaps surprised I had asked such a direct, vulnerable question.
He said nothing.
I continued, saying, “I followed you to the jail, you know. I saw you exit—”
“No,” he breathed, pursing his lips. “I did not know what George was doing to Jonathan. In fact, I believe the Sheriff has been keeping more than a few things from me. I find it a bit disconcerting, truth be told.”
My eyebrows perked.
Then his eyes flared with fury and he strode forward, seizing my chin with his hand. He squeezed and I winced, forced to stare into his cruel face as he seethed mere inches from me.
My heart stopped in my chest. Fuck. I’ve awoken the mad killer inside him.
“Your ploy, no matter how valiant, was always flawed,” he said. “Do you want to know why, little mouse?”
His fingers were gloved, yet that didn’t stop the coldness from drilling into my bones—didn’t stop his grip from hurting my jaw. I wondered how I’d angered him so strongly.
At the same time as he chastised me, my body shamefully betrayed me. He was admittedly a beautiful man, with dark, enviable features. When he drew close, my hard nipples brushed against the fabric of his tunic, and it woke something inside me.
My entire body tensed. I squeezed my thighs together, knowing what was coming next. The only thing that ever happens to fully naked, shackled, imprisoned women in the chambers of evil men. Hope fled my body.
He said, “Your little scheme was flawed because it will undoubtedly bring your lovers after you, if they aren’t in the city already. You knew that would happen. You thought you were being valiant and selfless by handing yourself over for your handmaid, yet your selfishness will get the Merry Men killed, because they won’t know when to stop and will do everything in their power to free you.”
Confusion rippled through me as he released my chin with a shove, and then stormed off to his chair, showing his back in disgust.
I couldn’t tell why he was ranting. It made no sense. “Is that not precisely what you want to happen?”
He spun around and thrust a finger at me. “And give up the hunt? No one stops the game except me!”
The calm, cool composure of Sir Guy of Gisborne was fraying right before my eyes. The wildest part about it was I had no idea what was making him so furious.
The game? The hunt? He . . . Shit. He truly is crazy, isn’t he?
Within seconds, his composure returned to him. He flattened his pressed tunic over his chest, billowed his cloak behind him, and took a deep, measured breath. The pulsing vein in his temple vanished under his placid, pale skin.
He cracked a smile, as if the headiness of his explosion hadn’t just happened, and shrugged again. “I suppose I simply enjoy playing the big cat to your little mouse too much.” Guy let out a soft chuckle, more to himself than anything. He seemed surprised at his own reaction.
I said, “When does the carriage get here, then?”
His smile widened. “Oh, we have an hour together yet, dear girl.”
The way he said it chilled my blood. So nonchalant, nearly giddy. An hour together . . .
Guy’s dark eyes flared. I knew that expression anywhere. He stepped forward, and my shackles clanked as I tried to recoil from him but couldn’t. Oh God. Please, no!
He stepped into my space, face inches from mine.
I screwed my eyes shut and was ashamed when a small whimper escaped my lips.
His gloved knuckles brushed against my soft cheek, and then the tense column of my neck. A cool, dangerous touch.
“I’m going to take something from you,” he murmured, “and give you something in return, little mouse.” His voice was a ghost of a whisper. Barely there. Syrupy and thick in my ear, bringing out goosebumps along my nape.
He leaned forward and I whimpered again when his lips touched mine. They were warmer than the rest of him, and I squeezed my mouth shut so he couldn’t get any further than this horrible degradation. This thievery.
Then he pulled back . . .
