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I felt awful for Will Scarlet leading him on. Tricking Rosco, to some extent, when we could have easily found usefulness and room for him at camp.
And yet, I couldn’t deny Rosco’s usefulness here, either, and I appreciated Will’s shrewdness in the moment, despite how it made me feel. Does that make me a horrible person? Possibly leading Rosco into danger—to his death, even—just to help us?
“Fine, bastar—”
Will’s hand lashed out and wrapped around Rosco’s thin neck, instantly choking him.
“Will!” I yelled, moving quickly to intercede.
“Don’t call me that, guttersnipe. Understand?” Will’s voice was a low, menacing tone—the voice he used to chill grown men’s bones—and I could see the effect it had by Rosco’s bulging eyes and profusely nodding chin.
I pulled at Will’s arm with a scowl, and he finally let the lad go.
The front door up from where we stood groaned.
“Fuck!” I hissed, and took Will and Rosco’s arms to steal away. I yelled and now we’re going to get caught! We darted behind some overgrown hedges, ducking low to hide. With my back to the courtyard and the door, I couldn’t see who had opened it. I held my breath and slammed my eyes shut regardless.
A woman’s voice rang out. “Who’s out here?”
No response from us. Only the chirping of bugs and nightbirds. We stayed deathly quiet. The person was no less than twenty feet from us, and I tried to focus—
Wait.
My brow furrowed.
I recognized that fucking voice.
I heard the door creaking again, closing this time, and a harrumph from the woman in the doorway. With her back turned as she retreated into the manor, I jolted up to my feet and noticed a slip of curling red hair disappear into the doorway a second later.
Then it was slammed shut.
And my mouth fell open.
Will stood up beside me, hand on my shoulder, noticing the shock on my face. “What is it?”
Curling red hair . . . that voice.
I shook my head, stuttering, “D-Doesn’t matter. Let’s go, before we’re discovered.”
Somehow, reaching into the depths of my soul, I managed to stuff down my burgeoning fury. Because we had more important things to take care of. Namely, delivering and hiding over a dozen children in the forest without being seen.
I was still livid by the time we scurried down the gentle slope of the courtyard and reached the carriages in the road. Still seething by the time we reached the southern gate, unmolested, and escaped without any sign of town guards. Still brooding when we finally stole into Sherwood Forest that night, keeping the bag holding Little John’s dismembered finger tucked against my heart.
Because that was fucking Maid Marian . . .
And she’s living in my family’s fucking house.
“WE NEED A PLAN,” FRIAR Tuck snapped, pacing in front of the fire. He looked nervous. His knuckles were still bloody as he wringed them, presumably from earlier tonight.
I hadn’t asked how he managed to sneak the kids out of the almshouse with guards bearing down at the front door. Guess it didn’t matter, now. What only mattered was that we’d done it, and the mission had been a success . . .
So why do I feel like we failed more than ever? To see the signs? To act a step ahead of Sheriff George? And Maid Marian in my house? How? I hadn’t told the guys yet what I’d seen, because I didn’t want to sound selfish, impulsive, or childish. Marian can wait. For now.
I hadn’t even met the damned Sheriff. After how he’d mutilated Little John, I wanted his blood more than anyone’s. Even Marian’s.
My hand instinctively moved to the bag tucked away under my tunic.
“Aye, dear chaplain, we always need a plan,” Alan-a-Dale said from where he sat at the fire, hands rubbing. “Nothing has changed in that respect.”
