Page 39 of Wench

‘See you at dawn.’

Marian exhales, the sound shaky, too loud in the small room. She presses her face into her hands, the warmth of honesty still clinging to her skin.

And she hates that beneath the anger and the shame, a part of her had wanted him to stay.

ChapterTwelve

Soft grey light filters through the canopy as mist curls around the branches. The scent of damp bark and loam seeps through the crack in Marian’s open window, coaxing her upright.

She dresses quickly, fingers fumbling over the laces of her vest. She drags a damp cloth over her face and teeth, chewing on two mint leaves until the bitterness chases away the sour taste on her tongue. Her boots slip on with ease; her jaw is set with resolve as she loops her fox pin to fasten half her curls to her head.

A full stomach and a good night’s rest have renewed her sense of purpose – she doesn’t plan on playing the grateful captive today.

If there’s a way out of Sherwood, a way back to Hallomere Manor and a way to undo a bargain she never wanted, she’ll find it.

Marian doesn’t believe her father will welcome her back with open arms after running into the forest where no ‘well-bred daughter’ should ever go. But if she brings back what she’s learned about Elswyth – their customs and, most importantly, details about their leader – perhaps it’ll be enough to buy her way out of the Sheriff’s noose.

She moves to the door and pulls it open, nearly crashing into Lox in the process.

He doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he just stands there, bow and quiver at his back and looking maddeningly unbothered, as if he’d known exactly when she’d rise.

‘Morning,’ is all he offers before stepping inside. His eyes sweep over her in one slow pass. His gaze doesn’t linger anywhere indecent, but it makes her palms sweat all the same.

‘It appears even one meal can make a difference.’ Lox’s voice carries the certainty of observation rather than courtesy. ‘The colour’s back in your cheeks and your eyes are no longer glassy.’

‘I didn’t ask for your assessment.’ Marian bristles, forcing herself to meet his gaze head on.

There’s an amusement in his expression that brightens the green of his irises. He reaches into the satchel at his side, pulls out a folded bundle, and holds it out to her.

Marian baulks. ‘What’s this?’

‘What you’re wearing isn’t suitable for where I’m taking you. That frock will get caught on every bramble and root between here and the ridge,’ he replies. ‘I thought these might help.’

She doesn’t move. ‘You . . . You brought me a present?’

His mouth curves. ‘I am capable of thoughtfulness on occasion.’

Tentatively, she prises the gift from his grip and unfolds it. Trousers. Sturdy and slim-cut. Marian turns the fabric over in her hands. But there’s nothing. Just thoughtful tailoring and rich forest-dyed weave. They’re heavier than the clothes she’s worn all her life, but it’s clear they’re meant for running, climbing, surviving.

Her eyes flick to Lox’s face, hunting for the catch.

His mouth twitches. ‘If I wanted to get you out of your clothes, I wouldn’t start by giving you more.’

Heat flares across her cheeks so fast, she nearly drops the trousers. She turns sharply, half to hide the flush, half to put anything between her and the wicked gleam in his eyes.

Marian huffs and hurries toward the screen in the corner, clutching the trousers like a shield. Her pulse thuds in her ears as she ducks behind the wooden divider.

The fabric is cool against her thighs as she steps in. They hug her hips and fall neatly to her ankles.

She’s never worn anything like them. The absence of her usual heavy, layered skirts is disarming; the fabric glides over her skin, hugging the swell of her thighs and hips in a way that no court dress ever dared. The air moves differently over her legs; her stance feels looser, her body less bound. She shifts once, twice, testing the give of the seams. Her hands smooth over the fabric until they snag on mirrored slits at both her hips.

Saints save her, they have pockets.

Real ones. Deep enough for her whole hand. Two in the front, one in the side seam, and another hidden one stitched along the thigh. Her fingers sink into them with a breathless kind of glee, and she twists from side to side, marvelling at how deep they go, how useful they are. A small, startled laugh slips out of her. She bites it back, schooling her features before she steps out. Lox waits near the door, arms folded, one shoulder leaning against the frame. But the minute she’s in front of him, his spine stacks like a soldier called to attention. His gaze tracks from her boots up the line of her legs, over the curve of her hips. He doesn’t leer. He assesses, and somehow that burns hotter under her skin than open hunger would.

Marian resists the urge to fidget.

‘Thank you. I’ve never owned a pair of trousers before.’