“Who are you?” the healer demanded again, louder now that we were outside. “And what are you doing here? Get lost. I’m trying to take care of my patient. She needs me.”
“I’m here to see her,” I said. “How is she?”
The healer frowned. “You still never said who you are.”
I sighed impatiently. “Baron. Baron Blackwellson.”
His eyes widened in comprehension. Then he looked me over, and I watched irritation become recognition followed closely by open dislike.
“I see.” He straightened and stepped to the side, deliberately barring my path back into the hut. “I know who you are all right. And whoyour fatherwas too.”
The insolent little twerp.
“That’s neither here nor there. How isLaurel?”
“I cannot discuss the condition of my patients with anyone except family.”
My patience, already dangerously thin, began to fray. “I count as family.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Do you?”
“She and I are together.” The words came out before I could decide whether I had the right to say them.
The young man cocked his head. “Oh really? Seems that, last I heard, she dumped you.”
The urge to punch him became immediate and powerful.
“We all know what you are,” he added. “I’ve heard all about you.”
“First of all,” I said, keeping my voice low, “you know very little about me. And second, this is none of your business.”
“Actually,” he said, his voice growing shriller, “anything to do with Laurel is my business. Professionally and personally.”
The wordpersonallymade me stare as understanding clunked into place. This must be Peter. He was significantly smaller than I had expected. With Little John as his father, I’d assumed he would be at least my size. And he wasn’t even particularly handsome, which was deeply irritating. What had she seen in him? Laurel didn’t want ordinary. She had told me in my tent that she didn’t want Peter and I believed her.
I let out a harsh bark of laughter. “Real cute try. What’s your name, kid?”
His eyebrows drew together. “Peter Little, son of John Little. I’m in charge of Laurel’s recovery, and you need to leave. Aren’t you supposed to be off playing Prince John’s lapdog anyway?”
“I don’tplayin the real world, little boy” I said, my voice deadly cool. “I have actual work to do. I don’t play hide-and-go-seek in the forest like you. And there’s no way I am leaving you in charge of her recovery.”
“Because you can make that decision?” Peter retorted. “You may have called the shots back at your daddy’s camp, but here, you’re not in charge. You’re a nobody. You aren’t even a fullyfledged member of the Merry Men. You’re on probation. I don’t take orders from you. No one does.”
I went very still.
He had struck several places at once, and judging by the flash in his eyes, he knew it. The ugly truth was that I had entered Sherwood Forest as a stranger and an outsider, while Peter had grown up beneath these trees with Laurel. Then a brief, violently vivid image flashed through my mind of Peter kissing Laurel. His mouth had touched hers.
I moved before I could convince myself not to. I lunged forward, grabbed Peter by the collar and the seat of his pants, lifted him bodily into the air, and dumped him into the nearby water trough with a deeply satisfying splash.
He came up spluttering. I sauntered past him, re-entered the hut, and bolted the door behind me.
“Hey!” Peter screeched as he clambered out of the trough, dripping wet. He pounded on the locked door. “Open this door.”
I returned to Laurel’s bedside, drew up a small stool, and took her hand again. The pounding seemed to rouse her. Her lashes fluttered, and when her eyes opened and found me, the corners of her mouth turned upward ever so slightly. I squeezed her hand gently, and after a moment, she returned the faintest pressure.
“Who’s a mother hen now?” I asked.
She let out a breathy exhale, as though attempting to laugh, but she was still too weak. “That would still be you. No need to fuss. I’m fine.”
