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“You’re not our leader, John!” Will yelled, throwing his hands up. “You’re just the biggest!”
Little John stepped forward. Muscles flexing, body looming like a monolith. “Want to brawl me for the distinction, lad?”
The shorter man stepped down from the challenge, his chest deflating. He put a palm to his forehead and squeezed his brow. “That’s not what I’m trying to say, dammit . . .”
“Look,” Friar Tuck butted in. He pointed a thick finger at me. “This changes everything, the girl being, well, a girl.”
“How?” Alan-a-Dale asked.
Tuck raised his fingers to count them off. “First off, she’s not as useful. She carries no claim of succession.”
“I’m the heir of my estate,” I said stupidly, “because my brother is dead.” I wasn’t sure why I said it, other than feeling affronted at being called useless.
“Robin, what the hell are you doing—bargaining for your own captivity?”
Robert was right. I was being an idiot, so I folded my lips into my mouth to stay quiet and see where this went.
“Her virginity will fetch a high price, still,” Will Scarlet said. When I gasped, he shrugged nonchalantly at the terror on my face. “What? It’s the truth. You’re pure, aren’t you?”
Embarrassed, bowing my head, I nodded curtly.
“Her father will care about that.”
Little John put his arms out. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Before we decide what we’re going to do with . . . fucking hell, lass. I don’t even have your name.”
“You never asked.” I raised my chin defiantly.
“Well?”
“It’s Robin.”
A small smile curled his lip, twitching his dark beard. “Lovely.” He turned away, beginning again. “And—”
Then he double took. His head snapped over so fast I thought I heard his neck crack.
It was the defiant chin-tilt. The sun beaming over his shoulder, basking me in a morning glow. My hood had half-fallen off my head, revealing my face in full.
Little John’s features twisted with something like rage and confusion, his brow working over to try and understand what he was seeing. His hand lashed out and he gripped my chin lightning-quick, before I could react. I let out a small yelp as he steadied me, lightly squeezing my chin and cheeks, puckering my lips. His voice was a low rumble, threatening the promise of pain.
“Who did this to you?” He tilted my head left and right, inspecting the yellowing bruise under my eye. Rage simmered just under the surface, his body tensing. “Was it one of my men? Because I’ll kill—”
“No,” I squeaked, shaking my head. “It wasn’t one of your men, Little John.”
“Give me a name.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a demand that brooked no argument. There was no way I was escaping this.
The beating I’d taken from my father. The pain, hate, and abandonment churning inside me when I thought of him. He’d given me up like I meant nothing to him.
I had managed to keep him out of my thoughts the entire time I’d been here, entranced by the strange lives of these Merry Men.
Now, Little John didn’t look so merry and understanding. He looked positively furious, close to murder, and I knew I wasn’t getting out of this without giving him what he wanted.
But he is my father! As much as I hate him, I can’t deny that simple fact.
“Give me a name, Robin,” he ordered again through gritted teeth. “I won’t ask again.”
I gulped. Settled my thundering brain and pounding heart, and came to a decision.
