AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I don’t believe you.”
“That’s your prerogative, little mouse.”
Guy of Gisborne circled me with slow, measured footsteps. Clicking his tongue and violating every inch of me with his eyes. When he went around, behind me, eyes falling on my ass and hips and thighs, he let out a tsk. “My, but I do see what the Merry Men see in you, after all. You are quite lovely to look at.”
“Don’t stare at me, you hellish deviant.”
“It’s difficult not to when you’re standing so submissive and bare in front of me, little mouse. It’s a torture of its own, I suppose.”
My brow furrowed.
He rounded to the front of me, my head swiveling to keep him directly in my line of sight the entire time.
Then he tapped his chin. “If I had to guess, I’d say you’ve caused quite the headache for Sheriff George. And now he wants to wipe you off the board, because he’s grown tired of you.”
In a roundabout way, he was getting back to my question about where the hell this mysterious carriage was taking me. When he muttered something unintelligible under his breath again, ducking his head away, I lifted my chin defiantly.
“What was that?” I called out.
His face whipped over to me. “I said I’m not so sure he’s correct.”
Correct about . . . what? Wiping me off the board? Sending me away?
“Is he sending me to my death, then?” I asked. My arms ached so badly. If only I could lower them and give my shoulders and muscles a chance to rest.
“If he wanted that, he could easily do it here in Nottingham, couldn’t he? In this very room?” He gave me a gentle headshake. “Nay. I believe he wants to get the best return possible for you, first.”
“Return?” I spat, pushing my body forward in an angry, confrontational stance. “I’m not a trophy to be sold, traded, or bartered for, Sir Guy.”
The menacing man smirked at me, tilting his head to inspect me with casual cruelty that made my blood chill. “And yet . . . is that not exactly how Jonathan and the Merry Men treated you when you first fell into their lap? As leverage to use against, well, your own family? The nobility? The Sheriff himself?”
Guilt crashed through me. I could do nothing but try and deny it, even though he was right. “They did it to help people.”
An odd laugh squirmed out of him. “Is that what you tell yourself at night to find sleep, Robin of Loxley?”
Frustration welled inside me and joined with the guilt and shame. “If they received enough shillings for me, it could have gone a long way to helping the Merry Men. The people you and your lord have neglected all this time. I understood why they wanted to sell me off. Yet they couldn’t do it when the time came. So, yes, it is what I tell myself to sleep at night, because it’s the truth.”
I noticed something during my speech. His perfect mask of disdain showed a crack—his eyebrow twitching when I mentioned George being his “lord.”
And I recognized the first weakness I’d ever found in the man. He despises being compared to Sheriff George, as his lackey. His subordinate. I’m sure he sees himself as nobler and stronger than his superior. Most crazed killers do.
A vision flashed in my mind, of Guy casually decapitating Dan the Dove . . . shortly before the people I was supposed to call allies—the poverty-stricken rabble-rousers at the eastern gate—stabbed poor Carter through the face.
Anguish enveloped me. I stuffed it down and used my anger another way, running with the idea of Guy being furious for having been compared to Sheriff George. My lips sliced into a dark grin. “How does it feel, Guy, knowing you’re only a tool in another man’s arsenal? Meant to achieve an end, and nothing else? No life of your own. No agency.”
The anger didn’t return to his face. Instead, his lips curled into a smile that matched my own. “That’s good, Robin. Very good. I see the Merry Men have at least trained you well, managing to twist you and turn you into one of them. I’d be impressed if I wasn’t so disappointed.”
My face sank. I recognized the futility in all this. I was in mortal danger, yet all I could do was snap barbs at my captor.
“You and I are very much alike,” Guy said with an easy shrug. His bony shoulders nearly touched his ears when he lifted them. “Two weapons used by other men.”
“We’re nothing alike,” I spat.
“The difference,” he said, raising a finger, ignoring me, “is you came to the enemy’s side willingly. What possessed you to act with such foolishness? Was it a glint of your gallantry, trying to prove you could still do some good in the world?”
I opened my mouth to retort, then closed it. My shoulders sagged. He’s right. As much as I don’t want to admit it. I wanted to prove I was still a good person. And look where it’s led me.
Robberies and death and despair hadn’t gotten me what I wanted. The typical jobs of the Merry Men had only led to more heartache and separation. So perhaps I had subconsciously wanted to do something different—lead with love over hate—and was only now recognizing how much it failed. It seemed I couldn’t win no matter what I did.
