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Griff, Much’s best friend over the past few months, stood beside me. “Oh, God. No.”
“He needs a fucking healer,” Tuck growled, his voice echoing out of the room. “This is beyond my scope.”
My heart froze. “Then I know just the man.”
I just didn’t know if we’d get Much the Miller’s Son to him in time.
Chapter 47
Robin
The guards had scattered, and we didn’t chase. We lugged Baron Mansfield’s inert body down the stairs, and Little John carefully carried Much after him.
Two other Merry Men had been wounded. We couldn’t transport them and Baron Mansfield and Much via horseback. It wasn’t viable.
I called down the window to Will Scarlet and Alan-a-Dale as we transported Easton and Much, telling them about the carriage down the road that we had abandoned.
They took off on horseback, and less than an hour later the carriage rolled up to the base of the hill, led by Alan and Will. I joined the carriage with Much and Maria. She never left his side, holding his clammy hands the entire time.
The riders gathered up the freed girls and put them two and three to a horse. We left six dead guards and Abbot Emery to rot where they lay.
I chewed my lip bloody during the trek back to camp. I was so bone-tired and weary, yet couldn’t fall asleep. Not until I knew my people were safe. I couldn’t celebrate my reunion with the Merry Men, or take their scolding. Not now.
To my surprise, Will Scarlet of all people joined us in the carriage.
Much had been quiet for a long time.
An hour passed in silence, with only his shallow breathing to fill the carriage.
Maria kept her hand on his sweaty forehead, staring down longingly at him. She swiped his hair out of his young face. I knew true love when I saw it. Her tears hadn’t dried the entire time we’d been moving.
I made a plan in my head. Get to camp, grab a horse, and ride to the witch’s cabin. Gather up Wulfric and beg him to help us. I know he’ll have an ointment to heal Much. He has something for every malady.
I fidgeted wildly.
Will’s hand fell on my bouncing knee, instantly calming me with the connection. When I looked over at him, he said, “Patience, little thorn,” in a low voice.
“Never my strong suit,” I whispered back.
“Nor mine. Is that why you took off without a word and tricked the entire camp? Impatience?”
“Later,” I begged, shaking my head. “Please.”
He grumbled to himself. “We’ll be talking about this later.”
Scolding, you mean. You’ll be lecturing me about this later—probably bend me over your knee so you can spank me, you savage man.
I couldn’t fight back the thrill of that idea. It seemed so right, given what I’d done—how I’d worried them. I would gladly take my punishment when the time came, as long as it was how I envisioned it.
“What . . . what’s got you looking so forlornly, mean bug?” cracked a voice down the bench.
Our heads whipped over to Much’s pale face.
He was splayed out on the bench, looking down past his feet at us with sunken eyes. He gave us a sickly smile, his pallor a rare shade of green. “I have nine lives, I have. Like a cat.”
His words brought a flash threading through my mind. Guy of Gisborne, whispering in my ear, “I suppose I simply enjoy playing the big cat to your little mouse too much.”
I shuddered at the memory.
