Marian looked at Will, who’d closed the door and followed her through the small antechamber into the larger room, instead of leaving. Her heart, which had not yet returned to its regular rhythm since the episode in John’s chambers, took another great leap and began to pound anew.
You must submit to him. . or to me.
“What do you want?” she said, trying not to think about how tall and dark he was, how he seemed to fill the room, make it closer and smaller. How his hands had been all over her. And how she’d squirmed and twisted and wanted them there.
Her breasts still ached with a heavy, unfamiliar weight. And she felt prickly all over, prickly and unsettled.
“I wish for a moment of privacy,” he replied. To his credit, he’d not moved away from the door and there was a comfortable space between them.
It would be comfortable if she didn’t feel so aware of the man before her. Where was Ethelberga? She should be here, waiting for her mistress, snoring on her pallet in the cozy antechamber, and not leaving her alone with a man who’d taken her somewhere so depraved. Who’d made her watch what she’d watched.
Marian’s throat was dry, but she kept her composure. Lifting her chin, she said, “So is it to be now? Shall I undress? As you can see, my maid is not here to assist.”
Will’s face grew darker, and her breath caught. Lord, he was fearsome. I won’t leave bruises or draw blood. Please God, he would keep his vow.
“If that is what you wish,” he replied through a tight jaw. “I’m no saint, Marian, and I won’t deny ’twould please me greatly.”
She looked up at him, where he stood against the door, as if fixed to it. His hands hung at his sides, large, powerful, scarred hands that had held her breasts, stroked them, and made them heavy and achy.
“I don’t wish it,” she burst out. “I don’t wish any of this-you or the prince or even to be here at Ludlow. Are you mad? I wish for none of this.”
Yet, she had no other option. Duty and honor demanded her compliance with the queen’s orders. And Will thought she had no choice as a ward of the king.
Will gave a sharp nod and moved away from the door. Her heart leapt into her throat and Marian held her breath, but he walked not toward her but to the wall opposite where a heavy tapestry hung. To her surprise, he lifted it, coiling up its substantial weight as though it were a scrap of silk. Will smoothed his hands over the stone wall beneath it, then reappeared with an unreadable expression on his face.
“Look you here,” he said, crooking his finger imperiously at her.
Marian hesitated, then walked over to the wall. Taking care not to brush against him, she leaned where he directed and looked up under the bundle of cloth. “A hole?” she said, seeing the gap in the mortar between two of the bricks. She knew the garderobe was on the other side of the wall.
“A peephole,” he told her grimly, then let the tapestry flow back into place. “See you here?”
He smoothed his hand over the cloth, but she’d already found it. “The horse’s eye,” she said, poking her finger through the hole that had looked like merely a black spot. Until now. A skitter of discomfort swept over her. “I’ll cover it up.”
“Nay,” he said, stepping away as she turned toward him. “If you do that, he’ll simply make another one.”
Marian stared at him, her belly churning. She had been right about the chamber being chosen specially for her. But was it John who’d made the decision, or Will himself?
“The prince enjoys his entertainment,” Will said, standing at the door again. “ ’ Tis best not to fight it, else you may find yourself hurt, or otherwise. . upset. . in the attempt.”
Marian was beginning to understand. Her stomach pitched, and all the arousal that had peaked through her body ebbed away, leaving her cold and empty. “And so it will continue. Nights like tonight.”
“Like tonight. . and more,” he said. “You can be certain of it.”
And he left.
The door to Marian’s chamber opened after no more than a few moments. Robin was surprised by that, but he assumed either Nottingham’s performance lacked finesse and was quicker than a noosed man dropping from the scaffold. . or he hadn’t performed at all.
By the look of the sheriff, Robin suspected the latter.
Nottingham shut the door behind him and turned to leave, giving Robin a clear view of his black expression.
Though there was a weariness about him, the sheriff certainly did not look like a man who’d just tupped the lovely Lady Marian.
Robin couldn’t resist a smile in the dark of a deep alcove as Nottingham walked past. But then the smile froze and disappeared.
“If I were an outlaw,” came the sheriff ’s voice wafting down the corridor behind him, like an afterthought, “I should make certain that I wasn’t so foolish as to be discovered in the very place I should not be. . for I might find myself shortly dressed in a noose.”
Nottingham’s solid strides never hitched or paused, and he continued on, leaving Robin to glare after him.
Though her day had been exhausting, Marian slept little that night. And when she did sleep, her dreams swirled with dark, erotic images. She woke near dawn with aching breasts and a dull throb between her legs, her body moist, warm, and unsettled.
Her long hair had become loose in its thick braid and was clinging to her damp skin and wrapping around her arms and torso. When she rolled beneath the linens, her sensitive nipples brushed against the fabric and hardened even more. Her legs pressed together, and the pulsing there between them seemed to grow stronger.
The memories of last evening in John’s chambers surged back into her mind, though she tried to block them out. She’d never imagined the sensuality of such sights, of red tongues and slick lips and white breasts, of swollen, glistening quims. . the wet sounds of lust and pleasure, the soft moans and little gasps. . the smell of body and musky heat and sex. . the feel of solid male muscle behind her, beneath her, and hands on her own breasts, demanding. . yet enticing.
Marian’s breathing rose again and her fingers slid around to cover her breasts in an echo of Will’s large palms last night. They felt heavy and soft, and her skin tingled, tightening under her touch. She circled one fingertip experimentally over the top of a nipple. A responding streak of pleasure zipped down inside her, and she did it again. . and again, and then on the other side as well. Her nipples tightened so hard they hurt, and the pounding in her quim ached and her flesh drew up tightly, expectantly. She let her legs fall apart and moved one hand down to touch herself.
Her fingers slipped through heat and wet and found the hard little pearl, the source of the throbbing. Marian closed her eyes and used the pads of her fingers to tease and dance and flicker in and around her swollen quim and the engorged nib, the pleasure and heat collecting and rising in her belly and between her legs as she shifted and bent her knees, working faster and more furiously. . and then at last, an explosion was shooting through her body.
Warmth rushed over her as she shuddered and sighed and felt her whole person quake and shiver. . and then lull into quiet and satiation.
Her hands slid away. She’d never felt like that after the rushed beddings with Harold. He joined her in bed, parted her legs, squeezed her breasts a bit, and then pounded himself inside her five or six times, cried out, and rolled away. . and that was all.
After the first few occasions, Marian had learned to ease the way by slipping her own fingers up inside her quim beforehand, using her own moisture-or butter from the kitchen-to lubricate her body before he came to her. . but she’d rarely given herself pleasure like she had this morning. And when she had, the results had never been so intense. . so desperate. So necessary.
She had a sudden flash of Will’s face last night as he stood by the door.
I’m no saint, Marian.