Read Jennifer Roberson - [Robin Hood 01] for Free Online Page A

Perhaps that will content him. Perhaps he recalls nothing more.
    “Ravenskeep ...” The eyes were unrelenting. “You dragged me under the mistletoe and claimed the forfeit of me.”
    He does remember. Heat washed through her face, leaving color in its wake. It took all her courage to meet his gaze, to smile; to hide with great effort the self-consciousness his intensity engendered. She was not so certain of men’s regard that she knew how to conduct the conversational conflict so many other women relished. “I was very young, as you were,” she began, relying on the truth no matter how embarrassing, “and I had kissed everyone else. You were the only one left.”
    She thought he might laugh, but he didn’t. She thought he might at least smile. But all he did was dismiss the recollection with an autocratic gesture reminiscent of his father. “I sent a letter,” he told her flatly. “After your father died, I wrote.”
    The wave of heat and color faded. Self-conscious amusement died. Locksley’s manner, relegating her own feelings and responses to those meant merely to answer his questions, annoyed her intensely.
    In her own way, Marian fought back. “Why you, my lord? Surely there was someone else. Someone of lesser rank—”
    He heard the quiet derision in her tone. For the moment his eyes were bright, but with anger rather than humor. “Rank had nothing to do with it,” he answered curtly. “When a man saves another man’s life on the battlefield, such things no longer matter.”
    Tightly, she reminded him, “The Lionheart made you a knight.”
    “I said, it does not matter.” He gritted his teeth, flexing muscle in his jaws. Color stood in his face. He was so fair, it showed easily—and then she saw the scar.
    It was thin, jagged, ugly, tracing its way from his right earlobe along the line of his jaw to curve upward, only briefly, at the point of his chin. There it ended as abruptly as it began. It was almost nonexistent: a seam of uneven stitching. Someone had cut him badly. Someone had sewn him up. It was not a new scar, but one she did not recall. He has been gone two years ... war remakes us all. “It does not matter,” she told him, tearing her eyes from the scar.
    His color faded. The scar disappeared, unless she looked for it. “Forgive me,” he said roughly. “I have not been with women of decency for too long ... I have forgotten all the words.” The jaw muscles flexed again.
    It was hard for him to say that. Marian smiled faintly. “They will come back to you. Now, as for the letter ... ?”
    “I wrote it, because he asked it ... and because I wanted to tell you myself. I felt it only just, that the man who saved my life was well worth my own labor.” His helpless gesture was awkward. “It was all I could do for him.”
    Grief renewed itself. “I was told he died in battle.”
    “He died at Richard’s feet.”
    Richard. Not the king. Not the Lionheart. Not even “ my lord. ” Marian wanted to cry again but refused to do it here, where Locksley would see. Her mouth felt slow and stiff. “If it pleases a man to die, he must have known great pride. He thought very highly of his king.”
    “So do we all.” But the tone held an odd undercurrent. “He died at Richard’s feet because I was not in my place.”
    She stared blankly, wanting not to comprehend; afraid she did all too well. “I don’t understand.”
    The gaze did not waver, nor did the bitterness. But he did not mean it for her. “You understand it very well; I can see it in your eyes.” The line of his mouth grew taut. “But you are too well reared—you would rather not say it for the sake of courtesy.”
    It was true, but irrelevant. Marian swallowed heavily, making herself go slowly. Maintaining precarious control. “Are you saying, then, he died because of you?”
    “No.” The pale eyes, oddly, were black. “Not because of me, but because of what happened to me.” The voice was exceedingly harsh. “He