Chapter Four

“Hush, will you?” The man from the forest road spoke in a low tone, tempting as warm honey. The sound of his voice seemed to go through Anwyn the way a hot knife might, too swift to hurt. “Else they may haul me away and relieve me of one of these hands. Is that what you want?”

Anwyn pressed her lips together and shook her head. His hands most assuredly belonged where they were—not only attached to his wrists but touching her, searing her flesh right through the fabric of her sleeves. Her eyes clung to his the way a woman hanging from a cliff might grasp her handhold, and she could not seem to catch her breath.

Surely she had heard this man’s voice before, curling through her as he held her in the dark, as his beautiful hands touched her where she had never been touched, as she gave herself to him, body and spirit.

“What are you doing here?” He shook her gently. “Where is your father?”

The devil that dwelt inside her made her ask, “Why, have you come to report to him?”

An answering spark of mischief caught in his eyes. “Never mind me. I doubt he would want to find you running amok through the rabble with a measure of—is this ale dripping all down my tunic?”

“It is,” said a second voice, beside him.

This one belonged to a woman, and Anwyn turned to survey her through narrowed eyes. Prepared already to dislike her—just because she stood at this man’s side—Anwyn scarcely needed to take in the loveliness of her face, her smooth black hair, or her merry eyes.

“You will smell, Lew, like you have had your head in a barrel all night.”

Lew? But that was not what he should be called. Anwyn’s mind stumbled over it.

“You are Champion,” she said aloud.

The raven-haired woman gave him an incredulous look. “You know each other?”

“We have met.” He still had hold of Anwyn; she prayed he would not let go. “This, Diera, is the daughter of the Sheriff’s new head forester.”

“You jest.” Laughter spilled from the woman, making her even more beautiful. Did she belong to Champion? Might she be, even, his wife? A hot feeling burgeoned in Anwyn’s chest.

She glared into the woman’s eyes. “And are you Mistress Champion?”

Diera shot another disbelieving look at her companion. “Me? Not likely.” But she added, “Leave go of her, Lew. You are attracting attention.”

Champion released Anwyn’s forearms. Swiftly, she twisted her hands and captured his fingers. Her skin tingled when it encountered his. “Wait.” She simply could not allow him to walk away from her.

He quirked a brow. She could now clearly see the amusement, mingled with caution, in his eyes. He thought her naught but an errant lass, a naughty child escaped from her nursemaid. And why should it matter so, what this stranger thought of her?

“So you have not come to see my father?”

He shook his head. “To learn of him.”

She lowered her voice. “You are an outlaw.”

His companion seized his arm. “Come along out of it, Lew.”

“No. I can help you. Who better than I to tell you whatever you wish to know of Mason Montfort?”

“Come away. She is clearly mad.”

But Champion’s gaze still held Anwyn’s. He shook himself slightly. “Why should you seek to betray your father, lass? He seems a good man.”

“He is a very good man,” Anwyn agreed, heartfelt. “And why should it be a betrayal? You merely seek to know of your...” she suggested, “opponent.”

“Ha.” The sound contained little humor. “I do not know what game you play at, mistress, but I assure you it is most dangerous. You concern yourself in matters you do not understand.”

“Come, we must go in search of”—Diera caught herself up—“those we have come to see.”

“Aye.” Firmly, Champion released himself from Anwyn’s hold. “Good day to you, mistress.” He bent his head toward hers, almost as if he meant to kiss her on the cheek, and spoke into her ear. “And if you would do aught to assist me, forget you saw me here today.”

Then he was simply gone, melted into the crush of people around them, with the tall woman at his side.

Only her words trailed after him. “I will.” But could she?

Back in her quarters, she paced like the madwoman Diera had accused her of being. She trembled, raved inwardly, and spoke to herself.

“What is this? How can he make me feel this way?” Like a river rising inside her, set to flood; like she harbored a desperate need that knew nothing of reason. She could not even be sure of his name. “Lew,” his companion had called him. But Anwyn knew to her heart that was all wrong. He should be called for some bird, one that came with the spring.

She stopped pacing near the window and looked out at the waning crowds below, where people began to wend their ways homeward. With the autumn full on, daylight faded early. Last night, when he greeted them at their arrival, she had heard Simon de Asselacton tell her father the roads—especially those within and bordering Sherwood—were scarcely safe for travelers.

“That is one of my priorities,” Lord Simon had said, “to wipe out the outlaws who still infest the shire and, in particular, the forest. You can help me accomplish that, Mason. I am determined the King’s laws will hold in Sherwood.”

The man with the compelling gray eyes and the magical touch was an outlaw; Anwyn knew it. He represented the very thing her Da had been brought here to eradicate.

Anwyn clenched her fists, threw back her head, and emitted a groan of frustration. Despite all the travail she had caused her father these years past, she loved him and had no wish to hurt him. She had no desire to spoil this place for him. But she knew to her soul she had to see Master Champion again.

How? When? The second question might be more readily answered: naught could be soon enough. As for the first, she would go to Sherwood, if need be, and hunt him out. Yet, were he in truth an outlaw, he must be adept at hiding from pursuers—far more adept in the forest than she.

Despair pronged through her like the point of a spear. Aye, but she could be clever if need be, and devious. She might learn what her Da learned—she could even offer to ride out with him on his patrols as she used to do when she was small, back on the borders.

She laid the palms of both hands on the wide stone windowsill and lifted her gaze northward to the place on the horizon where the distant forest lay gathered like a dark threat, or a promise. And she spoke aloud to the aging day. “I will get myself to Sherwood, whatever it may take.”