Jennifer Roberson Quotes

Locksley? It was. The fall of pale hair, the set of wide shoulders, the posture of his body. Unmistakable. She knew him instantly. And knew, without knowing why, that she would always know him.

His tone was odd, a mixture of restraint and subtle conviction. He did not make light of the question, nor did he attempt to couch his words in chivalrous courtesy. "He wants you, Marian."

She sighed. "So he says, when it is the lands he wants - "

"No." He cut her off. "DeLacey wants you."

She grimaced. "Because of what I have - "

"Because of what you are." She scowled at him.

"What am I, then? Sir Hugh FitzWalter's daughter, ward to King Richard - "

"Marian." His face was stripped free of the mask. What she saw now was blazing, naked emotion.

"What you are is a woman he wants very badly in bed. And I think he would do anything to make sure he gets you there." Her shocked denial was instantaneous. "Oh no - "

"Oh yes." She stared at him, undone by his conviction. This was nothing she had anticipated, this brutal, male truth. "I - don't understand ..." And she didn't, not really, not fully. She was only beginning to, and it frightened her very badly.

His smile was wintry. "I am not the one to explain in elaborate detail why a man, any man, might feel as deLacey does."

Why not?"

Robin sighed. "Helen of Troy."

It baffled her utterly. "What?"

"Helen of Troy. Have you no knowledge of the classics?"

"Of course I do; I was told all the stories. Helen was married to Menelaus of Sparta, until Paris of Troy cast his eyes

A horse broke through beside her, nearly knocking the mare over. At first Marian thought the horse unmounted, possibly Gisbourne's, running from the boar, because she saw no rider - and then she did see him and realized he was clad in the colors of the forest, nearly invisible, almost indistinguishable against the emerald, olive, and jade. It was the shock of white-blond hair that betrayed his identity, and the grimness of his features.

In that instant Marian was swept up by the need to touch him, to reach out and press flesh to flesh, finger to finger; to close her hand on his arm so she could feel the warmth and vigor beneath the tunic sleeve. She wanted to know without question he was living, breathing, and hers.

He was weary. Used up. He had been weary for months, for more than a year. In that weariness, in the exhaustion of his spirit, lay the seed of what he was; of what he had become. Of what they had made him, Saladin's men, and all the others as well. Even his own kind. She had cried out for him to beware, when his horse had been hurt, and fallen. And again when he'd stabbed into the boar's throat. He recalled it clearly: "Be careful!" she had cried. "Oh my lord, take care!" But nothing else, past that. Because with the cries of his horse in his head, and the stench of blood in his nostrils, what he killed was no longer a boar. What he was, was no longer a man, but a body, mind, and spirit remade on the anvil of war, remixed in the terrible crucible of a holy insanity.

Now she knew, and spoke it, answering him in kind with cool self-possession, fully cognizant of what the admission could mean. "The fleshly sword, yes. But he also taught me what you cannot: what it is to love a man." Dull color stained his face. Her thrust had gone home cleanly, and more deeply than she had hoped.

Her matter-of-fact confirmation of his crude insinuation turned the blade back on him. His eyes glittered in flame. "Do you know what I see?"

She knew very well what he saw. She named it before he could. "Robin Hood's whore," she answered. "And grateful for the honor.