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 upon her and fell in love with her at once. He stole her and took her to Troy. Agamemnon and Menelaus followed to get her back, and Troy was destroyed.”

Robin nodded. “For the love of a beautiful woman.”

“Yes, but—” She stopped. “Oh no--”

“Yes.”

“But—I’m not—”

“Ask any man,” he said.

Jennifer Roberson

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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.

Jennifer Roberson

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