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“We will go faster on the horse,” he said, as if asking permission to lift her into the saddle. His behavior was so subdued, so respectful . . . yet she sensed his underlying urgency.

“Aye, let us go quickly,” she agreed.

He lifted her into the saddle and vaulted in behind her, settling his thighs about hers and his arms around her as he reached for the reins.

“Why did you send Allan for me?” she asked. “Why did you not come yourself?”

Why did you allow me to think ’twas you who lay dying?

“When last we met, you warned me never to come to you again. I did not wish to chance that you would call the sheriff or the prince’s men down upon me. This night, I had no time to waste. Fergus is dying.” His voice remained stiff and cool, and his arms impersonal. There was no gentle brushing against her, or surreptitious fingers over her breasts or thighs.

Not even the thought of a kiss in his glance.

Alys’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. He had taken her at her word. He’d stayed away because she ordered him to, and came to her only when his friend was in dire need.

Why did she suddenly feel empty and bereft? She wanted naught to do with the outlaw.

Didn’t she?

But she was very aware of his presence behind and about her. And her relief when she saw him standing there, uncertain yet hale and well, had shocked her. Pure joy that, for a moment, had knocked away the urgency to get to the injured man.

“Hold tight,” Robin murmured into her ear, one arm closing around her belly. The horse bolted forward, leaving the village behind and tearing into the dark forest.

Alys closed her eyes and tried not to whimper. She could see very little of the half-moon once they entered the wood, for the trees were thick and they were going so very fast. Robin’s torso felt solid and steady behind her, and his legs in their tight braies kept her from tipping or sliding.

The stallion leapt and bounded and Alys clutched its mane, turning her face away so that her cheek brushed Robin’s cloak and her hood protected her face. A stick scratched her arm, and another caught at her hood and in her hair, but they kept on, Robin shifting forward or to the side to avoid as much of the brush as possible.

At last she felt him draw back on the reins and even before they were fully stopped, he slipped from the saddle. Strong hands pulled her down, and she found herself faced with the same rope ladder up which she’d been taken as a prisoner by the massive John Little.

This time, she hauled up her skirts, tucking them into her girdle, and climbed up quickly. The ladder swayed as Robin followed. Alys closed her eyes-for she could see little, as it was dark-and felt her way to the top. The soft rhythmic creaking of the rope against bark and wood guided her closer to the opening in the floor above.

Inside, she found it to be even worse than she’d feared. John Little and Will Scarlet, two of Robin’s other comrades, sat on small stools. The friar, whose tonsure gleamed in the candlelight as he bent his head, held prayer beads and seemed to be blessing the young man with some sort of aromatic salve. He made a cross on his forehead, and the scent of myrrh wafted through the room.

“The healer is come,” Robin said. “Make you space for her.”

Alys went to Fergus’s side and even in the dim light from the five candles, she saw death in the color of his face. Placing a gentle hand on his chest, she felt for his breathing, and could discern the heaviness of its movement. It was slow, rough, and damp.

Peeling away the shirt that had been cut through in an attempt to remove the arrow, she looked at the wound. Someone had cleaned it as well as possible, and had even placed an herbal poultice on it. She recognized the smells of woad and hyssop.

“Good,” she said, gesturing to the injury and the drying poultice. “I would have done so as well.” She looked at Robin. Her breath caught for a moment as she realized how beautiful his eyes were. Something she’d never noticed before. “But I do not think ’twill be enough.”

His face tight, he knelt next to her. “I feared you would say that. There is naught to be done?”

She shook her head. “Only to pray for him to go peacefully.”

Their eyes met and she felt her breath hitch again as she was caught by his deep blue gaze.

Then he looked away and stood abruptly. “Allan, take her back. There is naught she can do.”

“Nay.” Alys reached for him, fingers around his wrist. It was narrower and more elegant than Nottingham’s. And she felt a slender thong of leather encircling it.

He looked at her again, sorrow and apprehension in his eyes. But naught else. Nothing for her.

“I wish to stay,” she said. And as those words left her lips, she realized that she meant them.

In more ways than one.

The sun was bringing glorious pink and orange light to the world when Fergus FitzHugh breathed his last.