Mojitos with Merry Men (13 page)

"What?" I start, then stop, scolding myself for my vanity. As much as I secretly want him to think I'm hot in the dress, it might prove counterproductive in the long run. I mean, what if he suddenly realizes that I'm really a girl, now that I'm dressed like one? What would he do? Berate me for lying? Kick me out of camp? Then again, maybe he'd be so blown away by my beauty that he wouldn't care that I'd deceived him. He'd simply sweep me into his arms and say—

"I think you need some breasts."

Hmph. Well, there goes that fantasy down the drain.

"Um, breasts?" I ask, raising my eyebrows and trying to ignore the disappointment roiling through my stomach.

"No one's going to believe you're a woman with a chest like that," he says, chuckling. He reaches into the saddlebags again, this time pulling out two apples. Unceremoniously, he grabs the neckline of my dress and plops them inside.

Sigh. I reach up to adjust my newfound cleavage. This is seriously sad. I can't believe I thought for a moment that he was really attracted to me. What had I been thinking?

"Better?" I ask, rolling my eyes.

"Aye." He grins, completely oblivious. "Now you look buxom as Little John's mum."

Oh-kay then. There's an image I didn't care to conjure up.

"Um, great. Super," I mutter. "So, um, you want me to just walk right up to the castle and knock on the front door or something?" Better to concentrate on the mission, I think. Before I strangle him for his stupidity.

"Aye. Tell them you are starving, and try to draw them outside. I'll take care of it from there."

I square my shoulders, firming my resolve. "Okay. Let's do this then."

Eager to be away from him and his stupid belief that all women should grow up to look like Little John's mum, evidently the Kim Kardashian of Nottingham, I stalk across the field. I can feel Robin's eyes on my back, following my every move, so I pick up my pace. Flat-chested, indeed! I'm so sick of that. Why are guys so hung up on big boobs, anyway? What good do they really do them?

I walk up a small hill and, at the top, catch my first glimpse of the castle. It's beautiful. Built entirely of gleaming white stones, it stands tall and majestic on the moor. But as I get closer, I realize that it's in dire need of repair. The stone foundation is crumbling. The banner flags waving from the turrets are tattered. The iron front gate is hanging open, and in the courtyard, I discover the dilapidated remnants of a fiefdom torn apart: broken market stands, empty cages, animal bones bleached white from the sun. It's bleak. Depressing. I wonder what Robin will think when he sees the state of his ancestral home. Poor guy.

I reach the massive wooden front door of the keep and knock as instructed. An iron peephole slides open with a loud creak, and a beady eye peers out at me with suspicion.

"Who goes there?"

I bow my head and then look up through my eyelashes, giving my best little-girl-lost look. I'm not as good at it as say, Kat, who has perfected the art of getting whatever she wants in life with a mere batting of her eyelashes, but if Robin's right, this man won't have seen a woman in weeks, so I doubt I have to achieve a Kristin Stewart level of pouting. "Just a poor humble woman," I say, "hoping for a few crumbs of bread from your majesty."

"Beggars are not welcome here," the voice says harshly. "Begone."

"But sir," I say coyly. "I'd be willing to trade a
lot
for just one slice of bread. A lot!"

"A lot? Like what?"

Jeez Louise, this guy is dense. Obviously he's never had the pleasure of a stripper showing up at his front door with a pizza delivery that's,
Ooh, just too hot.

I jut out my left hip. "You know, like…let's get it on?"

Oh God, I sound like Marvin Gaye. But whatever. I mean, I might as well throw all my cards on the table, right? I need to flush him out—get the door open—and obviously he's not doing so well with the subtle hints.

"I beg your pardon?" he repeats, disbelief in his voice. Not surprising, I suppose. I mean, how many medieval women show up to castles on a daily basis to try to hook up with the guards? I'm guessing about zero.

"Yes. Like, I'm so hot right now," I add, starting to get into the act. "For much… rutting." Isn't that what they called it back in medieval times? I mime a few thrusts for good measure, thankful there are no video cameras in medieval times, guaranteeing my actions won't end up on YouTube.

I hear a noise behind me, and my face heats. No video cameras but a live audience.
D'oh.
I didn't think Robin would be close enough to hear me. Is he snickering? How embarrassing.

Silence from behind the door. A moment later, it creaks open. Wow. Robin was right. It's amazing what guys will do for a little nookie.

"Come in, come in," the guard says impatiently. He's a heavyset man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a bulbous nose. "I'm not supposed to open this door, you know. The sheriff would have my head if he knew."

I step back a few paces instead, trying to lure him out so Robin can do whatever he plans. "I'm shy," I say, swaying side to side. "Maybe you should come and get me."

The guard grins and pulls off his helmet, revealing a shock of unruly black hair and a dire need for modern dentistry. Not exactly knight-in-shining-armor material, this guy. Robin better make good pretty quickly, 'cause I so don't want to follow through with my promise of rutting.

"Ah, my lady. I shall come get you indeed," he says, leering at me. He steps out into the open, meaty arms outstretched, lecherous fingers waggling and ready to probe. In a split second he'll be in grabbing distance of my breasts. And I so don't want to know how he likes them apples.

Whoosh! I feel the wind change as an arrow flies, seemingly out of nowhere and straight for the charging guard. He realizes this just in time and throws himself to the ground to avoid being pierced. His helmet goes flying, landing at my feet. The arrow harmlessly bounces off the stone wall.

The guard looks up at me, furious to learn this was all a trap. I'm pretty surprised Robin was going to shoot him too. But I don't think he'll accept my apology.

"Bring it on, bad boy!" I taunt, positioning my hands in front of me. I can
so
take him. After all, the dude's going into this thinking I'm some random medieval maiden, not a 21st-century grad of the Central Park Self Defense Weekend Academy. He's so screwed—and not in the way he was originally hoping.

He lets out a battle cry as he lunges at me. I wait till he's close, then calmly knee him in the groin, just like I was taught eight hundred years from now. And just like any 21st-century mugger/serial killer/bad blind date who won't take no for an answer, the guy buckles over in pain. I grab his abandoned helmet and smash it against his skull. It makes a loud thunking sound, kind of like when you crack a coconut, and the guard falls to the ground, losing consciousness. I whack him again, just in case.

I drop the helmet and grab his sword from its sheath and wave it in front of my face. "Woot!" I cry, triumphantly, raising the sword in the air in triumph. "Oh yeah, baby! Who's your daddy?" I look around for Robin.

"My father? Why, the former Lord Locksley, as I told you before. Why do you ask?" Robin says, stepping out from his hiding spot.

I roll my eyes. "Uh, that was sort of a rhetorical question."

Robin shrugs, then takes a look at the incapacitated guard. He grins, throws his arms around me and twirls me in a hug. "Good work, Christian," he praises.

"Thanks!" I cry. I'm enjoying the feel of his body pressed against mine way too much. The sword drops to my feet.

He sets me back on the ground and reaches in to grab the apples out of my bodice. "Most difficult to hug you with these in," he says with a laugh.

Suddenly the whole situation seems so funny and absurd that I start laughing too. He pulls me close to hug me again, and this time there's no fruit in our way. I can feel every contour of his body against mine. Every muscle. Shivers trip down my spine. He should not feel so good. He should not feel so—

He releases me from the hug, and our eyes meet for a moment. Suddenly, the smile fades from his face. His pupils darken, and he just stares at me, a shadow crossing his handsome features.

"This may sound absurd, but I must say you look quite lovely in that dress," he murmurs. "It's…strange."

Not really, I want to say. Actually, it makes perfect sense.
'Cause I'm a girl!
But I chicken out. If I tell him now, he'll totally flip. Why, oh why did I think it was a good idea to lie in the first place? If he knew I was a girl right this moment, I'm pretty sure he'd kiss me. He'd lean down and press those amazing lips against mine…

Either that or he'd be really, really mad that I've been lying to him all this time. Better change the subject.

"Whose dress is it?" I ask, desperate to stop the wildfire heat spontaneously erupting throughout my body. Hugs and compliments are one thing, but I'm pretty sure he'd be freaked out beyond belief if the eunuch suddenly tried to jump his bones.

"'Tis Marian's," he says with a small shrug. He looks down, kicking the ground with his toe. "One of the few things I still have of hers."

For some reason, the spoken reminder of Robin's true love dampens the air and weighs down my former light-headed giddiness. It shouldn't, I know. After all, it's not like Robin and I are some couple. We aren't in a relationship. Heck, he doesn't even know I'm the proper sex.

Still, the hurt in his voice, the pain clouding his emerald eyes, the way his mouth lovingly forms her name sparks a longing ache in my stomach. In my soul. If only someone would love me that strongly. Mourn me when I'm gone. I'm sick of being the one who loves more. The one who stands by her man, only to have him run over her heart with a semi.

Maid Marian is a total stupid idiot. She had someone who loved her. Who wanted to care for her and protect her and marry her and have babies with her. And she threw it all away. Betrayed him, left him, didn't even give an explanation as to why she'd gone.

And what did she gain from trampling this man's tender heart? Money? Power? Prestige?

Puh-leeze.

And now Robin is a broken man. Scared. Angry. Vengeful. Even if he does someday get over Marian, which could take years, it'll be forever before he trusts again. Before he allows someone access to the soft spots. The spots he now knows could get hurt.

A deep part of me, the codependent, needs-a-twelve-step-program part, desperately wants to heal him somehow. I want to wrap my arms around him and somehow absorb the pain. Make him whole again. Make him happy and content. Specifically, happy and content with me.

But I know I can't. He has to heal on his own schedule. And all I can do is be his friend. Be there for him. And let him feel comfortable talking about another woman, even though each time her name is mentioned it cuts through me like a clichéd knife.

"So, uh, let's check out this castle of yours," I suggest, after swallowing back the lump in my throat.

"What about him?" Robin says, kicking the guard with his toe.

The guard grunts and rolls over. "What? Who?" he asks, shaking his head, trying to regain his senses.

Robin pulls a knife from his belt. "Do not move," he commands.

"Uh, Robin? What are you doing?" I ask, worried. He's not going to try to kill the guy, is he? I mean, it's all fun and games until somebody loses a life.

"This man works for the sheriff, Christian," Robin says, not relinquishing his knife. "Do you know what the sheriff's men did to my fellows? I wish you could have seen the slaughter that day. Blood flowing in rivers down the streets. Brave men left to rot in gutters and be eaten by dogs."

Wow. So much anger and hate. So much thirst for revenge. Suddenly the words that gypsy spoke to me seem to float through my consciousness.

Thou alone can tame his unquenchable thirst for vengeance.

"Yes, I know," I say. "I can't even imagine how it must have felt to be there and see that. To lose your friends and your family. But Robin, killing this guy won't bring them back. It won't make things right. You must get past your anger. Your hate. Otherwise, you're as bad as the sheriff himself."

Robin looks torn. "But how can I spare this man's life when his kind took those of my dearest friends?"

"This guy probably wasn't even there. He's just on the sheriff's payroll. Guarding a castle—alone—making a wage to bring home to feed the wife and kids. I'm not saying it's the best occupation he could have chosen, but it doesn't mean he deserves to die for it."

I feel like young John Connor in
Terminator 2,
instructing Arnold not to kill. He may agree, but I'm not sure the reason is really sinking in.

"Christian, your soft heart will be the death of you," Robin says.

"Probably. But this guy isn't really in any shape to do the job, is he? Let's just tie him up or something."

"Please, good sir, the lady is right," the guard begs. "I was just doin' what I was told to do here. Following our lord's orders and all."

"I am Robin of Locksley. This is my castle. There is only one person with the right to give orders here."

"Yes, sir. I did not know. Please forgive my ignorance, and let me live."

Robin sighs deeply, then motions to a length of rope tied to a collapsed stanchion lying nearby. I run over and grab it, and together we tie the guard's hands and feet.

"Thank you, good sir," the guard babbles. "You will not regret this day."

"I do already. Thank the boy, for I would not have been so kind should I have come here myself."

"The boy?"

Robin laughs, gesturing to me. "Ah, I forgot you were fooled into thinking him a woman. Perhaps without the apples in his bosom you may better glean the truth."

Argh. If I hear one more boob joke…

"Forsooth? She still looks a woman to me. Very beautiful, as well, I might add."

I could kiss that guard. I really could—bad breath, big nose, and all. Now I'm doubly glad I saved his life.

Robin shakes his head in disbelief. "In any case, we will let you free when we are done. Shan't be long, I'd expect."