Chapter 3
Mind muddled from the drugs, I groggily began to regain consciousness several times.
On each occasion, my nose and mouth were covered, the same scent returned, and I would slip away again.
Eventually, I had the presence of mind to remain perfectly still while I slowly became aware of my surroundings.
Instead of opening my eyes, I allowed my other senses to take over.
A woodsy, piney scent teased my nose, but the air was too still for me to be out in the open.
Heavy breathing rasped near me, and the sound of muffled conversation led me to believe that I was in some sort of temporary shelter in the forest. The man breathing heavily must be the one tasked with the duty of forcing me back into unconsciousness if I awoke.
My brain felt sluggish and slow, and the sensation was unsettling.
Now, more than ever, I needed to think clearly.
I forced myself to monitor my breathing patterns, careful not to betray the slightest difference in my level of consciousness.
My body rested on some sort of poor-quality bedroll, but my hands, scratched and cut from my dive through the window, touched dirt, and I gained more confidence in my guess that I was in a tent or temporary shelter.
While a few aches and pains let me know I undoubtedly had some scrapes and bruises, nothing seemed to be broken or gushing blood, thankfully, but hunger twisted my stomach into knots.
How long had I been out? Through my closed eyelids, I sensed the bright sunshine.
Was it the same day? Or had I slept all night and into the next day?
The faint but unpleasant familiar odor of the drug used on me since my abduction wafted toward me on the breeze that snuck in through the tent flap, and I opened one eye the tiniest sliver to take stock of what I could see in a matter of seconds before closing it again.
A boot was near my head, close to a small bowl on the ground with a cloth draped inside it.
Whatever the concoction was, I was positive this was the substance I was being drugged with.
I forced myself to think through the haze.
If I so much as stirred too soon, he’d press that reeking cloth over my face again, and I’d sink back into oblivion.
No, it was better to wait. Let my body regain its strength.
When the time came, I would need to move fast and strike hard. I would not be bested twice.
Shame burned hotter than fear. To be caught so easily—in broad daylight—was unthinkable.
Father would never let me live it down, nor would the others.
I could already imagine Will Scarlet’s teasing grin and Little John’s ridiculous eyebrow raise.
No, I had to find a way out of this before word reached them.
I’d sooner face a dozen armed guards than them mocking me.
Footsteps crunched outside the tent, heavy and deliberate. The flap rustled, and a familiar gravelly voice cut through the muffled quiet. “Is she still out?”
It was him—the brute from the inn.
“Sure is,” came another voice, high-pitched and nasally, the kind that whined even when speaking softly. “She should be waking soon. It’s nearly time.”
The tone alone made my skin crawl. I pictured a weasel of a man, narrow-shouldered and trembling in the shadow of his companion. Yet the thought twisted bitterly in my chest. If he was so weak and cowardly, then what did that make me—trapped and helpless and at the mercy of such a pathetic man?
I clenched my jaw, forcing the question down.
“Are you sure it’s her?” the gruff voice asked again, closer this time.
The air grew thick, the scent of damp canvas and campfire smoke overpowering the scent of the drug. My pulse quickened. Soon, they’d know I was awake—and when they did, I’d have only one chance at escape.
“Well, no,” the man seated beside my head admitted at last, his tone reluctant. “But the tavern keeper swore it was her. He said he had Robin Hood’s daughter under his roof. And we all know Hood’s got that same red hair. Pretty thing, isn’t she?”
He paused. I could feel the weight of his gaze travel over me. Every instinct screamed to recoil, to strike, to do something, but I kept perfectly still, forcing my breathing to remain steady, feigning the heavy rhythm of sleep.
I silently cursed myself. Of all the inns in all of Nottingham, I had to choose the one run by a loose-tongued fool. And only a few miles from the sheriff’s own camp, no less. Brilliant choice, Laurel. I bit back the urge to sigh. Was that where I was now—deep in the sheriff’s camp?
“She looks a bit like him, if I remember right,” the nasal voice said. “I’ve only seen Robin once before. Was she hard to catch? The others say she came flyin’ right out the window. You toss her through yourself, or what?”
The gruff-voiced man hesitated for a mere fraction of a second before he said, “Yes, I did.”
A smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth, though I didn’t let it show.
Ha. Pride—every man’s downfall. He’d rather claim the throw than admit I’d escaped him, and that arrogance would serve me well.
Let them all believe I was some frightened, helpless girl.
That illusion had lured more than one fool into lowering his guard around me.
“How much of that brew have you got left?” the gruff man asked. “King’s wort, is it?”
“Aye,” said the nasal one. “Not much left, and that was the last of my stock. But a little slip like her won’t be trouble. Pretty ones are always the easiest—soft in the head, soft everywhere else. Soon, Robin Hood’ll come crawling in begging for her back, and the sheriff’ll have his prize.”
“Just as well,” the gruff voice muttered as he turned toward the exit. “The sheriff’s been obsessed with Robin Hood for years. It’s about time we turned the tables. If she’s who we think she is, this’ll end things once and for all.” The canvas flapped, and the heavy footsteps faded.
I opened my eye a crack again, surveying the tent’s dim interior.
The canvas walls were light gray from the sun shining down and there, close enough that I could reach out and touch it sat my target—a shallow bowl filled cloudy liquid—king’s wort, they had called it.
One touch of that to my face and I’d be back in the void.
I waited, listening until the gruff man’s boots were swallowed into the other background sounds of the camp, then shifted ever so slightly. It was time to act.
With an exaggerated, sudden movement, I feigned startling in my sleep, stretching an arm just far enough to knock the bowl over. The bowl flipped, spilling the drug across the packed dirt.
“Blasted girl!” the nasal man hissed, leaning forward to mop it up.
That was all the opening I needed. I moved faster than a striking snake, wrapping an arm around his neck and dragging him backward off his stool. He clawed at me, but I already had the drug-soaked cloth in my other hand. I held my breath and pressed it hard over his mouth and nose.
He thrashed once, then twice, then went limp.
I released him carefully, lowering him to the ground and brushing a strand of hair from my eyes with the hand that wasn’t damp from touching the cloth. “That’s better,” I whispered, heady satisfaction warming my chest.
After straightening, I slipped to the tent flap, every muscle tense with anticipation. I was almost free. Soon, I’d be able to vanish into the woods.
But the moment I stepped outside, my confidence faltered. The clearing beyond teemed with men—dozens of them—gathered around crackling cookfires or else sharpening blades. Their laughter died at once when they saw me.
By the saints—I was in trouble again.