She'd pilfered his bow. Of all things, the wretched woman had pilfered his bow. He and the men had been having a knees-up in the tavern, celebrating a most successful haul. He'd been lulled into a false sense of security by the company, and the size of the purse they'd snatched, and most definitely the strength of the ale. He'd seen a woman lurking in the shadows, face hidden by her hair and curves on ample display in a barmaid's dress, but he had thought nothing of it. Until, of course, it was time to leave and his bloody bow was gone.
Regina. She was going to be the death of him, if he didn't kill her first.
Of course, he supposed, he probably deserved it. She had set her own traps for that carriage, traps that he and his men had meticulously undone. Robin hated to take food from her mouth, but Sherwood Forest was an unforgiving place, and he and his men had to take care of the people first and themselves second. Regina Mills was but a distant third on his list.
That is, until she stole his bow. Her audacity immediately moved her up to to the top of Robin's list of priorities.
He stole quietly through the forest in the dead of night, side-stepping her booby traps with ease. He had no interest in dismantling her rough security system; he merely wanted to avoid warning her that he was coming. He crept into the hollow log that she called home. A quick survey told him she wasn't home; a more thorough search showed that wherever she was, she still had his bow. He settled in a dark corner to wait.
She crept in so silently that he didn't hear her until she was almost on top of him. She was covered head to toe in a dark cloak, and damn her, she was wearing his bow slung across her back. She pulled the bow off and dropped it carelessly on the floor; watching the bow he'd so delicately carved clatter on the stones underfoot almost sent him to his feet. He kept his silence, though; eventually, she'd nod off and he'd be gone with his bow and, no doubt, with something of value to her.
She didn't have much, that he'd discovered from his earlier search. What little she had, though, she kept in good condition. She was cautious in all things and far more capable than most men he'd met. Truthfully, he admired her for having the gall to steal his bow, and he relished the opportunity to return the favor. Parting the rich from their wealth was Robin's favorite pastime; goading Regina Mills was a close second.
He expected her to drop her cloak and fall into her pallet in the corner; the hour was late and clearly she'd been busy this evening. He didn't expect her to begin removing her shirt right in front of him. Suddenly, he regretted coming here tonight. He had no issue with provoking Regina's temper, but he was not the kind of cad that would take advantage of a woman, no matter how often she irritated him. He opened his mouth to say something, to stop her from revealing too much, but the shirt was over her head before he could speak. Her back was to him, and she had an angry red gash from her shoulder to her mid-back.
"That looks quite serious," he said softly. She jumped and whirled around, clutching her shirt to her chest.
"You," she breathed. "What the hell are you doing here?"
He looked to his bow, and looked back up to her, one eyebrow cocked in disbelief. "You have to ask? Now turn around."
She continued to stare at him, mouth agape. One hand was twitching nervously, and he knew that it was itching to find a weapon to sink into his belly. He wouldn't give her the opportunity, though. He reached out and grabbed her shoulders (gently, minding the wound), and turned her away from him. He studied the injury in the candlelight. "Well, it's not deep, but it still needs attention." He pulled a flask from his vest and poured a liberal amount of whiskey over the wound. Her shoulders stiffened and he heard her sharp intake of breath, but she gave no other indication that she felt any discomfort. "Have you any salve to put on this?" She hesitated, then jerked her chin toward a shelf to his left. He poked through the jars until he found the one he wanted, a foul-smelling brew popular throughout the forest for heading off infection. He scooped some into his fingers and began gently rubbing it onto the abrasion. He couldn't help but notice the soft perfection of her skin, the curve of her waist, and the sharp angle of her jaw as she turned to look at him over her shoulder. He gently brushed her braid out of the way. "Hold still please," he muttered. He was mortified to realize that his breathing had quickened, keeping in time with his rapidly escalating heartbeat. Of all the things he'd expected to find tonight, a half-naked Regina was not one of them.
She was breathing heavily too, he noticed with some satisfaction, and clutching her shirt over her breasts for dear life. He leaned closer, his breath ghosting over her bare skin, and her shoulders stiffened. "It will leave a mark, I'm afraid, but I believe you'll live." She nodded, but she made no move to pull away from him. He stroked a hand along her uninjured shoulder, marveling at the sinew and muscle under his hand. He felt the heat of her coursing through his veins, and he dropped his hand. "Now, milady, I believe I'll take what I came for." He reached down and scooped up his bow, his eyes never leaving hers. He bowed with a smug smile and backed slowly out of her home. She made no move to stop him, nor did she look away. He took the memory of the fire and passion in her eyes with him to his camp.
Well, that and the pendant he'd lifted from the shelf next to her medicinal jars. Turnabout was fair play, after all, and he found he was eager for her to come after it.
Since the first time he'd picked a pocket that she'd set her sights on in Nottinghamshire, Regina Mills had envisioned her first meeting with Robin Hood. Most of her fantasies involved him bleeding at her feet, begging her pardon. None had involved her being naked from the waist up. She stood rooted to the spot in her cozy den, still clutching her shirt against her chest, dumbstruck that he'd managed to sneak in and lie in wait without her noticing.
She was getting careless.
Regina blamed her temper. She'd bided her time for months, hoping to catch the Merry Men off-guard and beat them to the punch for once. This last job had been perfect; she'd planned it to the second, only to arrive at the side of the road and find her traps completely dismantled. No need to guess who had done it; the Merry Men and that idiot Robin of Locksley were the only ones who'd dare interefere with her plans. Common sense told her to let it go and plan for the next heist; pride sent her to the tavern they favored to find a way to bring him low for once.
And it had been so easy – he and his men were three sheets to the wind when she'd arrived, and all it had taken was a coy smile and a plunging bodice to distract the Merry Men while she'd plucked Robin's bow from the back of his chair. After all, they were hardly staring at her hands.
Truthfully, she'd had no intention of keeping it. The bow was too large to serve her purposes, and while she'd relished finally pulling one over on Robin of Locksley, she didn't intend to make an enemy out of the man. She just wanted to see him break a sweat for once. She'd lifted the bow and snuck out of the tavern, throwing a dark cloak over her shoulders. That's when she'd seen him; a gentleman dressed in all the finery of the local gentry, stumbling about unsteadily on two feet and clearly the worse for wear from an evening at the tavern. An easy mark, she'd thought, right up until the moment when his carriage had pulled up, escorted by two of the queen's black knights.
No matter, she had thought. She'd gotten the best of a black knight or two in her day; surely these two would not prove to be a challenge.
Oh, she had been wrong on that score, and she had the stinging gash on her shoulder to prove it. Apparently archery skills were not limited to the outlaws in Sherwood Forest. She'd trudged back to the home she'd hidden deep in the forest, wincing with every step at the pain in her shoulder. And when she pulled her shirt over her head, there was Robin of Locksley stepping out of the darkness, tending to her wounds and stoking up a fire in her belly – a fire that had nothing to do with her wanting to get the upper hand against the famed outlaw.
Damn him, she thought, as she gingerly pulled a clean chemise over her head. She curled into her bed and closed her eyes, fighting in vain to push the feel of his fingertips on her skin from her mind.
She awoke stiff and sore the next morning, and a cursory attempt to lift her arm above her shoulder left her moaning in pain. She could feel the edges of the scab that had formed pulling in protest at her movement, and she dropped her arm with a muttered curse. Another coating of salve would do wonders, she thought, and pushed herself off her bed to sort through the jars on the shelf.
Wait. Where was her mother's pendant? It should have been there on the shelf. She pushed her medicinals aside carelessly, jars falling to the ground as she scrabbled along the smooth wood for the delicately carved onyx.
Robin, she thought, and her lips curled over bared teeth. Oh, if he thought stealing his bow was bad, it was nothing compared to the vengeance she'd exact for stealing the one thing her mother had given her. When she was done with him, he'd be begging for mercy.
Which, frankly, was a far more appealing thought than it should be.
Patience had never been a virtue Regina had embraced. She favored charging into action, consequences be damned as long as she got her way. Her injured shoulder, however, forced her to bide her time. A good six days passed before she felt well enough to set out for the Merry Men's camp, and she hoped that those six days were enough to lull Robin into a false sense of security that she wouldn't come after him. She didn't have a fully formed plan, not yet, but she was willing to wing it. After all, she hadn't intended to steal his bow a week prior, but Regina excelled at taking advantage of opportunity. And Robin, for as much as he was a legend in the forest, was just a man, and men were careless. Overly confident. And no match for Regina when she had her mind set on a goal.
The camp was nearly deserted, with just a few lights marking the Merry Men's boundaries. Regina crept to the post where a few horses were kept without the slightest concern that she'd be discovered. The men must be out on a job, leaving two of their followers (boys, really – they were barely her height) standing guard. Regina patted the flank of a stallion, apologized in advance, and unwound the reins from the post. She tucked a stone into her slingshot and let it fly, and the horse took off with a loud cry and thundering hoofbeats. The boys standing guard charged through the forest after the beast, and Regina crept through the camp to Robin's tent.
Yes, she knew which tent belonged to Robin. Purely for strategic purposes, she told herself. After all, she wasn't in the habit of spying on the Merry Men's camp. (She was.)
She stole inside and lit a candle, holding up the light to survey the interior. It was even more basic than her carved-out tree; a pallet in the corner, a stack of clothing in the chest, and a few small knick-knacks on what she guessed served as his table for planning strategies. She took in the sketch of the trails in the forest that laid on the table, X-es and circles marking the spots where the Merry Men would take their posts for tonight's robbery. She pushed gently through his wares, searching for her mother's pendant.
Nothing.
She cursed softly. He wouldn't have given it to another of the Merry Men, that much she knew. He'd take it as a point of pride to hold it until she came for it herself. Very well, she'd have to wait him out. He'd snuck up on her in her own home; she was more than willing to return the favor.
Shouts of laughter outside the tent reminded Regina where she was, and what she was doing, and she quickly extinguished the candle. Apparently the boys had fetched the horse without any trouble, and they were loudly congratulating each other on their tracking skills. Regina rolled her eyes. Oh, to be that young again, so naïve and confident. They congratulated each other on their skills, and she listened with a smirk as they concocted a brave tale of their heroics to report to Robin. She felt a twinge of guilt at how shame-faced they'd be come morning, when Robin would surely confront them about letting another bandit invade his tent, but she quashed it as quickly as it came. His men were not her concern. Her mother's pendant was. She tucked herself underneath the table in the corner of his tent, hoping that he'd be too confident in his own abilities after the night's work – and too willing to think that she wouldn't seek retaliation after a week had passed – that he wouldn't notice her curled against the legs of the table.
She wasn't wrong. He stumbled into the tent in the wee hours of the morning, reeking of ale and humming a cheerful melody under his breath. He didn't even bother to check his surroundings – how nice it must be to not constantly feel the Queen's breath on his neck – before he pulled off his shirt and trousers. Regina's cheeks flushed at the sight of his bare backside, and she fought the urge to shut her eyes and bury her head into her cloak. After all, Robin certainly had not shied away from her naked skin, so why should she? He tossed his leather trousers aside, and they landed mere inches from where she sat. She pulled her knees even further underneath her, not daring to breathe. A flicker of light from outside the the tent highlighted his face and bare chest, and that's when Regina saw it – her mother's pendant, strung on a piece of leather around his neck.
Oh, she was going to kill him. And she was going to enjoy every second of it.
It didn't take long for Robin's even breathing to fill the tent. Regina held her own breath, counting slowly to a hundred before she uncurled her legs and crept silently to his bedside. He slept on his back, an arm covering his eyes (and a tartan blanket covering his…other parts). She withdrew a blade from her belt and reached for the strap of leather securing her mother's pendant. One quick stroke, and she'd be on her way. She curled a finger under the leather strap, holding her breath as she pulled it away from his chest.
He slapped a hand down over hers, and one eye opened lazily. "Did you really think I didn't know you were there?" he whispered. She tried to yank her arm away, but his fingers curled over hers and refused to budge, holding her hand over his beating heart. "You're good, Regina, but I'm better."
"I doubt that," she snapped. "Let go of me."
"Why?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow. "So you can carve me up in an attempt to retrieve what's yours? That's hardly likely, my girl."
"I'm not your girl," she hissed, digging her nails into his chest and enjoying the sharp intake of breath as she cut through his flesh, "and this belongs to me."
He curled his fingers tighter around hers and pulled her hand from his skin. "You have a terrible way of showing appreciation for my assistance," he said mildly. "I trust you've healed fully, then?"
A flick of the wrist he wasn't holding captive was enough to cut her pendant loose, and she caught it as it fell to the ground.
"I don't need your assistance," she whispered, ignoring the concern reflecting in his blue eyes. (God, they were beautiful.) "I can take care of myself."
Robin glanced at the blade in her hand. "Apparently you can." His fingers loosened over her own, and he shifted to sit up on his pallet. The tartan covering him shifted as well, and Regina almost fell over herself in an attempt to put as much space between herself and his naked body as she could. She backed away from him, one hand still brandishing her knife, the other clutching her mother's pendant.
"But know this," he said with a smile, "If you try to get the best of me again, I will have to retaliate. My honor depends on it." He gave her a lazy once-over, which made her doubt that his honor had anything to do with their brief interaction.
"I don't want your retaliation," she said, leaning down to scoop her bulging knapsack off the floor. "I want you to leave me alone."
She backed slowly out of the tent, trying to ignore the way his blue eyes followed her every movement. As the tent flap fell shut behind her, she heard him say softly, "I don't believe you want that at all."
She crept out of the camp slowly, trying to soothe the fire that had erupted in her chest at his parting shot. And yet, she couldn't toss aside the soft caress in his words. And maybe she didn't want him to forget about her; if she had, she might not have crept from the camp with a knapsack loaded with every article of clothing he owned.