Inigo turns his nose up in stubborn opposition to facing her, "You may ask a question; I may choose not to answer it."
Bemoan all the passings of supposedly witless women he may like; Inigo is just such a snake himself. Whether parrying with a weapon or skirting the edge of accusation, he dances around the subject far too carefree for Robin's tastes. Were only his mind as quick and graceful as his tongue and sword. (But, no. It lingers behind like a child alone in the sandbox. No consideration for others, too wrapped up in himself to share.)
Barely an inch above him, she yet pivots on her heel and looms. Proud shoulders squeeze back in an aura of tension bigger than the both of them. Brows furrow so deep that her gaze darkens even without the shade of any hood.
"You are infuriating…!"
Hands snap out with the force of her anger, snatching at blue lapels, bringing Inigo in, nearly nose-to-nose. Fine, fine. She will ask, then, "Did you… Seriously… invite a thief… into my camp?" Thoron expertise shows clearly in the jagged flashing conjured within brown eyes. Purpose plays at paralyzing him in place. She leaves no room for slinking excuses or side-glancing lies, lest all this hard-earned - and now missing - inventory come out of his salary; with only the offer of extra chores to reline his pockets. That would keep him out of trouble for awhile, at least, yes?
So he will answer.
And he should do so
…carefully.