Sherwood, Special Preview: The First 7 Chapters (A Robin Hood Time-Travel Romance) Read online

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  “Uh-oh.” Orlando’s voice, small and hushed, sounded younger than she’d ever heard him. “I think Mark Twain might have been on to something.”

  He had? Marian was afraid to open her eyes and find out, but she had the awful feeling Orlando was right. The feeling intensified as she inhaled. Her nose wrinkled. What was that smell? Something…moist, green…something lush and alive.

  Fresh air.

  She almost choked on it. Yikes. This didn’t smell like the city. Didn’t sound like the city, didn’t feel like it. Instead of floorboards beneath her back, she felt a damp cushion of…

  Blindly, she groped to the side. Her fingers closed around a handful of… Old salad? Really gritty old salad. Ick. That couldn’t be right. She explored further by touch.

  Leaves, twigs, earth… Damn.

  Her stomach turned over. She was lying half buried in mulch. Where no mulch should be. Either she or the ground was in the wrong place, and somehow she doubted it was the ground.

  From all around came soft scrapings and rustlings. Small bodies scurrying through brush? Her stomach did another flip-flop. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, listening, concentrating, trying to separate the sounds.

  Chirps and twitters above… Birdcalls.

  Airy whispering… A breeze in high branches.

  Forest noises.

  Marvy. She’d never been in a forest before, but she’d imagined plenty. Well, one particular forest anyway, and this was exactly what it sounded like.

  Marian stifled a sob. If it were just her, she’d know where she was, know she was dreaming. But this couldn’t be a dream, could it? She wasn’t alone. Orlando lay half on top and pressed against her side, his breath feathering her face, adding a hint of beef and grilled onions to the earthy green smell. He must have had a cheese steak for lunch—not that it had any bearing on their current predicament, but she couldn’t help noticing.

  The boy’s heart raced, pounding like a jackhammer against the outside of her ribs. Her own heart pounded with it. Her head pounded even harder. Steady, Marian, he’s just a kid, he’s scared. Get a grip on it—for his sake. She forced open her eyes to see him staring down, his nose nearly touching her own. He looked so worried. She didn’t blame him. She was worried, too.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked, his dark eyes huge with concern.

  He was worried about her? What a sweet boy. She managed a weak smile. “My head’s sore, but I’ll be all right.” I hope. “How about you?”

  “Me? Hell, I’m fan-friggin’-tastic! I was just waiting on you. If you’re okay, let’s go.” He let out a whoop as he rolled off her. “C’mon, I wanna find out where we landed.”

  He would. Marian groaned. So much for the kid’s terror. This was a grand adventure to him; he was loving it. She should have known. Orlando was a survivor. Nothing fazed him. She wished she could say the same about herself.

  Nimble as a monkey he scrambled to his feet and stood grinning at her. Marian stared back, feeling her eyes pop. A silly reaction really. No reason to be so surprised. He looked perfect—if they’d just flown back through time, that was.

  Good grief, what am I thinking?

  “Hey, you think we’re near Camelot?” Orlando’s eager gaze fixed on her face. “Man, I wish Nelson was here. I’d make him eat every page in that damn Yankee book.” His grin faded as she continued to stare. “Whatsa matter? Oh shit, don’t tell me my fly’s open.”

  His hands flew to his crotch, froze as they landed on coarse brown wool instead of the zipper of his jeans. He looked down at himself, gave a low whistle, then studied Marian, his gaze traveling over her entire length. His expression soured.

  “I like your new dress, but mine sucks.” He plucked at the knee-length hooded garment he wore.

  “You’re not wearing a dress. That’s a tunic and hose you have on. They’re guy clothes, I promise.” Why he had them on was a whole other question—one she wasn’t sure she wanted answered. She took a moment to examine her own gown—long, loose and green, with scarlet ribbons at the neck, and full sleeves.

  Classic medieval.

  Of course. Why not?

  She sighed.

  Orlando coughed. “Oh, right. I knew that. I was just testing to see if you knew.”

  “I have a master’s degree in history.” Carefully, Marian pulled to her feet, the gown’s fabric swirling about her legs. “I probably know more about the past than I do the present.”

  The present? Oh God, what if their current present really was the past? She scanned their surroundings, searching for clues. Finding only trees, brambles, and more trees. Big help.

  “No kiddin’. History, huh?” Orlando looked impressed.

  Marian was glad one of them was. Heaven knew her degree hadn’t done her much good so far. Although she had a gloomy suspicion the studies that led up to it might come in handy soon.

  Orlando thought the same thing. “So, if you know history you can figure out where we are, right?” He shot her a lopsided grin. “Or should that be when we are?”

  Cute kid.

  “Both,” Marian said with a sigh. She seemed to be sighing a lot lately, but it was probably better than burying her head in her arms and shrieking, which was her only other impulse right then. “I need more to go on though. This forest could be almost any time period, and our clothes aren’t much more specific. Styles changed slowly during the Middle Ages. To pinpoint exactly where and”—she sighed again—“when we are, I’ll need to see a town or a village—some buildings, activity. Preferably from a distance.”

  Orlando squinted up at her, his dark brows pulled together. “Why ‘a distance’?”

  “For safety. If we really are in the”—she shivered—“the past, we can’t just go barging in on people, saying, ‘Hi, I’m from the future. Could you please tell me where I am and what year this is?’ Number one, they probably won’t be able to understand our speech, and number two—”

  “They’ll think we’re nuts,” Orlando interjected.

  “Worse. They might think we’re witches or demons. People of the past had a very different way of looking at things than we do. They were… Um, do you know what superstitious means?”

  “Yeah. You’re saying they’re dumb.” Orlando grinned. “So? Nuthin’ different ’bout that. Most people are dumb.”

  Marian blinked at him. “That’s pretty cynical for a twelve-year-old, don’t you think?”

  He blinked back. “What’s ‘cynical’?”

  Oh hell, his attitude was probably healthier than hers. When she was his age she’d viewed most people as evil and frightening. In some ways, she still did. Her lips curled in a sad smile. “It means you’re a smart boy.”

  “Oh. Right. Glad you noticed.” Orlando glanced down, suddenly fascinated by the play of shadows on the forest floor.

  Was he blushing? It was difficult to tell in the dappled light under the trees, but she’d bet money he was. What an adorable little rogue. If she hadn’t felt on the verge of a nervous breakdown she would have been tempted to grab him and hug him. She squinted upward instead, searching for the sun through a webbed canopy of branches and leaves, trying to gauge the hour of the day. Late, it appeared. A dusky lavender tinged what little of the sky she could see. She rubbed her arms as a chill crept over her.

  “You’re right, I don’t think this is the kind of place we wanna be caught in after dark. Better get moving,” Orlando said, as though reading her mind—even though he’d read it wrong.

  She hadn’t been thinking of moving anywhere, just praying that whatever had sent them here would—please, please, pretty please—send them back. The hell with being caught here after dark. She didn’t want to be caught here, period.

  “Hey, I wonder if there are wolves in these woods,” Orlando added cheerfully.

  “Wolves?” Marian stiffened. Good lord, she hadn’t even considered wolves. Or bears maybe?

  “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”

  Damn
the boy, he sounded like he actually liked the idea of wild animals.

  “Wolves are just big dogs, right? I can handle dogs.” Squatting down, he rummaged through the brush till he found a stout looking stick.

  Not stout enough for his companion though. “What do you think you’re going to do with that? Teach them to play fetch?”

  “Ha-ha. Glad you still got your sense of humor.” He started poking with his stick through the undergrowth, parting bushes and peering behind trees. “Must be a path ’round here somewhere,” he muttered to himself.

  “I wasn’t trying to be funny,” she grumbled.

  “I know. That’s why I ain’t laughing.” He turned back to his rooting, looking like a forest sprite in his tunic and hose.

  Great, just what she needed. A smart-ass elf who was twelve going on thirty.

  “Orlando—”

  “Shhh.” He cut her off with a raised hand, cocking his head and listening.

  To what?

  Marian strained her ears. Then she heard it, too. Distant shouts, cries, the clang of metal, a sudden crashing through the brush. The last sound close, and getting closer—

  “Watch out!” Lunging forward, Orlando grabbed her about the waist, dragged her back and down. A split second later a flash of white and red broke through the trees and sailed over them where they lay panting in the mulch. The white was a small snowy horse, eyes wild, nostrils flared. The red, a young woman in a crimson gown, clinging like a limpet to the beast’s saddle (whatever the heck a limpet was). She was either mad or pursued by demons to be riding so recklessly.

  “Damn. Wonder what her problem is.” Orlando lifted his head to stare after her. “Oh shit—” He dove back to earth, taking Marian with him as he rolled to the side just in time to avoid being trampled by a second horse—a large bay ridden by a muscular figure in leather and mail, a young man armed to the teeth with broadsword, dagger and longbow.

  Marian gasped.

  So did the man. “My lady!” He pulled back on the reins so abruptly his mount reared.

  For several dizzy seconds Marian saw nothing but flailing hooves. She almost fainted.

  Cursing, the man yanked the reins across the horse’s neck and swung his weight to the side. With a loud snapping of twigs the animal swiveled and landed back on all fours, scant inches from Marian’s and Orlando’s heads. Speechless, they stared up at the rider, who stared back at them, his eyes wide, his breath coming heavy.

  “Elaine?” He sounded as though he couldn’t believe it.

  Marian agreed. She didn’t believe she was Elaine either. “N-no. We’re…um…” Her brow furrowed. “Who is Elaine?”

  “I think he means the chick who almost ran us down.” Orlando scrambled to his feet and pointed off through the forest to where the flash of white and crimson could just be seen. “She went thataway,” he told the man.

  “Orlando!” Marian wanted to smack him. Whoever Elaine was, it seemed obvious she was fleeing something. What if that something was the fellow before them now?

  He guessed her thoughts. “Nay, lady, I mean her no harm. I seek only to protect her from those who do.” He squinted through the trees at the speck of fleeing white. “Blessed Virgin Mother—she’ll kill herself!” Fear darkening his features, he started to spur his mount forward, then halted short to gaze back at Marian. “’Tis most curious,” he murmured, shaking his head.

  She had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Your page?” He nodded toward Orlando.

  “Um, yes.” She pulled to her feet and drew the boy close to her side.

  “Who’s he callin’ a page? I ain’t no book,” Orlando complained, and got an elbow in the ribs for his trouble. “Ow, what was that for?” He shot Marian a wounded look. She shot him a warning glare back. “Okay, okay. Yeah, I’m her page,” he agreed. “Makes me feel like a friggin’ piece of paper,” he added under his breath.

  “Then get your lady hence, and quickly. ’Twill not be safe for her should you be discovered, or I know not my lords.” With those words the man tightened his grip on the reins and charged off in pursuit of Elaine, his horse sounding like a full cavalry as it tore under branches and zigzagged between ancient oaks.

  Marian gazed after him, her head spinning.

  “Think he’ll catch her?” Orlando said.

  “I think they’re both going to break their necks.”

  “Yeah, well ain’t much we can do to stop ’em. C’mon.” He tugged on her hand.

  She scarcely noticed. Something else tugged at her, something strange—something that didn’t fit with the other strangeness. What was it?

  He tugged harder. “Marian, c’mon. We gotta get moving. It ain’t safe here. You heard the man.”

  That’s what was strange. “You’re right. We did hear him. And he heard us.”

  “Duh. Yeah.” Orlando gave her a look generally reserved for the feeble-minded.

  She ignored it. “And we all understood each other.” Amazing.

  He dropped her hand and stared, blankly. “So? We were all talkin’ English, right?”

  “Wrong. You and I speak modern American English. That man’s English was hundreds of years older. The two forms are very different.”

  Orlando shrugged. “Didn’t sound too different to me.”

  It hadn’t sounded all that different to Marian either. That’s what she couldn’t figure. She stared down at her gown, absently brushing it clean, and thinking. When she’d been reading Chaucer, medieval English on the page had looked like another language, but to her ears now it had sounded almost normal—just like this gown she wore felt normal. It was like all her senses had somehow been reprogrammed to match the period she was in. Could that be caused by whatever bumped her and Orlando back here? Did a person’s system naturally readjust when they jumped through time?

  Who the hell knew? It seemed pointless to worry about it. Just being here was bizarre enough without bothering over the details.

  She looked down at Orlando, who scowled up at her. “At least that man’s language told us where we are. England. Thirteenth century, I’d guess. His armor was too light for the later periods, but I don’t think a longbow like he carried was introduced here until about 1200. Longbows originally came from Wales. Did you know that?”

  “I do now.” Orlando tapped his foot. “Can we go?”

  A crackling of twigs sounded behind them. Marian gasped as heavy hands latched on to her upper arms. Her knees buckled, but the man who’d grabbed her held her upright and steered her forward through the trees.

  “I told you we should move. Sonofabitch—” Orlando cursed as a second mailed figure hoisted him half off his feet by the back of his tunic and dragged him along in Marian’s wake. “Hey, man, don’t wrinkle the material. I just got these threads. Kinda like to keep ’em nice for a while, y’know?”

  “Silence, whelp,” growled his captor.

  Slipping on decaying leaves and stumbling over roots, Marian strained around long enough to see Orlando raise his hand and extend his middle finger under the fellow’s nose. Good thing the man didn’t know what the gesture meant.