Page 55 of Far From Sherwood Forest

I shake my head without hesitating. I forgave him more for myself than for him, so, no, I wouldn’t take it back. However, I’m not sure what else would change. Maybe I should feel guilty for being attracted to him and having sex with him after knowing what he did, but…I don’t.

The longer our gazes remain locked, the bigger the knot in my throat gets. I clear it and look away again.

“I changed my mind. I don’t want to know.” I step beneath the stream to rinse off, needing to change the subject. “What do you think happened after we left? With the prince and King Richard?”

“All I know is that the prince had been planning something for the king’s return,” Henry says as he finishes washing his body. It’s all I can do to keep my eyes averted. “But I haven’t really thought about it. It’s not like it matters now.”

“It makes me sad to think that Prince John won.”

“Because you fought so hard to keep that from happening?”

I nod. “Because of what that would mean for all the people under his rule. Richard was agoodking. Under John, the people would grow poorer. They’d starve and die for the sake of a greedy tyrant.”

“It’s not your problem anymore, Robin.”

Turning to him once more, I glare at him because even though he might have a point, that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

“That’s bullshit. It’s not that simple. I can’t think of it that way. It may feel like a whole other life ago, but it was stillmylife. I had a purpose. I think I would’ve regretted giving it up, but beingforcedto give it up doesn’t make me feel any better. Just because I can’t do anything about it doesn’t mean it stopped being my problem.”

“So it turns out you haven’t let everything go after all.”

Shit.

He’s right.

“It’s one of those things that still haunts me, I guess,” I admit. “That I was going to give up. That I was going to let the people down all on my own.” I pause before taking another risk. “That I letyoudown.”

Henry’s expression hardens. “Nobody let me down. Only pissed me off.”

“If you say so,” I mutter with a grin.

“Should I go back to being pissed off?”

When he takes a step forward in the small space, it brings him dangerously close. That along with the cold look in his eyes has me shooting my hand out, laying my palm flat against his chest in a weak attempt to stop his advance.

It’s not my strength that stops him. It’s my touch, his gaze darting down to where my palm rests over his heart.

“Please don’t,” I whisper.

He doesn’t look back up, his eyes closing instead. His breathing slows but grows deeper so that I feel the steady rise and fall of his chest under my hand. Quite possibly risking life and limb, I raise my other hand and place it over his right pec, slowly—soslowly—trailing my fingertips down through his chest hair.

The tension seems to bleed out of him, his shoulders slumping. It’s not just the tension from this moment. It’s like all the tension he’s carried since the first time I saw him months ago is leaking through the cracks that are forming in his walls.

For someone as closed off as Henry is, I’ve noticed he likes it when I touch him, when he actuallyletsme touch him.

My hands travel a little lower until they’re splayed across his stomach. I take a single, cautious step forward, wanting to be even closer. He allows it. For a second.

Then his hands come up and wrap around my wrists, not squeezing tight, just enough to keep me from moving further. His gaze slowly lifts to meet mine, and I can see him pullingaway.

“Don’t.” It’s another pleading whisper.

Please don’t pull away.

Gently pushing my hands away from him, he says nothing as he releases me and turns to exit the shower, giving me another view of those scars slashed across his back. I wince, both at the reminder of his pain and at the rejection.

After he’s gone, I stay in the shower, standing beneath the hot spray, wishing things could be different between us.

Eventually shutting off the water, I step out to find a dry towel waiting for me on the hook. I dry off and then wrap it around my waist before walking out into his bedroom. It’s dark, the only light coming from the moon outside. Henry is sitting on the edge of his bed in another pair of those tight, black boxer briefs. He’s facing away from me, staring out of the window at the dark sky.