DESPERATION

He lay there all night, asleep with his head in her lap, and she didn't disturb him. She propped a pillow behind her head, sleeping herself off and on. Since she couldn't reach the lamp to turn it off, it was the light on his face more than anything that kept her awake. Simply, she could not get enough of looking at him.

About three she woke up from a short sleep, immediately her eyes looking down to him. The house was very quiet here in the wee hours and quiet always set her mind free to roam the passageways of words, gathering them in large woven synapsual baskets to string together into the fancies of her heart. So the lamplight was transposed into the flickering flames of their campfire somewhere in the heart of  England.  John's men, hired mercenaries, had been tracking her and Robin all day.  The wound he'd gotten two days ago as he'd come to the castle, fought his way down the long corridor and up the
curving stone steps to her chamber where Sir....Sir....ah, yes, Sir Guy had kept her hidden away, the wound had caused a great fever to descend upon him and now here, alone in the depths of the forest, he'd finally found rest in her arms.

Her fingers touched his brow and Robin stirred slightly in his sleep. That was good. She'd put that in the imaginary tale, too. He was most cooperative. He turned his face somewhat more into her body and damned if her nipples didn't respond.  Funny how strongly the nerve lines connected from there to lower regions.  She'd never felt anything quite so strong in her own body before.  She'd never get to sleep now. In fact, parts of her seemed more awake than they'd ever been before...ever.

Ok...ok...back to the imagination. The battle in the castle had been frightening in its intensity. Robin was all alone and Sir Guy had at least five men-at-arms blocking the corridor.  She had watched through the metal grating over the small window in her locked door.  A sixth man had come unseen behind Robin, his pike thrust into the back of Robin's left shoulder. Twisting, bleeding, he dispatched the man with a single blow of his sword, his eyes finding hers through the grating. Despite his pain, he'd smiled. "A moment more, beloved," then turned to deal with the five still facing him.

He had, of course, killed them all, retrieving the keys handily from one of them, and unlocking her door. Julie sighed. She knew she'd seen that in a movie sometime, a long time ago, but, hey, it worked for her even if it was a bit simplistic for her book.  Robin tensed at the sound of numerous men, Sir Guy's men, large, hairy and merciless, pounding up the stairs. His arm around her waist, he guided her to the tower window, looking down at the moat. How far? Oh, heck, why not make it really far! Far was good. Crocodiles? Ah, drat, no crocodiles in English moats, not even ones that went *tick tock*.  Double drat. Well, how would they get down? Vines? Flynn liked to use vines. Vines would work.

Thick ivy grew all the way up the side of the castle wall, all the way to the highest tower. "Do you trust me?" Robin said, holding her eyes with his own.  "With my life!" she replied, wrapping her arms around his neck as he lowered them out the window. His left arm was useless, leaving him only with his right to cling to the vines as he tried to make his way as quickly as possible the several hundred feet to the dark, murky waters of the moat. She looked up the way they had come. Two crossbowmen leaned out the window, sending bolts whizzing closely past. One tore through the lace of her long, artfully-draped sleeve, ripping the delicate material. Julie chuckled. This was better than having to write seriously. And her nerve-endings didn't seem to mind at all that it was a bit over the top. All she had to do was look down at his face turned into her body and the things shot their own form of crossbow bolts to her, um, lower regions.

About fifty feet above the water, the vines broke, sending them plummeting down into the moat. It was deep and she sank beneath the dark waters, her arms still around his neck as bolts sliced through around them. A little cloud of his blood rose up, making a floating halo that seemed almost to encircle his head for a moment. Robin clamped his jaw tightly and swam with her underwater toward the arched stone bridge that crossed the moat. Darkness was falling rapidly, would soon obscure them from the sight of Sir Guy's mercenaries in the night. Yes, Julie thought, mercenaries in the night was always good. Horses pounded across the planking of the drawbridge as he held desperately on to the stones, moss-covered and slippery beneath his desperate fingers. No, she'd already used desperate in the sentence once. Hmmm? Oh, well. Desperate in the night with mercenaries was always good, too.

Night came at last. Robin had been leaning his cheek against the rocks for some while now, his blood draining out into the murky waters of the moat.  She'd torn off one of her long, artfully-draped sleeves and tried to press it against the wound, but the thin lace didn't staunch all that well and soon her fingers were wet with the blood of the man she loved. Cripes! Was she getting ahead of herself here? Maybe not. Maybe...not.

Painfully, with small, stifled gasps, he'd managed to claw his way up the bank, helping her, too, as her wide velvet skirts were heavy with the weight of the dark, murky moat waters. Together they'd rolled over the edge of the bank, and she lay atop him, their chests rising and falling in unison.  Something long, hard, pressed against her upper thigh but it was, alas, his knife. She smiled, looking down at him there on her couch. "And would you be happy to see me, my dear Mr. Hood?" she whispered.

He gained his feet and his one good arm around her slender waist (why did fictional waists always have to be so damn slender?), he guided her to a stable where he quickly and expertly stole a horse. Bareback, together, they rode then through the night, into the limitless forest. As the hours passed, she could feel his weight behind her sagging more and more into her. Twisting as far as she could, she looked back at him. His eyes were nearly glazed with exhaustion, pain, and the steadily-rising fever. It's the old hurt-comfort syndrome, she excused herself. Hurt the man in your story and then comfort him. Females liked that sort of thing. She actually did use it and fairly often in her books. She got a lot of fanmail about it, in fact.

They rode all night and through the next day, not stopping for food, water, or bathroom facilities. He was barely conscious by the time the second night finally rolled around and when they stopped in a small glen...yeah, Glens were good places to stop...she'd stopped in this one and he'd stopped in this one and now look...he was asleep with his head in her lap. Good...definitely, definitely good. And she didn't even care there were two definitely's in that thought!  She slipped off the horse's back, standing beside his leg. He didn't seem quite able to dismount but merely sagged toward her like a sack of flour a mouse had eaten a large hole in and all the flour was sifting out. Ack! That was terrible! She'd never write such a horrid sentence and shouldn't even really indulge in thinking one, for Pete's sake! He merely sagged toward her and she put her hands up, trying the best she could to lower him to the grass.

Gathering small twigs, she started a fire, added larger branches, until she had a place to warm him and keep the wolves away. Julie shrugged. She wouldn't deal with how the fire got started. That was up to her, wasn't it, and she blasted well didn't want to deal with the actual method used in getting a fire going.  She dragged him close to the fire and, propping her back against an oak...pine...beech....ack, tree...she pulled his head into her lap, watching as the flames cast their shadows across his handsome face. Her fingers traced the line of his straight brows, moving down to his lips, utterly mesmerized by their movement on his flesh.

"Julie?"

"Wh...what?"  Oh, goodness! She hadn't realized she'd actually been DOING it! She looked down at his face and her fingers were definitely on his lips.  The tip of his tongue came out and lightly touched one of her fingers and she gasped in a sharp breath, startled, pulling her hand away.

His lips curved into a small smile and he slid an arm behind her neck, guiding her head closer to his. Without another word, his mouth claimed hers and an instant barrage, an absolute barrage of crossbow bolts shot to their goal. "Robin, you...you're awake" she sighed, reaching out with a hand to balance herself, discovering inadvertently just how awake, indeed, he was.

It was his turn to gasp, his breath hissing in, and he turned himself and her at the same time, so that he lay atop her on the couch, his left hand finding inerrantly the curve of her breast. Lifting his head, he studied her eyes, looking for any sign she did not want this, then he smiled more widely at his findings and lowered his mouth to hers, lost in sudden and, yes, desperate need.