Outrageous by Christina Dodd Read Free Book Online Page B

whose hand shook him awake. With a warrior’s instincts, Griffith worked to maintain an even breathing while his eyes adjusted to the contrast of dark and white light the night and the moon created. Slowly he turned his head and saw someone crouched beside the saddlebags. Too far away from the window’s square of moonlight to be recognizable, the intruder used his hands to search the far reaches of the leather sacks, and Griffith watched carefully.
    Did the scurrilous fellow seek gold? Or did one of Wenthaven’s minions seek information?
    Rising empty-handed, the thief revealed himself to be a plump youth, clad in hose and jerkin. He opened the cupboard and soundlessly groped through the contents, and Griffith eyed the distance to the door. If the youth made a move to leave when his spying was complete, Griffith would urge him to remain. Physically urge him to remain. And although this young man’s legs were long, Griffith’s were longer.
    He would get to the door first.
    But that proved unnecessary. Apparently dissatisfied, the thief shut the doors and moved across the floor to Griffith’s bedside.
    The bag of gold rested there on the nightstand. Marian’s bag of gold.
    With a quiet murmur of satisfaction, the youth picked it up, and Griffith rose with a roar. The robber shrieked and whirled on him. Griffith grabbed him by the waist and flung him on the bed. Pouncing, Griffith evaded the fists that aimed so unerringly at his nose. He caught the flailing hands. With a wrestler’s grip, he leaned his arm into the intruder’s slender throat.
    The scent and softness and his own sure instinct brought reality with a jolt.
    “Got him?” Art asked, fierce as only an old warrior can be.
    “Got her,” Griffith corrected sourly, and felt the mutinous body beneath him collapse.
    “What the hell?” Art lit one feeble candle with his flint and held it aloft, and the flame reflected in the wisps of red hair around a defiant face. At once, Art subdued his savagery and broke into a smile. “Lady Marian, I trow!”
    “Aye, ’tis Lady Marian.” Still straddling her hips, Griffith sat back on his heels and surveyed what he could see of her. “Lady Marian, in a most outrageous outfit.”
    The long-sleeved jerkin, he could now see, was quilted and stuffed—quite fashionable and quite convenient for a woman wishing to disguise an unmanly chest. The short skirt that flared beneath the belt served, as well, to cover the curve of her hips. But the skirt ended at the tops of her thighs, and lying beneath him, as she was now, it rode up and revealed the codpiece. Or, rather—the empty codpiece.
    “God rot it.” Embarrassed, horrified, and…Godhelp him, was he aroused? Griffith jerked his gaze back up to her face. “What are you doing in here? And in this harlequin’s outfit most absurd?”
    Her full lips pouted and trembled like those of a child thwarted, but she maintained a pretense of dignity when she protested, “I could scarcely come to rob your room in my skirts and petticoats.”
    “Rob my—”
    “And I wish you’d keep your voice down and blow out that candle,” she scolded, her voice low yet strengthening as she recovered from her alarm. “The earl has spies everywhere, and by my troth, I’d be ill pleased to have this adventure bandied about.”
    Griffith glanced at Art, and Art nodded. Extinguishing the light, he said, “Ye’d best get off the lass before I’m forced to scold like an old maid chaperone and call for the priest.” Griffith jumped off the bed like a scalded cat, and Art continued, “Ye’d best ask her about Wenthaven before she gets away.”
    “I’m not going anywhere.” Marian avoided looking at either of them by lifting the purse from the nightstand. “At least, I’m not leaving without this. ’Tis mine, is it not?”
    An undiagnosed disappointment sharpened Griffith’s voice. “Mercenary and thieving.”
    “Griffith,” Art groaned.
    “Quite,” Marian agreed in even