The coach came to an abrupt stop. Its driver jumped down, brandishing a weapon. He was shot where he stood, precisely and through the heart, stung by a marksman's arrow. Its occupants, mostly female, looked through the windows of the coach in terror.

The masked man in black held a bow in one hand, a large canvas bag in the other. Tossing the bag inside the coach, he commanded them in stentorian tones, "Fill it up, and be quick about it! Or feel the righteous end of my arrow, tipped with poison, to make your death a misery."

The oldest female, a young gentlewoman of about 25, regarded the masked man with disdain. "You do not frighten me, wolf's head."

"I should, wench." His voice, now low and softly accented, still commanded her attention.

She drew herself up regally. She had the poise and grace of a queen, though she was undoubtedly but a poor relation of some local aristocrat, he surmised. He decided to let her go. Her clothing was fine, but out of fashion by some several seasons. They were not rich enough for him to bother with.

"What's your name, girl?" he asked, wondering what strange urge compelled him so.

"Perhaps I have no name," she said haughtily, wishing she were a man and could shoot him dead where he stood.

His well-proportioned lips curved upwards in a sensual smile. "I think you do, girl." He ventured closer, thinking perchance to touch her arm, her face, or even the hem of her sleeve. The young woman drew back sharply, causing her pale blonde hair, carefully piled on top of her head, to fall into total disarray.

Instinctively, she attempted to smooth her hair into some semblance of order, although she knew the masked man was no one of consequence. But his soft leather-gloved hand touched her hair, then her face. She closed her eyes against her will, knowing it would be futile to fight. She was but a woman, and a gentlewoman at that. She had less power than a peasant.

"Your name, wench." The masked man smiled again, and the flash of his white teeth caught her eye.

"Who are you to command me, wolf's head?" she said in a quavering tone, shaking and trembling inside, though not, she now suspected, from fear.

He stared at her, his face still hidden by his mask, his eyes glinting a vivid shade of green. Unnatural eyes. No one but witches would have such eyes. She backed up against the door of the coach, and she could hear her younger sisters chattering as they lay prostrate on the floor of the now-still coach.

He spoke to her in a foreign tongue. "Norman pig! Now I understand! You wish to rape a defenseless Saxon gentlewoman?"

The stranger repeated what he said. "Prends-moi. Je suis a` toi." Take me, I'm yours.

She slapped him. Hard. Across the face. He merely smiled.

"You speak the tongue of the usurpers then?"

"You name yourself too wisely, sir. For that is exactly what the Normans have done to our lands."

His green eyes flickered almost lazily back and forth, as if fascinated simply to hear her speak such insults.

"You are too kind." He bowed to her, backing up, while carefully maintaining an eye on her. When he reached his horse, he stopped.

"How is it that a wolf's head such as yourself possesses such fine horseflesh?" she called out to him, unable to resist prolonging their encounter.

"Perhaps the mare is stolen."

"Perhaps," she replied, but curiously unwilling to agree with that assessment.

"Perhaps I am but a sheep in wolf's clothing, wench." He tipped his forelock to her and with a wave, he turned his horse and was gone.

Nikita, daughter of a once-wealthy merchant, now fallen on hard times, stared after the masked man. Her blue eyes sparkled mischievously.

"We shall meet again, wolf's head," she vowed.

The masked man in black blended in with his surroundings so perfectly, it was impossible to see where he'd gone. In a few moments, he was encircled by his men, the band of thieves and erstwhile cutthroats he consorted with daily. There was Walt Scarlet, a flamboyant ladies' man who dressed completely in shades of red, and Friar Mick, a man of the cloth who was the least pious amongst them. Rounding out the ragtag group was the leader's naive younger brother, Seymour Much, and the resident con artist, Greg a Dale.

Much addressed his brother as he approached. "Michael!"

Michael removed his mask and tucked it away in his hip pouch. "Much." He smiled at his brother and ruffled his hair. He nodded to the others and divided up the coins he had. "Your share, boy."

Much giggled. Michael sighed. The boy acted like he was slow-witted sometimes, but Michael knew it was his innocence that made him seem that way. He had yet to lose his virginity, and though this was not an issue that weighed heavily on Michael's mind, he knew it concerned the boy.

Scarlet was, in that sense, more Much's mentor than Michael. Years separated Much and Michael. But more than that, Michael still remembered what it was like to be a member of the nobility. Much did not. Sometimes, if Michael seemed too distracted, the others would accuse him of reverting to his aristocratic roots.

Born the eldest son of an Earl, newly come to England, Michael had everything he could have wanted. One of the first things the Normans did in many cases was to take the titles of those they conquered. In latter years, however, the king had taken to dispensing titles to various gentry in reward for fealty or favors done him.

Unfortunately, Michael scorned his title. When his father died, brutally, at the hands of a neighboring lord craving his lands, Michael disdained the inevitable succession. He did not want to be Earl in this foreign land that killed his father. His anger was not misdirected. He sought out the lord who took his father's life, but honor was never satisfied. One day, he dreamed it would be.

Much regarded his brother. Tall, attractive in a very sensual way, Michael carried himself like a noble, despite his contempt for them. His unusual eyes, dismissed as unnatural by some, were the result of a long, proud lineage dating back to medieval France. It was a sign of gentle blood, and he made no effort to hide them. But he often referred to himself as the byblow of an illegitimate son of a noble, rather than claim the interest generated by talk of him reclaiming his rightful title.

Scarlet smiled lasciviously at Michael. His tastes ran to beautiful women, but he had a fine appreciation for Michael's sensual good looks as well. Not that Michael ever noticed. "You look tired, Michael. Will you stay with us tonight or venture into the city?"

"I have business with the Sheriff in Nottingham, Walt. You know I cannot rest until I have spoken with him."

"Tis damned dangerous, if you ask me. The man has no love for outlaws, be they gentle born or no."

Michael shrugged. "But the Sheriff collected the last of the King's taxes today. I must go. Or we will have nothing to give to the poor this month or the next."

"Pfaw! Your heart is too easily turned by their plight. It makes you look weak in the men's eyes."

Michael drew his short blade and ran it across Scarlet's throat in a precise line, drawing blood. Scarlet protested loudly, and Michael laughed. "The wound is but a superficial one, Walt. When you bleed…it makes you look weak in the men's eyes," he said, echoing Scarlet's own words.

Scarlet wiped the fine line of blood away with his fingers, spitting at Michael's feet. "Point taken, Michael." The older man nodded his head, apparently realizing that there were other, more tender parts of his body that Michael could have afflicted had he chosen to.

"Come, Walt, Much, Mick, Greg…we will have wine this eve." Michael lowered his voice to a husky whisper. "Gather close that I may tell you of the trembling beauty I stopped on the road…"

"Was she fair?" Much asked eagerly.

"Aye, Much, more than passing fair." Michael's green eyes glowed warmly as he recalled the young gentlewoman's pale blonde hair, curled around her shoulders in disarray.

Greg chirped pleasantly. "Did she have gold?"

Michael shook his head sadly. "No…she had no coin to speak of." His eyes brightened again. "But what gold she had was in her hair."

Friar Mick, almost as rapacious as Walt Scarlet himself, chortled happily. "Her eyes? What color were her eyes?"

"Blue. Like the flowers in the field, Mick." Michael so rarely shared his feelings or waxed poetic about anything, Mick was stunned.

"You fancy her, don't you?" Mick said, almost instinctively crossing himself. It was one of the few ironies left that Mick pretended to be a castout Catholic priest, when he in fact shared no religious affiliation of any kind with any man. If he was devout about anything, it would be lovemaking. If he were an acolyte to anyone, it would be a female.

Mick sidled up against Michael. "Hey, your lordship, does this wench have a name?"

Michael took a deep breath, exhaling as the sun finally set on the other side of the trees. They were hidden so deeply within the forest's confines, no one save a few villagers even knew how to reach them.

"Aye, she has a name, all right," Greg smirked. "Cherie."

Everyone laughed, including Michael, who looked thoughtful. "Her name is…Nikita. And I vow, I will see her again. Make no mistake."

Nikita had little time to ponder about the dashing highwayman she had encountered on the road. Her younger sisters, Charlotte and Elaine, were but twelve and fourteen years old, respectively, their connection to Nikita not one of blood but of intermarriage. Nikita's father, a once-wealthy merchant, had indeed fallen upon hard times.

Nikita's mother was long dead, not that Nikita remembered her for her loving touch. Truth to tell, Nikita was abused long and hard by the woman who called herself her mother, and Nikita prayed often for forgiveness for wishing she had died sooner. Nikita's father was a good man, under the right circumstances, but these were not the right circumstances. No longer wealthy, he married a much younger woman, purportedly for her riches.

Unfortunately, the woman had no money to speak of, but she did leave behind two young children when she died of pneumonia two years ago. Two young female children.

Now Nikita's father found himself beset by creditors day and night, with no end in sight. He did what any man in his position would do. He bartered his eldest daughter, Nikita, for money to pay off his debts as well as provide dowries for both his younger daughters. That this demanded the ultimate sacrifice of Nikita, Nikita's father did not see. It was simply the way things were.

With no money and even fewer prospects, Nikita had no hope of marrying well. Nor did she have a chance of marrying for love. She was at her father's mercy, and there was precious little of that. It was up to her now. She would have to give in to the demands of the most ruthless man in Nottinghamshire. Paul, the infamous Sheriff of Nottingham.

The Sheriff, to be honest, was not interested in marriage. He remained single for a very good reason. He loathed women. But that did not prevent him from pleasuring himself on them. His tastes were not bizarre so much as sadistic. He was a cruel man, and he fed his appetites well.

He wanted Nikita in his bed. If her father decreed that the only way this could happen was to make her his wife, so be it. He would allow the man to think that Nikita would become the wife of the Sheriff of Nottingham. But she would never live that long. He would have his way with her and discard her, the same as the rest.

His right hand man and chief enforcer, much to everyone's surprise then, was in fact a woman. If one could call such a she-wolf a woman. His partner in crime, the Lady Madeline Gisbourne, was well noted for her sexual appetites. Easily as sadistic as her mentor, Gisbourne dressed in black leather. It was rumored that she favored young boys, barely into their teens, but no one ever came forward to accuse her. They were too frightened of what would happen to them if she turned her witch-like eyes in their direction.

Like the Sheriff, Gisbourne enjoyed inflicting pain. Unlike him, however, she also enjoyed being on the receiving end of such pain. It made for a unique but solid working relationship between the two.

The Sheriff kept Gisbourne as a mistress, only to slake his thirst for pain. He cared little that she liked how he beat her, only that he could and did.

It was into this den of iniquity that Nikita walked. Unknowing. Innocent. Pure of heart. Had she known, it would have made little difference. She had no choice, but to save her two sisters from the fate she faced now.

Her compassion and her empathy for others were what people often remarked on. There was no one quite like Nikita. She didn't know it, but word of mouth had declared her a person of considerable renown.

The Sheriff stood as Nikita was brought before him. Nikita gave a small curtsy and dropped her head obediently as she had been trained. Still, she could not find it, even in her most generous heart, to respect a man with such a reputation. She wondered if her faith in God would be enough to sustain her, for it certainly seemed as though He had forgotten her.

Paul slid his lascivious eyes over the figure of the young woman before him. She was a virgin. His first. It was why he was willing to give her merchant father so much in return for her. Little did her father know that he was literally selling his daughter's flesh to a hideous monster.

"She is intact?" he asked his second-in-command, the ever-present Gisbourne.

"Aye, milord."

"You touched her yourself?" Paul said incredulously.

Gisbourne blinked at the Sheriff in disbelief. "I never touch women."

Paul nodded, his curiosity satisfied. He didn't want Nikita spoiled by anyone, even his chief accomplice, Gisbourne.

"Take her to my chamber. Bathe her and clothe her. We will dine early this eve."

Nikita had no time to digest the Sheriff's motives towards her, for she was whisked away by two burly guardsmen in heavy armor.

The Sheriff gave himself a gentle rub, thinking of the pleasure that Nikita would bring him tonight. Gisbourne noticed, and she sidled up to him, hoping he would need her soon. "Perhaps you should assuage your excess energies on me first. The girl will be too frightened to provide you with much until she is…broken in." Gisbourne's dark eyes lit up at the prospect of breaking in a new girl for the Sheriff.

"Perhaps you are right…" said the Sheriff, pushing back dinner plans a few hours.

Nikita was taken to a glorious bedchamber. Or it would have been glorious if it hadn't belonged to the infamous Sheriff. Attendants appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, stripping her clothing from her body, stepping back in awe of her truly pearlescent skin.

She was a beautiful woman. It was a pity she would be wasted on the Sheriff.

Nikita slid beneath the warm water. It felt delicious against her skin. Her lovely pale skin flushed from the heat of the water. She closed her eyes and tried to think of better days. For one thing, her younger sisters were not being housed here. That was excellent news. They would be staying at a relative's house here in Nottingham. Once the Sheriff made Nikita his wife, and their dowries were settled upon them, her sisters would be able to hold up their heads in public again.

She shooed away the attendants, who seemed to be under orders to disturb her as much as possible, and once more, Nikita slid beneath the water. Despite her innocence, Nikita was a sensual being, addicted to textures and color and music. She thought about the stranger she would never see again and sighed. Would that she was to give herself into his arms, instead of the Sheriff's.

Little did she know it but she was being watched. Having traveled to Nottingham under cover of darkness, Michael was inside the Sheriff's castle. Ostensibly to collect the tax that the Sheriff sought to send to Prince George. Of course, the Sheriff was always careful to line his own pockets before he deigned to fill the coffers of anyone else.

Michael knew his way around the castle well. It was a rundown place, for despite the money that the Sheriff spent on its upkeep, there was never enough. He had such…divertissements. Diversions.

He knew he was in the right place. This was the Sheriff's main bedchamber. But that…was definitely not the Sheriff.

He crept up behind the young woman, recognizing her instantly as the one he'd accosted on the road. Ah, well…she was the Sheriff's latest…que veut dire? Rafraichissement? Refreshment?

Too bad. She was exquisite. From head to toe. He could see her bare shoulders and he ached to touch her. He wanted her. Michael rarely wanted for female company, it was one of the assets associated with being a wanted man. When he was a wealthy lord, he never knew if a woman appreciated him or what he represented. Now that he was an outlaw, he knew what they appreciated most. And it wasn't his money. He had none.

He stared at her silently, watching her hands trace lazy patterns over her breasts. What was she thinking with her eyes closed so tightly? Was she—could she possibly be thinking about him?

A tiny sound escaped her. Michael was rapt. She was to die for. He would give his life for one night with her.

He knew he had not one altruistic bone in his body, but he pledged that the girl would have more pleasure under him than under the Sheriff. He knew her fate and though he could not stop what would happen to her, he could at least give her a little happiness.

The Sheriff's deflowering would be brutal. Grim. Evil. Michael could give her pleasure, if not the first time, certainly the second. But wait, he was getting ahead of himself.

He didn't even know the girl. What was to know? His heart cried out to be one with her, and he was not a great believer in superstition. Perhaps it was part of God's plan for him. To seal their fates together in this way.

He stepped behind the tub of water, where Nikita's fair hair shone brightly. He bent down and kissed the top of her head, and she opened her eyes, about to scream when she saw him. Then he covered her mouth with his, mainly in an effort to stop her from crying out, but when he felt her response, he gentled the kiss, earning a reward of sorts. She permitted his tongue entrance to her mouth.

She had never been kissed like this before. She knew, perhaps instinctively, that she would never be kissed like this again. Her wet hands broke free of the water and clung to him, exposing her breasts to his view. He glanced at her, but he knew he didn't dare touch her any further. Not here. He pushed her mouth apart, his fingers moving across her face softly, then more urgently. He drank heavily from her mouth, slowly, ever so slowly, sinking to his knees beside the tub.

He would take her here, damn her. And soon.

The water rippled alarmingly close to the edge of the tub as Michael pulled Nikita up and out of its depths. Her water-slicked body slid through his hands as he picked her up, his mouth still joined to hers. Never breaking off the kiss, Michael let her slide down till her bare feet hit the wooden floor. Grabbing a huge toweling cloth, he wrapped it around her body, to prevent her from taking a chill.

What he contemplated was very, very dangerous. But he could no more stop now than he could stop the moon from rising in the night skies. His lips caressed her mouth until Nikita was quite incapable of speech. Or should have been. If she'd been an ordinary woman. But she was not.

Nothing about Nikita was ordinary. Even the fact that she was allowing him such liberties with her body was not ordinary. Any other female would have screamed to high heaven by now, regardless of how much they enjoyed his advances. They would be worried about their reputations. Why wasn't she?

He looked at her, his green eyes dark with passion, wondering why he tried to defend a woman who wouldn't defend herself. "You don't fight me, girl."

"No," she whispered.

"You don't even try to run."

"No," she agreed, mesmerized by the vivid color of his eyes.

"Why?"

She blushed. No demure miss, Nikita owned her feelings, and she knew she was attracted to this daring stranger with the sensual hands and soul-drugging kisses.

"You want me?"

She looked at him then, her heart in her eyes. "Yes."

He gently pushed her toward the bed, knowing that if this was going to happen at all, it would have to happen now. She lay back amidst the comforters and quilts, her pale blonde hair spilling across the oversized pillows. He knelt on one knee on the edge of the bed, wondering if he dared remove his own clothing. He would never escape if he were caught. It would mean certain death.

It would be worth it.

He removed his black tunic and his leather boots. Bending over her lovely but as yet untouched body, Michael paused. "You know that this will render you unsuitable for marriage?"

"I am meant for the Sheriff of Nottingham. What could possibly make me unsuitable for marriage to him?"

Michael sank down on the bed. "He means to marry you?"

"Aye," she replied, her sapphire eyes welling up with tears. "I thought you knew my fate. You seem well acquainted with the goings-on here."

But he never marries them, Michael thought, his brain feverishly working at this piece of information. Perhaps he had a change of heart? No, the man was a scurvy villain. He had no heart.

He gave her a curious half-smile. "Well, you must be the woman to change his mind about marriage."

She shook her head. "You don't think he means to marry me at all, do you?" She blinked away the tears, anger replacing sadness.

Michael's eyes fell. She cupped his chin in her hands. "If I am to live out this drama that fate has dealt me, at least give me something magical to remember for the rest of my life…"

She reached up and kissed him, tears continuing to spill down her cheeks in a silvery trail. He closed his eyes and relented, his mouth softening under hers. "I would change your fate if I could, girl, but I can barely change my own."

Her hands closed over his. "I know. Please take me, and quickly, for I have no wish to be the Sheriff's virgin this night."

"Be mine then," he said with an intensity that surprised him.

He slid his leggings off, revealing muscular thighs borne of long hard hours of riding horseback. She gasped at the sight of him. She had never seen a man aroused before. But she was not afraid. Excitement rose in her throat and made her breasts heave with restless breaths.

He paused at the entrance to her body, perhaps hoping to spare her pain, but he soon realized that he must be swift. Prolonging the taking would only bring her more pain. He pierced the very heart of her, and she cried out softly. Her cry upset him. He didn't want to hurt her at all.

But he was unbearably aroused by the taut feel of her body around him. They fit together like hand in glove. Suddenly he felt the tension in her relax, and he slid deeper into her silken depths.

His weight far from uncomfortable to her, Nikita ran her hands along his bare arms. "You are truly the most beautiful man I have ever seen," she whispered.

"If I am, tis only because I am reflecting back your own beauty."

He kissed her neck, eventually burying his face in her hair. He moved within her, knowing he must be hurting her, but trying desperately not to think about that. When he spent himself inside her, he immediately moved to leave her, but she grasped his shoulders. "Stay."

"No!" he frowned at her, "I will get you with child."

She shook her head sadly. "That would not matter to me."

"It would matter to me, my sweet, sweet Nikita."

He took the toweling cloth and wiped at her body gently, noting the blood that decreed her virginal status was no more. He threw the cloth on the floor. Taking another cloth, he wet it in the tub water, now gone tepid. Slowly but surely, Michael bathed every inch of her lower body, removing all traces of their lovemaking.

"You are so kind to me. Why?" She beseeched him with her splendid eyes, holding him by the wrist.

His curious green eyes flickered back and forth in an effort to evade the straightforwardness of her gaze. She was only a female, but she saw what she wanted and took it like a man would. She was an enigma to him. She was a mystery. A mystery he wanted very much to explore.

"You are different."

"Yes."

"You are…special."

"Am I?"

"You could well be…" Michael's head dropped down to his chest, leaving the sentence unfinished.

"What?" She searched his beautiful eyes for answers. Answers she knew she must have.

He almost did not answer. Almost. He kissed her mouth, nudging it open with his tongue, tasting her again. He groaned against her mouth. "Oh, God, you are…"

"Are what?"

"A woman I can love."