Page 25 of The Wicked Prince

And… Given where she was standing… there was only one person who could be the artist of the final version. So had… Robin swallowed and moved for the next set of loose papers.

Had Prince John himself drawn every single wanted poster that decorated the kingdom?

The chill down her spine returned but Robin pressed on.

There were loose pieces of parchment not organized in a neat stack and Robin pulled them out one by one. They appeared to be John’s first attempts at capturing her face, given the similarity of angle and the scribbles over them indicating his displeasure and abandonment. There was a sketch of her standing in front of the open wardrobe in Ferren. Her with the hood pulled low, pointing her bow at the viewer. Her holding the gold arrow as she darted out the window.

A very familiar building, but this time the only figure was small and shadowy with no details. A drawing of the Locksley estate just starting to catch fire.

Robin dropped the sheet and clasped her hand over her mouth as the smell of smoke flooded her nose and vivid orange seared her eyes. For a moment all she could feel was the wind as she ran. Branches tore at her arms and her little feet slammed against the ground again and again but she couldn’t outrun the image forever burned into her the same way the estate had burned.

Once her racing heart slowed, she was able to remind herself that she was Robin Hood. And Robin Hood could handle anything, even her own memories. She looked back at the paper again. The name Roberta was scribbled on it, and her hand tightened, crinkling the paper, but she didn’t tear it. Yet. Off to the side under her name was a list of everything it seemed Prince John knew about her after discovering she was Roberta.

But he didn’t mention her bad leg. So… he didn’t know she had a bad leg.

Robin tossed the paper to the side and went for the sketchbooks. So far every single piece of paper in this trunk had one thing in common.

Robin opened the sketchbook and her own face greeted her, this time her hair tangled and dirt smudged on her cheeks as guards dragged her away. Then her rolling her eyes as she’d been sitting in King Richard’s study, chained to a chair. Robin’s pace increased, page after page was of her. When she came to the end of the sketchbook, the last one was of her, her arms around Little Jon as the giant of a man had embraced her during their goodbye. Robin’s stomach turned at the sight.

Robin grabbed another sketchbook and let out a sigh when she opened the page and her face wasn’t what greeted her.

It was just a drawing of a dress.

A wedding dress.

Robin blanched. It wasn’t the one she’d worn, but that was probably because on the page was written:The simple cut would flatter her, but despite the appeal it is not fit for a royal wedding. In a pinch, this could do.

Robin turned the pages and there were several more dresses. She held her breath as she could see through each iteration John get closer to the dress that she had walked down the aisle in. Past that were sketches of furniture, color schemes, sketches of normal dresses that she recognized from the wardrobe.

When Robin came across the page with the dress she was wearing at that moment, she flung the sketchbook as far away from her as possible. She reached for something else, surely that was the worst of it—

She started flipping through the next one. There had to be some indication of his plans. Robin froze again when she spotted a drawing of something Prince John shouldn’t have been able to capture.

Robin in the training grounds in the outfit she’d scrapped together from the skirt of her wedding dress, mid-swing with the quarterstaff.

Robin looked over at the chair beside the window with the curtain drawn back. Of course.

He’d been watching her.

Robin was going to be sick.

This… This was sick.

Chapter10

John’s head was pounding from hours of looking at accounts that he could not fathom a way to untangle without upsetting enough people that they could easily storm the castle and have his head. All he wanted was to pick up his charcoal and capture the way the candlelight had reflected in Robin’s eyes, more intense and determined that night at dinner than normal.

It was good to be king. Regent.

When he opened the door to his room, he barely got a step inside before he realized he was not going to have the opportunity.

He should have known that look in her eyes had been because she was up to something.

Robin was on the floor, her legs tucked under her skirts and surrounded by a mess of loose papers and open sketchbooks, all with her as the subject. She didn’t even look up as he walked in. She may not have even heard him. John suspected she was too busy trying not to throw up, given the expression on her face.

He wasn’t really sure why.

He’d been very clear about the fact that she’d held his focus for quite some time and he’d been determined to catch her. He also hadn’t drawn anything invasive or imaginary. Other than the fire at the Locksley estate, he had observed all of it with his own eyes.

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