Guy could feel the firm thump as his heart beat against his ribs. The thickness of his hot blood seemed to crawl up the back of his neck in excitement as his hands searched for satisfaction along the naked curves of the castle servant, her soft chestnut hair splayed across the mattress as he acted out his temptations. He heard her whisper his name into his ear and squeezed his hands tighter on her hips.

Gisborne shot up from the bed in a cold sweat, his mind ringing for a few moments before realizing it was the entrapment of a dream. Momentarily he shut his eyes and clenched the sheets, knuckles white, brain aching. This was far more than a dream; it was a memory. A memory that infiltrated each drop of slumber he could find. Much like a spy, this awful fragment crept in through his window and slithered up to him each night. It thieved away his sleep and haunted any nap he tried to grab in the day. It had been three weeks since Annie told him she was pregnant with his child, and still he could find no peace. After sliding out of bed and dressing himself, Guy felt the weight of his choices come back.

It was as if he had been stolen away by the wind and hurled into the English Channel, the waves roaring up foam all around him, the tide slamming him into craggy rocks with each pulse of the water. He hated Annie. He hated the way she clung to him like cologne, the way she rambled about who knows what, the way she never shut up. Worst of all, he despised the way Annie was now molding his life. He had no forward direction, no plans for himself other than wild dreams, but who was she to take that away? If he had to marry her, or even worse, be anchored down by some bratty infant, what would happen to the speck of hope that he could become Sherriff? She had no right; this was never meant to be more than an outlet for his personal cravings.

The bitterness sunk into him like a cold morning presses into the soil and marked his attitude through the day of tax collections. Citizens were not surprised. If there was not one trigger to set off Gisborne another would not be too far away. He never divulged, of course, the seedlings that sprouted into wrath and hatred, but the people of Nottingham always felt the dark shade that it cast. Farmers had crowns ripped from their hands, women had homes overturned for valuables, children had their food whisked away. On this afternoon alone, Nottingham's man in leather harvested at least three hundred crowns and two dozen tax evaders. Chainmail guards swooped flawlessly around the villages and stole away each thing they could find. By sunset all that remained in peace was Kirklee's Abbey down by the river.

"Take the prisoners back to the castle," he ordered the wagon as their horses trotted over rocky paths, "Sturgess, Pearson, Stockham, come with me to the church. And bring that wood chest, will ya?" The silver skinned minions complied without a word. A large chunk of their parade broke off down a right fork in the road to reach the capital city, cash and condemned men making noise along the way. The four remaining officers tore down a road dotted with brush that curved around the fringe of Sherwood Forest as the horses panted to keep the pace. Within fifteen minutes the soldiers were storming the holy grounds. They all remembered the collections from just two weeks ago; the priest was holding back funds for some ridiculous orphanage and, without a warning, was stabbed through the neck by Gisborne's blade. He would not have any more patience this time than last.

Guy pushed open the sturdy wooden door to Kirklee's Abbey and was confronted with the thick cloud of incense. A light haze of it swirled in front of icons that boasted bright color and holy significance. The white marble floor, he noted, had been cleansed of the bloodshed from before. Gisborne snapped his head back up at the entrance of a deacon whose distraught face and rattled posture opposed the assuredness of the man in black.

"Sir Guy," he greeted with a cellophane smile, "I see you are here for the taxes."

"I am not a mood to be kept waiting."

"Ah. Of course, I shall find the record keeper, then."

"Do not waste my time again." Gisborne sourly bit when the Deacon departed the foyer. With impatience he folded his arms and nodded for his guards to follow the clergyman. He turned to glance around the lobby of the church in an interest to pass the time, noticing that only half of the candles were lit. The warm incense filled his lungs and soothed his skin even though Guy found himself far from his depth. He could not pinpoint the source of his disgust with the church, probably because there were many issues, and probably because he did not care to think about them and their fantasy. In his mind, this was the blind leading the blind and dumb. How could there be a God? After all, no one could be greater than Guy of Gisborne. This train of thought was broken when he was shoved from behind. Guy instinctually gripped the hilt of his dagger and spun around.

Behind him stood a woman wearing more shock and surprise than even he; in her hands were a jumbled pyramid of cranberry red candles that matched the others in the hall. Her green eyes were enlarged with panic as she took a deep breath and clutched the candles. Gisborne's muscles relaxed and soaked up the adrenaline that prepared him to fight. She apologetically looked to him, sweeps of strawberry blonde hair caught on her eyelashes and shielding half of her face.

"I am so sorry, sir. I'm sorry."

"S'alright." He replied with a low baritone voice, watching as the girl tried to shake the hair from her vision.

"You're a bit early for the service, but feel free to have a seat in the chapel."

"I'm not here for some service," he laughed with a darkness of disdain and disbelief at the notion, "It's business."

"Oh. Well then." She went off without a word for a few steps before stopping to rearrange the mountain of wax in her arms. Impatiently Gisborne looked to the door where the Deacon had vanished from and went over to her, taking a batch of candles from her hold.

"Bit much to carry?"

"Got to earn the pay, right?" She went to the other end of the hall and began lighting the red vigil candles from some of the others to decorate near a large painting of the Son of God. The wood seemed to be in the early stages of cracking at the base. "If you're here for business can I help you with anything?" She spun to see him with a warm look in her eyes and a kind smile. Gisborne did not know what to say. Why for any reason would someone grin at him? Sure, the church had to be polite, it was kind of their thing, but why so calm? Guy was a killer. He was here to scrape their baskets bare of money in the hall where only a fortnight ago he had slain a priest in cold blood. Yet for the first time he was being shown kindness and praise. He deserved it as a nobleman but rarely saw it as a henchman. His skin felt too small over the muscles of his body and his brain screeched to find reasoning.

"I came for your taxes and record log. Your Deacon is taking far longer than he ought to." Gisborne worked to swallow down an ember of rage in his words.

"Deacon John? Oh, you're going to be waiting forever, my friend. He walks like the little old man that he is," she giggled and set down the unlit candles, "I can show you where the tax book is if you like." The girl waved for him to follow and set down the same hall as his men had a moment ago. Uncomfortably he scratched his beard and complied. His longer legs caught up to her pace in no time. Walking in unison she stood to just above his shoulders, her posture perfect, her age no bigger than 23, he thought. She did not seem familiar; in his last visit here it seemed like every member of the parish came to scream and wail at the event. He would have seen her face.

"I don't remember seeing you here." He shortly stated.

"I've just come to Nottingham, actually. From Leeds."

"Ah."

"My father transferred to this parish a few weeks ago after they lost their priest," she casually added as Guy sucked in a sharp breath of guilt, "So I'm still getting to know everybody. You are?"

"Sir Guy of Gisborne." He answered with an air of vanity before extending a hand. She puckered her lips for a second at the title.

"I see; not a man I should have hit with candles. I'm Lucille Barker," The short blonde accepted the handshake, "I saw some guards, you're in the military here?"

"Command Sergeant Major of Nottingham." Gisborne's organs were swept aside by the boiling pride inside of himself; the list of his accomplishments and means were long and sure to impress someone like her. Lucille seemed innocent, young, and like the kind of girl that would respect how hard he worked. She raised her eyebrows at this knowledge. Here standing before her was the leader of the entire army for miles around – and she had made him carry candles. From around the corner came his troops guiding the elderly Deacon, a leather bound book in hand that measured about one foot on each side. Robotically Lieutenant Sturgess surrendered the book to Guy and led the other men out with a box of coins in tow.

"I suppose that's that, then." Lucille grinned at him again, a slight blush rushing to her as she watched the handsome soldier smile back.

"For now."

"Well, if you ever want to come by for another service or confession, you know where to find us."

"Trust me; you don't have enough time for my confession." Guy muttered with a chuckle before taking a step back towards the exit.

"Trust me; He does." She pointed upwards with a steely certainty as he departed. At the end of the hall, Guy turned to her and paused, his eyes flashing back and forth with a shyness he was unfamiliar with. His lips stumbled with the idea that his brain urged to express.

"Let me know the next time you need help with those candles."

"Will do, Command Sergeant Major, Sir." Lucille jokingly saluted back with a laugh. Gisborne left the Abbey and exited into the orange haze of sundown, his clear eyes focused on the stained glass lined along the church.

It felt good, so damn good, to make an impression on someone. Each soul in this county knew his actions, not him, and judged him accordingly. Even children were appalled by Guy, but a girl actually smiled at him today; genuinely smiled. How lovely she was with her sweet eyes and soft looking skin. Gisborne could only imagine how sweet the satisfaction of kissing her would be. Lucille would probably taste amazing, and she would be so fun to hold on to. He pondered the excitement of running a hand up her dress and feeling her weight in his bed. But this thought was soon interrupted by the darkness that was Annie and her pregnancy. These ideas are exactly what put him on this crumbling ground of uncertainty in the first place. He refused to marry Annie and her whining baby; he simply could not put up with her for one more minute, much less one more lifetime. But he couldn't create this trap again. Guy had to yank at the reins and halt his desires now so as not to make matters worse. That was exactly why he decided to never see Lucille Barker again.