In the fleeting seconds before Marian kisses him again, Guy's last thought is one he knows he will never share: And to think that he had almost not gone through with it.
Guy had left Marian with the best of intentions, this is true. And yet with each step up the stairs to the dim chamber above, with each step away from the disorienting muddle that is and has always been Marian, his resolution to kill Vasey had become less and less steady. By the time he was standing behind the man, Guy no longer knew what he wanted—not now, not ever. He had stood there dumbly, fingers on his sword, tracing the ridges and valleys of its hilt as though they might hold the answer. For once, he was his own man. And he had no idea what to do.
In the end, it was Vasey who decided. No doubt put on edge by Guy's silence, the sheriff had whirled around and lunged at him, dagger drawn. Guy had swiftly stepped to the side, catching it along his waist instead of deep in his gut. Vasey had stumbled, then, and Guy had used the small window of time to prepare for the next attack. But instead of charging again like an irate bull, the sheriff had braced himself against the doorway and laughed. Laughed and laughed and laughed.
"So she finally got to you then, did she?" he had gasped when the mania passed. "I should have killed the little bitch years ago. A fall from a horse, a push from the castle wall . . . or, hell, lusty, murderous brigands on one of those forest paths she likes riding so much. It would have been the easiest kill in the world, especially once the old windbag was gone. But I always thought there were bigger threats than one two-faced leper with a hero complex. Foolish of me, really, all things considered. Bringing her here was a blunder, that's for sure," he said with a snort before rolling his head towards Guy with a sly smirk. "I hope you two are happy together. Just don't say that I didn't warn you when she's out in the woods swyving every archer with a few stolen coins in his pocket. I'll give you a tip: check her hair for leaves every now and then."
And then it was over. The sheriff had lunged at him again, and Guy, lost in a morass of rage and panic and guilt and suspicion, had no trouble running him through. It wasn't until he saw Vasey crumpled at his feet in a pool of blood that only seemed to grow and grow and grow that he began to shake. After pulling his sword free, he had gone to the nearest chair and collapsed. How was it possible for ten years of planning, ten years of gritting his teeth and pandering to one man's every foolish notion, to end in such a silly, stupid rush?
Guy sat with the weight of Vasey's dead stare upon him for what felt like eons, although the few beams of sunlight creeping in from between the latticed windows never moved. In his fall, the top of the sheriff's robe had parted, exposing the grizzled chest of a man much older than he seemed. Guy had stared at it, uncomprehending. Vasey's existence, his mere persistence in the face of so many plots and schemes to take him down, had always been proof that Guy was following the right course.
And that was when the full weight of what he had done hit him. As if on cue, the gash along his side sprung to life—a searing reminder of his betrayal that he could not outrun, not even as he stumbled down the stairs and came face to face with the woman who had brought it all about. The woman who was suddenly treating him like a hero now that he felt less like a hero than ever before.
He had wanted to stop thinking, needed to stop thinking. But when he had tried to lose himself in the touch of Marian's hands, the softness of her lips, in her, she had backed away. He had snapped, blurting out every dark suspicion, every niggling thought that had been lurking in the back of his mind since she ran away from him at the altar over a year before. He had wanted to trap her in her lies, the way she had once trapped him in his.
And it had worked. Even lost in a fog of guilt and astonishment, he had seen her become more and more agitated with every barb he let fly. It was like watching a castle wall slowly crumble, and he observed it with the same sort of awe until he realized that he may have finally succeeded in driving her away for good. By exposing her lies, he gave her no reason to stay. The only thing Guy could think in the few splintering seconds before Marian kissed him was that this was the end of everything. Everything.
But now that she kisses him—kisses him, still—that doesn't seem true at all; it feels like a beginning. His brain urges him to think, to try and decipher her game, but he can come up with no pragmatic solution to this particular puzzle. Vasey is already dead. The truth is on the table. There is nothing here demanding attention that she would rather divert. This is real. Real.
He clutches her closer, wrapping his arms around her back in an embrace. She makes a noise low in her throat, and for a second he worries that he has been too forceful. He relaxes, tries to retreat with one last gentle brush of his lips against hers, but she brings her hands up to cradle his face, pulling him back forward.
She lifts her heels to deepen the kiss. The silky, soft slide of her body against the bare expanse of his chest is almost more than he can take. Her shirt is in tatters from tending to his wound—the wound that he is fairly certain is bleeding once again, not that he cares. When she sinks back down once again, what is left of her blouse bunches up at her waist. He realizes with a start that he is touching bare skin, that the flat planes of his stomach are inches away from being in contact with hers. Inspired by a rush of desire, he moves his hand up, up, up. Up beneath the folds of cloth caught between them, and up over the gentle bump of her ribcage. His thumb brushes the bottom of her breast for one blissful second before he feels the palms of her hands pressing against his chest and pushing him away.
Apologize, he thinks as she stares at him, her cheeks burning a hot, bright red. It is what he has done in the past when he has gone too far, too fast. But then a part of him balks at falling back into old patterns so quickly. The part that also wonders if the reason she drew back so quickly was because he was encroaching on territory already explored by another
"I will not apologize," he says defiantly, and then winces at how much he sounds like a recalcitrant boy who has just been found with his hand on the gate of an empty animal pen.
She seems startled by his abrupt shift to the defensive. "Apologize? "You just . . . startled me, 'tis all." She is fidgeting, smoothing her clothing back in place and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. She refuses to meet his eyes. Her own zing around the room, finally alighting on his waist. It begins to throb as though she had reached out and poked it. "We need to do something about your side."
"It is nothing."
"You are bleeding. Still."
"I would rather continue what we were doing before," he says and steps forward. He watches her eyes widen—just a fraction, but it's there. He is beginning to realize how hard she works to conceal her reactions to him, both good and bad. Right now he cannot tell if she is tempted or disgusted. Her next words shed no light on the question.
"We need to think about the King," she says, ignoring his proximity. "We must get word to him that a plot has been foiled. There are other Black Knights, yes?"
"Yes."
"How many are here in the Holy Land?"
"That is not your concern."
"Not my concern?" Marian asks, nearly shouting. She brings a hand up to rub her temples before speaking again. "Listen to me, Guy. There is something that we need to be clear on if we are going to be . . . together."
"And what is that?" The question comes out cold and dark. He is still trying to recover from the sharp jab that pierced his heart when she struggled with that last word. Together.
"You must not shut me out of the political side of your life," she says heatedly. "I will not have you shove embroidery in my hands and tell me to go sit in the corner while you meet with powerful men behind heavy oaken doors. And right now I will not have you tell me to wait patiently as men converge to put in jeopardy all that I have worked so hard to protect!"
Her eyes glitter with righteous passion. She is no longer hiding anything from him, he realizes, and it is a dazzling, seductive thing. How is that he finds her infuriatingly headstrong and utterly fascinating all at once?
Marian mistakes his silence for refusal. "I will not be your trophy or your trinket," she says, temper flaring even higher.
"You should know by now that you are none of those things to me," he says solemnly. She raises an eyebrow in disbelief, and he is forced to amend. "You may have been once, but not now."
"Really? I would have thought that possessing me would be the perfect pin to jab in Robin's side."
That name. Again. His anger extinguishes the last spark of his previous elation. "Leave Hood out of our conversations from now on, Marian, or I swear…"
"You swear what?"
He has no answer to that, much to his shame. He looks away and crosses his arms over his chest. The light has shifted, although he still can't tell if it's been hours or minutes since he returned from upstairs. His sense of time has disappeared along with all of his others. When he turns back, Marian's pursed lips tell him that she is still waiting for an answer. "Any matters that I ever kept from you were only in the interest of your own safety. The political world is not a safe place for a woman."
She tosses her head in disdain. "Which one of us is hurt now?"
"Because of your scheme!"
Marian opens her mouth as if to say more, but is cut off by the clatter of hooves from outside and the hushed conversation of two men. "Who is that?" she asks.
"Vasey's conspirators," Guy says flatly. The time for reckoning has come. He walks to where his clothing lay and drags it back on, wincing as he draws it over his side. The undershirt is stiff with blood, but the leather will hide the evidence of his previous violence.
The men walk through the door before he has time to close it all the way. One has wrapped himself from head to toe in red silk, the other in clothes as dark as his own. The first man leans back and surveys the scene.
"Enjoying the prisoner, I see," he says, casting a knowing eye at Marian's torn clothing that causes her whole body to stiffen. Guy offers up a silent prayer that she will play along and not say anything rash.
"Why are you here?" he asks, walking over to his fallen sword and stooping to pick it up. Adopting what he hopes is a casual air, he wipes the bloody tip against his clothing. Luckily the men's attention is still turned toward Marian, who is now demurely pondering the ground as though too embarrassed to meet their eyes. Perfect. He repeats his question.
"Yes, sorry," the man in red says. "We are to go for the King now, are we not? That was the plan Vasey outlined for us. Is he upstairs?"
"Of course," Guy says, motioning for them to go before him. He plans to take them out on the stairway, where the narrowness will prevent them from grabbing their weapons and turning back to defend themselves. It is not foolproof, but it is the best he can come up with on short notice.
With one last lingering look at Marian, the men turn and make their way toward the staircase. Marian meets Guy's gaze over their shoulders, shakes her head, and mouths something indecipherable. He cocks his head to the side. Visibly frustrated, she tiptoes quietly to the corner and picks up an earthen jug that has been collecting dust in the corner. For one confused second, he finds himself wishing that she would wait to get a drink until after the immediate threat has been taken care of. By the time he figures out her plan, he can only watch, horrified, as she creeps up behind the man in red and smashes the jug down upon his head.
The man's companion twirls around at the sound of shattering clay, his drawn sword cutting a clean and deadly arc that Marian evades by only a few inches. With a curse, Guy charges forward and wraps an arm around the man's neck, spinning him toward the wall. He hits it hard; the crack his head makes when it connects echoes throughout the room. The man is dazed enough that Guy is able to easily slip forward and twist the sword from his hand. Taking him by the neck, Guy brings his own sword up and prepares to plunge it down into the smaller man's heart.
"Guy! Stop!"
He looks back over his shoulder to find Marian tearing down the pale green curtains and tossing them toward him.
"Don't kill him—knock him out! We will shackle one, and tie the other one up. Then we will take them to the King." She gives him an annoyed look that can only be a pale reflection of his own. "It is good to have proof when you cry treachery."
Guy doesn't answer, just turns toward the gasping man and knocks him unconscious with one forceful backhand. Marian looks vaguely surprised.
"That was easy. Usually it takes several tries."
"Several tries for what?" he asks as he bends over and drags the man closer to his companion.
Marian shakes her head. "Nothing. It was silly of me." She gestures to the gauzy curtains. "We need to make these into bindings."
"You could tear more strips from your…clothing."
Her neck tightens, and she looks at him as though he has sprouted a second head. A hideous one.
"It was a jest," he says, embarrassed.
"Oh." If he were ever hoping for her to say something more in the line of a pardon, it is in vain. She bends down and tries to tear a long strip with no success. "Get your claw," she says.
"My what?"
"Your blade. I dropped it over there."
After he retrieves it, they make short work of the curtains. Guy binds the feet and hands of the unconscious men, and make sure their gags are tight, while Marian affixes the shackles. When they are done, there comes a second where there is nothing left to do but look at each other. Marian offers him a brief smile, which soon turns rueful when she takes in the state of her clothing.
"This will not make my word account for much, I'm afraid," she says. "Is my trunk upstairs?" she asks.
At the mention of upstairs, Guy freezes. He does not want to think about upstairs ever again. He doesn't feel himself standing up and moving, but the next thing he knows he is looking at the wall.
"I will get it," she says softly from behind him before her soft tread moves away toward the stairs.
When she returns, carrying her familiar green dress with red wings at the shoulders, he watches her closely for signs of distress . . . a pale face, hands that tremble . . . but there is nothing. She shakes out the folded costume then turns to fix him with a hard look.
"I need to change," she says. Her eyes flick upward, and he is gratified to finally see a hint of unease. "I could not do so upstairs."
He grudgingly turns to face the wall and studies the intricate patterns weaving their way through a hanging tapestry to distract him from the shy rustle of a skirt, the soft wisp of fabric hitting the ground. "We need to bury him," he says when all the tapestries in the world fail to keep his mind where it should be.
"He does not deserve to be buried." Her voice is sharp and unforgiving.
"He deserves that much from me."
She says nothing. He hears the slide of clothing falling into place and then a muffled curse.
"Will you help me?" she asks, annoyed. "I am unable to reach the ties at the top. Clothing should not require two people." She crosses the room and presents him with her back, pulling her hair over one shoulder so he can see the small green laces that divide her upper back into pale diamonds of skin. When his knuckles accidentally brush against one in the course of tightening, she sucks in a sharp breath.
He feels a stab of anger. One second she kisses him passionately, the next she acts like his touch is leprous. "We will bury him, Marian," he insists again, tying the top sharply. She will accept this decision from him at least.
There is a pregnant pause. She turns around to face him, looking directly into his eyes. "Fine," she says gently. "We will bury him. But please, Guy, not now. We need to see the King. We need to make this right. Are you ready?"
Seeing the King will never make this right, and he will never be ready. There is a good chance that leaving this room will only confirm what he has suspected all along—that he has ruined his life's work for the illusion of happiness. And yet despite all of these thoughts, all of his dark predictions of ruin and abandonment, his heart latches onto one thing, one thing that causes him to tell Marian that yes, he is ready to go see a King he does not respect, to right a wrong that he never felt was wrong to begin with.
We need to make this right, she said. We.