Author's Note: Can I just say that I love being a part of this fandom? I feel like the Mashers are super supportive and lovely to one another and I so appreciate seeing that and being able to participate in it. So thanks. :) Also, I love this chapter, not gonna lie. I hope you do too!

Night Three or Angry and Manhandled

She is mad. Well, actually, that's a bit of an understatement. A lot of an understatement. She is bordering on furious, though he doesn't quite understand why exactly. It doesn't help that she won't say a word to him either. Which he can understand, to a certain extent. They both slept fitfully the night before, and he can tell that this much hard travel is wearing her down. He promises himself that he will take it easy on them tomorrow, thinking that they have created enough distance between themselves and Fontainebleau that it will be safe. But being travel weary doesn't quite explain the way she is behaving, has been behaving since they arrived at Gaillon.

Whenever he comes close to her, she pulls away. She won't make eye contact with him, won't let him look at her face for long enough to deduce what the possible issue might be. She moves with a calculated deliberateness, unpacking things from her bag with an unnecessary force that, he suspects, does not convey the depth of her emotions. He opts to stay out of her way, let her temper boil itself out. But after quietly sitting at the table for at least an hour, watching her silently with raised brows as she unpacks, freshens up, and begins rip through her hair with a brush in an attempt to tame the long tresses, he has had enough.

He crosses the room in three steps and plants himself in front of her. He takes her shoulder in one hand and blocks her easily with the other when she tries to hit him with her hairbrush. They are both a bit surprised by this and she freezes, locking her gaze with his. He can practically feel his skin searing with the heat of her gaze. When she attempts to hit him again, he grabs her wrist and reverses his hold on her so that her back is pressed against his chest, effectively pinning the offending arm to her side. He crosses his other arm across her chest, and she immobilized from the waist up.

"Unhand me! Unhand the Queen of Scotland this instant!" She is beyond outraged, and he is beyond caring.

"Not until her Grace drops the brush," he says through gritted teeth. "And keep your voice down."

She squirms, tries to stomp on his feet, which he narrowly avoids. He tightens his hold on her and lifts her from her feet with a squeeze of his arms, so that her feet are dangling in midair. She shrieks in indignation, earning her a quick shushing. She makes threats, both as his friend and as a queen, which he ignores. Her thrashing makes her hair fly about wildly and some of it ends up in his mouth, tangled in the stubble of his beard. After a while, she loses gumption and the brush clatters to the floor.

"There, was that so diff-"

She kicks him in the shin, hard, and he drops her with a curse. She falls unceremoniously to floor, a sprawling pile of dark brocade and cascading curls, while he hops on one foot, still cursing beneath his breath. She watches him silently, not moving from her position on the ground for a full minute before she bursts out laughing.

He's so taken aback by her sudden laughter that he freezes mid-hop and she laughs even harder. He stares at her, wide-eyed himself for once, unsure of what to do next. He has never before been in a situation similar to this one. Would it be prudent to be cheeky at this point and try to make her laugh more? Or would the better course of action be to back away slowly, as if she were a wild animal? He's about to opt for backing away, when she sees the expression on his face and doubles over, sprawling across the floor. Her laughter is so unexpected, so bright and so carefree that he begins to smile himself, in spite of his uncertainty.

He stoops next to her and waits for her laughter to ease, still painfully unsure of how he ought to be behaving. On the one hand, her laughter is intoxicating. On the other, he's beginning to wonder if she's somehow become hysterical. Eventually, her laughter slows to gasps and belabored breathes, but another glance at his face sets her off, until she's not even making sounds, just laying on the floor and making little gasping sounds. So, he lowers himself to the floor and waits again, watching her warily, though schooling his face to be expressionless, lest he accidentally start her up again. Little by little, she calms, until she can pull herself upright and meet his eyes without giggling.

"Would her Grace care to explain herself?" he asks as he props his chin up with one hand, the image of attentiveness. Her face becomes wreathed in smiles again.

"Your face was so funny! It was like you didn't know whether you should run or weep!"

He lets his face crack into a brief grin and arches an eyebrow. "That's not exactly what I was talking about. Your mood since we arrive here has been...mercurial, at best."

She sobers entirely, though her expression is not as ominous as before. "You said I was your wife."

"To the innkeeper?" He is incredulous, aghast, dumbfounded. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, but cannot form the words. It is her turn to silently watch him while he struggles to create a sentence. "You've been torturing me with your wrath for the last hour because of a lie I told the innkeeper?"

"Well, I'm not..."

"Have you read the book of Genesis?" he cries. He can't believe this. Mary is touted throughout the nation as being a staunch Catholic. Her Catholicism is the lynchpin to her claim on England. She, of all people, ought to understand. "Abraham and Sarah? Over and over he tells people she's his sister and she gets taken by the people he says it to. God has to save her from being taken advantage of…"

"But-"

"Did you see the men that were in that tavern downstairs?" She gives him a blank look. "If I had said you were my sister, or my companion, I would have had to sit guard outside your door all night to protect you. I was trying to protect you, Mary."

Realization begins to dawn on her face. He knows that she understands completely, but he cannot stop talking. It's as if he can create justification for the thrill of delight claiming her as his wife had given him, even though he knows he has no right to it.

"Well, that and two rooms are more memorable than one. If my father's men manage to trace us here, the innkeeper will have a harder time remembering the couple that paid for a single room than the traveling companions who needed two rooms. People's memories are always tied to their money."

She deflates a little, the haughtiness entirely gone from her face. "You're right, Bash. I'm so sorry. I should have known, should have trusted you."

She looks so forlorn that he cannot help but crawl closer to her, so that he can really look into her eyes. "What is it, Mary? Why did that make you so mad?" He never wants her to be mad at him ever again.

"It's silly," she whispers.

He raises an eyebrow, "I think we have made enough room for silliness tonight."

"It's just that...Well, I'm supposed to be a married woman now." She rises abruptly and moves away from him, turning her back to him. "And

when I heard you say that, I wanted it to be true. I wanted to be a wife so badly. And I can't…"

He sits back on his heels, feeling like an idiot for his insensitivity. Vaguely, he wonders if he really should be taking this much note that she hadn't necessarily said she wanted to be Francis' wife, that she had said she wanted being his wife to be true. The slip of tongue has his stomach doing somersaults. He forces himself to maintain control, changing the subject in such a way that he may never have to wonder about her feelings again.

"Do you regret this, Mary? Do you want me to take you back to Court? I can, I will. I know Francis would gladly spend the rest of his life, no matter how long, as your husband."

"No, no, of course not."

"Alright then." He rises, stoops to pick up her hairbrush and sets it on the table. "I'm going to have some food sent up here. Is there anything particular you'd like me to ask for?"

She shakes her head dumbly.

"Bash?" He pauses, looks over his shoulder. "I'm sorry for kicking you."

He smiles broadly, "And I'm sorry for manhandling you."

"I'm sorry I got so angry." She is serious, contrite.

"For what it's worth, I'm so sorry I ever gave you cause."