"What on earth is going on with you?"
"What do you mean?" Lucille hurriedly defended as she placed two goblets on the supper table, one before her seat and the other in front of her father.
"You're usually the kind to be off with the fairies, but I don't think you've stopped smiling all day. What is this about?"
"Nothing."
"Oh come now, you're a terrible liar." He poked while scratching at his whiting stubble. Her lips were in a tug of war between grinning in giddiness and secrecy when the blonde poured the wine and took her seat. Lucille sat opposite her father at the table and glanced off the subject by grabbing a portion of bread from the basket between them. After twenty years, however, George was accustomed to wiggling information out of his daughter. With a small sniff he tugged at the collar of his tunic and stared Lucille down.
"If you must know, I am thinking of gifts to buy. Christmas day is this weekend."
"For who?"
"Well not you if you keep asking me questions."
"We have only been here for two months, who is getting you this excited? Please don't tell me it's some boy, Lucille, not again."
"What do you mean again?" She rested the spoon on her plate with a huff. The pout across her face gleamed in the orange light that radiated from the fireplace; the only thing that would make her seem more childish was if she folded her arms.
"The last time you told me you were in love," George reclined in his seat with a resistant groan from the oak chair, "it was because the merchant gave you one extra cabbage when you paid for two. What a token of love that was."
"Oh my – Dad, I was fifteen when that happened! Let it go!"
"Twenty-one is not much older, my dear. You're not old enough to know –"
"Anna is already married. And Beth. And Faye has a daughter with her husband; they're all my age."
"Faye is only married because she had that baby, don't think I forgot. Now Lucy –"
"Don't call me that," Lucille tapped her fingers on the pewter goblet with frustration, "I'm tired of being treated like a child."
"Alright, alright… I'm sorry."
"Besides, I never said I was in love."
"Well, are you?"
"Maybe." Lucille cocked her head to the side with a crooked smile and ate a piece of bread to smother down the thrill and emotion that attempted to leap out from her heart. A freezing wind pressed against the thin windows of their home in the silence, its chill hissing at the door jamb. She bit her lip before continuing. "He works for the army and has a nice bit of land out in Locksley. He's sweet, and he's funny, and so charming… we went to one of the holiday fairs yesterday afternoon and it was just so perfect."
"If he's so perfect, why isn't he married already?" The priest challenged immediately.
"You haven't even met him, don't be so hard, Dad. I feel like this might actually be something."
"I just want you to be careful, my dear. You're young, pretty, and forgive me for saying, very naïve. No matter what, you will always be my girl first." He gently laid a palm on the table and was instantly rewarded with a squeeze from Lucille. She quietly poured them both another glass of crimson wine with relief on her mind; the strain of bottling up her feelings for Guy was finally dissolving away. Even more importantly she had ended the conversation with her father on a positive note. Father George was by far the most important person in her life. Spiritually, he was her leader. Emotionally, he was her rock. Socially, he was her closest confidant. The pair had been inseparable since her mother died and left the five year old in her father's sole care. Yet it was so draining to be the only daughter of a priest. Eyes followed her every motion and whispers chased her every action; people always searched for dirt to smear on the pristine family of God, which was difficult enough to grow up in on its own. It didn't help any that George reacted by raising Lucille to be strictly structured, humble, and sheltered. She had been molded into a reserved and shy girl that harbored the frustrations and vanities of an adolescent for the sake of reputation. Pretty girls like her, after all, were to be seen and not heard. For now, at least, she was glad to know he was open to the idea of her budding relationship with Gisborne.
Across the county in the warm embrace of clinically cold castle walls, Guy was also preoccupied with the fancies of the holidays. As the Lord of Locksley he was entitled to quite a few gifts from around the village on Boxing Day. The peasants never gave up anything good enough for a man of his caliber, but the massage of his ego was a highlight of the winter season. This year, however, he could not help but to feel a tickling need to give as well as receive. Gisborne was a very generous man to people who had things he desired and Lucille was no exception. Her quietness was such an exhilarating change from the attitude of Maid Marian and the obnoxiousness of Annie. Whenever Guy got Lucille alone she could chat for hours, giggle excitedly, and smile without guard. It was as if her charm was a secret between them that only he got to indulge in and it drove him insane. Both his hormones and his mind craved the attention that she gave up without resistance. He knew without a trace of reservation that he had to have her for himself. That was precisely why he broke his own rule of thumb and intended on doting her with gifts for Christmas; once she saw how sustained his wealth was, she would have no choice but to be wooed. At least so he thought. With a smirk he ran his thumb over the burgundy silk bag that contained her gift and placed it on his desk alongside scattered scrolls and frayed writing feathers.
A sudden knock at the door drew Gisborne from recognizing his own exceptionalism. When he answered it, he was met with the lush and tender green leaves of mistletoe stuffed in his face. Guy flinched back and grabbed it away from Annie, who was giggling uncontrollably. He tossed it onto the mantle of his flickering fireplace and invited her to enter so that no others would see her presence. Once alone she was quick to snake her arms around the toweringly tall man in black and take a deep breath. He could feel the nervous sweat beading on the back of his neck as she pressed her four month pregnant belly to his; every nerve in him seemed to die and yet simultaneously come alive at her touch, but not in a good way. He needed to be rid of her.
"I thought I might bring you some Christmas cheer." Annie chirped once she finally unhooked herself from him. Her auburn hair was curled up into a bun and held with cheap golden looking pins.
"That's very thoughtful." He halfheartedly responded when she grabbed up the greenery again.
"You know women are getting kissed all over England under mistletoe; it's sweet."
"It's a child's game, Annie. Speaking of which, you should go home and get some rest for you and that baby."
"Oh, come on, Guy. It'll be fun." She smiled before pulling up close to him again. Gisborne shifted uncomfortably in his jacket; the artificial intimacy between them made his skin itch with an emotional disease. Every time she kissed him the depth of his self-loathing broke through the cap and sunk even lower. A certain promise is made to a woman, after all, in the passionate moments of a kiss, and he was fully aware that in their modern times it was nothing shy of a hint at marriage. What sort of promise did he unintentionally make in his bed to her then, he pondered with grotesque curiosity. There was no reason for her to believe, based on action, that he wouldn't whisk her off to be his wife. But Gisborne already knew the future, and it never included Annie. The Lady Gisborne would be much different, much softer, much more like Lucille Barker…
He pulled back stonily and held the shoulders of her brown cloak. Out of pity, and potentially even a speck of remorse, he placed a tender kiss on her forehead. Annie beamed at the scrap of affection she had developed an addiction to.
"Go home for the night."
"Alright, I will." She clasped up the neck of her hide lined cloak and took in one last look at the father of her growing infant. Her fantastical dream became interrupted when the shrill screams of the Sherriff came ringing from down the hall.
"Gisborne!" He cried with a tone of uselessness. Guy rolled his eyes and strode to the door out of habit more than thought, only turning to say good night to his mistress on a second thought.
"Go. And stay warm." He added before running off to solve the castle's mounting problems for his superior. Annie waved meekly as her love vanished like dispersing smoke once again; he was like a fluid and able to slip in or away at a moment's notice. She went to his desk and set down the bunch of fresh mistletoe sprigs as a small token for him, but not before noticing an intriguing bag. The silk of it was fine and no doubt expensive but her mind was far more enticed by the contents. Nimbly she undid the sealing tie and stretched open the pouch to pull out a fine comb that glinted in the light of the cozy fire. The richly hued amethysts and emeralds that were scattered across the handle were marvelous and boastful yet feminine, and it took only one second of their glint to take Annie's breath away from her. Guy had purchased such an exquisite gift for her it could not have a rival anywhere in the world. She knew that he was a hard man, a weathered man who had no skill at self-expression or sensitivity. That made his heartfelt gift to the mother of his child all the more magnificent.
Annie tucked the comb away and tied the bag back up with a broad grin on her face. By the end of the week it would be hers, and naturally, so would Guy's heart. It would be difficult to contain this excitement until the end of the holiday season, but surely she could find a way. With all of the stress of pregnancy it felt so wonderful to have the reassurance of Gisborne by her side. Soon Annie would have a jeweled comb in one hand and a baby in the other, and she couldn't imagine anything better.
