I promised to finish it soon, didn't I?

I change the character PoV in my final chapter –at the same time as I give in to the temptation of trying my hand at writing present-tense. I actually wanted to make a noticeable shift in the narrative; whether the result is too jarring or fits the change of perspective is up to you to judge. I hope, in any case, that you find it entertaining.

Ratings note: I am fairly certain that I did not stray beyond what would be a mild R here; but if ffnet's T is much more strict than that, I suggest that anyone who wants to stick to the T stop reading at the asterisk line three quarters down – when I started writing the story I did not think of it straying into M-ish territory, but in the end could not help rolling with the plot ;)


The sun squanders its pale light onto the bleak landscape, a windswept expanse of plains and cliffs and the silvery grey sea beyond, and Guy watches impassively from the stable gate at Lamorna as the late October afternoon fades away. He has groomed his horse after the customary ride and chuckles as he hears the beast snorting contentedly in between mouthfuls of hay. He could have ordered the stable boy to do it – poorer as he is, Guy still owns a handful of servants – but he prefers the horse's company to that of the peasants, and for a while it has taken his mind away from being alone, from being relegated to a meagre scrap of land and a manor house the size of a barn, and from having nothing left in life to look forward to. Yet he has no regrets; he knows, for once, that he has done the right thing.

*

Perhaps it was preordained on the day, four years earlier, when he first set eyes on the melancholy and seemingly bashful daughter of the old sheriff and felt his breath catch as if he were on the verge of a precipice. He must have not noticed as he fell, only realising it when his heart was shattered on the rocks below.

She had captivated him with her beauty, her well-bred restraint and polished speech, but there was always something else that kept him riveted and curious, and drew him to seek her company though she showed plainly that she did not desire it – an undertone of irreverence, of recklessness, the sense of a wild creature barely kept in check by her father and by what society expected of her, but always restless, always free underneath the demure exterior. And Guy, never truly free since his parents had died, always constrained to do others' bidding, however loathsome, so as to secure a place in life, envied her that secret freedom and longed to get closer to her even as she pushed him away.

Two tumultuous years later, after they had played and betrayed and fought and saved each other, when it finally seemed that she had accepted him, when he had seen the perilous and infuriating extent of her freedom stare at him from beneath the Nightwatchman's mask, and had accepted her at that, when he had lulled himself into believing that her childish infatuation with Hood was over and had even dared hope that she was no longer indifferent to him, she broke his trust again. Granted, he was about to embark on a dastardly venture under Vasey's command. But he had come too far along with the sheriff's scheme to back out at the last moment, and at any rate it was not Marian's place to endanger herself even as he was pondering ways of getting rid of Vasey somewhere on that voyage. A ship at sea was a treacherous place, after all; who would know if it had been a momentary fit of dizzinesss or a well-placed shove that had sent a man overboard? But before any of that could come to pass, Marian had rushed in with her ill-conceived attack and had only succeeded in imprisoning both of them, herself overtly and Guy nominally free but guilty by association and increasingly under Vasey's suspicious eye. He was furious at her, but even in the wretched days of their journey to Portsmouth he kept watching out for a possibility of escape for them both, hoping against hope that she would stay with him if they could get away from Vasey.

Just then, she ran to Hood.

At first he was too angry to feel the pain; while part of him also resented himself for being so loathsome to Marian as to have driven her to escape, he channelled his anger into a renewed cold ambition, viciously imagining the successful coup they were soon to bring about, relishing the power and wealth that would soon be his. Until all that, too, was gone, smashed against the cliffs of the Algarve coast. He had hoped at least that Vasey would drown; after he made his own way to shore in the near-darkness, he was left in that delusion until dawn, only to be newly disappointed at hearing the man's growling and barking in the cold morning air. But it no longer mattered; with the grand plan in ruins and his ambitions crushed, he stopped caring altogether. He bore Vasey's taunts and insults with seeming indifference, too busy keeping himself from publicly falling apart.

For that was what it came to when feeling had returned; with Marian gone to join his enemy, the thread that had held him together and kept him going from one day to another had been severed, and his existence had dissolved into a sequence of meaningless events, lost in a haze of pain that refused to subside. He had told himself all sorts of things, that he hated her, that she was dead to him, that they had never been meant to be – until the next drunken bout would wrench the tears from his eyes and her name from his lips, and in his delirious fantasies he would see her leaving Hood and coming to him, stupid dreams that would be shattered the following morning. But in the end, the pain became his salvation, the only sensation that filled the void when he realised he had lost his onetime taste for violence and was too disgusted with himself to keep drinking. It became part of his life, part of his being, the only constant that he could rely on, until it no longer mattered what events had brought it about. It became so ubiquitous that he gradually stopped noticing and could almost go on living. By the time he was finally rid of Vasey a few months later, he had told himself that the time, full of promise and desperation, when Marian had ruled his world had long passed. He had locked away the memories, and was determined to relish the pride and prestige that came with his newly gained power and never again let himself give in to foolish emotion. Fate seemed to eye him benignly; he was able to hold on to his post upon Richard's return, and the duties of office had filled his days and left him mercifully exhausted every evening.

But the ghost of the woman refused to go away.

He had almost hoped to hear the news of her wedding. That would be the last line of the heartrending ballad, the coup-de-grace that would liberate him even as it brought a final stab of anguish. Then she would be well and truly lost, gone, hopefully away to France with Locksley in his pursuit of fresh ambition under Richard's wing. But Locksley had left alone, and Marian was still there, an aching wound that woke him up at night to a keen sense of heartbreak and longing.

It was the guilt, he decided, about the wrongs he had committed; and the memory of Marian would forever torment him unless he expiated his sins before her, the chief of which had been the destruction of Knighton Hall. So he had reminded King Richard of the need to restore the property to its rightful owner, and had reminded him again in a letter when it seemed as if the king had forgotten, and having at last obtained a written notice authorising the deed, he regained a measure of peace and composure thinking that then, at last, he would settle his accounts with Marian as much as he was able to. He was so confident of this blissful finality that he had looked forward to seeing Marian at the Council of Nobles, if only to prove to himself, once and for all, that he was immune to her.

It had failed miserably.

From the second he had laid eyes on her, he knew that the pain, and the desperate need of her, had never gone away. It was only his anger at seeing as she looked ready to calmly deploy her wily arts against him once more that had saved him from becoming a public spectacle and had turned his pain into an opportune façade of icy indifference. Yet his victory was short-lived and gave way to fresh despair as he fought in vain to chase her away from his thoughts after the meeting, reminding himself that the woman had made her choice in favour of Locksley and had never loved him. Still, he persevered in his duties, even though the solace offered by his secure position had by then become an empty notion. But he held on to the semblance of stability, trusting it to keep him sane.

Half a year later, it all came crashing down again.

His first thought upon hearing the news of Marian's imprisonment had been vindication, albeit with a heavy aftertaste of guilt. Serves her right, he had said to Allan, and for a few moments his anger at her deceitful schemes and crafty tactics felt entirely justified as she had apparently fallen into the trap laid by her own plotting. But after he had sent Allan away and through the endless hours of the sleepless night that followed, his anguish at the thought of Marian, helpless and alone, locked away in a dungeon awaiting punishment or death, gave way to sinking dread and ultimately to grim resolve. Whatever Marian had done had sufficed to put her behind bars, and it was probably only the beginning of her ordeal. He knew John to be a selfish, vindictive coward; with Marian's strongest supporters far away and her former outlaw friends lacking any political clout, the prince might not hesitate to use her to satisfy his lust, or to take out his frustration with Richard on her by having her tortured, or to have her killed to allay his fears. Even is Guy could stifle his pride enough to write to Richard, or Locksley, to appraise them of the danger she was in, the help would most likely arrive too late. And the time spent waiting for it would drive him insane.

He might try to resent Marian all he wanted; he might tell the entire world that he did not care about her; he even might have come close to believing it himself – but now that she was in danger, there was no choice to speak of and no room for hesitation. He might mean nothing to her, but he would still do whatever he could to save her. Even if it was saving her so that she could go back to Hood.

At first light the next day, he was ready to leave. He told Allan and the others the convenient story of taking the tax money to the Chief Justiciar, which was largely true except for the tiny detail of him sending the guards and the money on to London on their own when they had reached Watford, and continuing to Windsor instead, carrying two heavy sacks of gold coins in the saddlebags – all his savings from the past few years, meant to buy land and build a decent home in the Gisborne name someday – hoping that it would suffice to bribe and placate John into letting her go.

Even as he hoped for it, he knew John too well to suspect that it would not work. There is nothing sweeter to a coward than tormenting a weakened enemy that has been delivered under his control by circumstance. John, a coward par excellence, revelled in the chance to hurt and humiliate Guy, who had once frightened him with his proud, disdainful disobedience. Of course the money was not enough; after a barrage of offhand insults and a good deal of self-serving evil mirth that had put the late Vasey to shame, John had casually doubled the vast sum Guy had offered as the price of Marian's freedom. To Guy's plea that the money he had brought was all he had, John suggested, with malicious cheer, that Guy procure the rest from tax proceeds, or else sell his post as Sheriff to him for the remainder of the ransom. And so the bargain was struck. The money Guy had brought would serve to guarantee Marian's life and safety for a month, within which time Guy was to return with the rest or resign from his position, and the prince would free Marian upon receiving either the gold or the resignation letter.

It offered Guy an impossible choice. The idea of giving up his position was utterly humiliating. Still, using tax money to pay for Marian's ransom was an even surer way to lose his post, and to do so dishonourably. The Chief Justiciar had established such an iron grip over England's tax collection that the missing money, or an arbitrarily raised but undisclosed tax if Guy took that route, would be immediately discovered and would serve to condemn him to prison or the axe. When he left Windsor it was with a bitter sense of regret but with a heart less heavy, already knowing that he was about to give up his life's quest but hoping that it would save the woman who still meant the world to him, deny it as he might. The two days he spent in Nottingham were barely enough to pack up his things and set the shire's affairs in order before leaving again. He could not even retain Clifton, even if he had wanted to; giving up the manor was John's price for letting Marian keep Knighton. The prince's only concession had been to grant him this paltry estate in a God-forsaken corner of Cornwall in exchange for keeping the whole matter under wraps.

He saw her leave the Windsor courtyard the day he resigned. He had all but forgotten about his birthday that fell on that date. Unnoticed by her, he stood at a castle window, John leering by his side, and watched as the woman he loved looked upon the outside world for the first time in a month, and went away to freedom. She did not know it yet – John's elaborate cruelty had ensured that Marian would be told of her salvation at the last possible moment – but Guy could not help a wistful, tortured smile while his gaze followed her as far as he could see out of the castle gate, convinced that this was the last time he had set eyes on her. She would be off to France, for certain; even if she stayed in England, she would be halfway across the country from him, hundreds of miles away. When she found out about a new sheriff in Nottingham she might wonder but probably not enough to investigate, and the manner of his departure had ensured that such queries would remain unanswered. Then again, who was he deceiving? She would most likely rejoice.

It would be for the best. He did not want her to know what he had done; he had not done it to procure a reaction from her, but because he could not have lived with himself otherwise. If he loved her still it was his curse, his cross to bear. Her love he could not have; anything else she could offer in return - friendship, pity, gratitude - he did not need. Yet he had a reason to be grateful to Marian. The woman must have been destined to be his punishment and his redemption, the fire that had destroyed him but left the strongest part of him intact. In giving up all that he had striven for – power, position, wealth - and in making the final sacrifice of letting her go, he had attained the freedom that he had once so envied her.

*

Where to now, he wonders wistfully. He could stay in this place, get used to it, even learn to like it eventually, but the prospect of a long and empty life does not appeal to him. Better end it soon, while he is still young and vigorous and quick with his sword and can go in a blaze of glory. He will go to the Continent, or to the Holy Land – anywhere except France, for that is where Richard and Locksley are and that is where she will likely go, and he does not need the old heartbreak to permeate his last days. It could be tricky to avoid France, the principal battlefield, but with the human race ever intent on its own destruction, eventually he will have no difficulty finding a mercenary's job commanding a band of horsemen or the defences of a frontier castle, hopefully paying well enough to make the short remainder of his life enjoyable. He smiles mirthlessly at the prospect. It might not be what he once wanted, but it is certainly what he deserves.

- Guy? – the unmistakable voice cuts into his thoughts.

Great. It has finally happened. I am hallucinating the woman.

He turns and starts, for the ghost is so lifelike it could be real. Then she takes a step toward him, her skirts rustling as they sweep the grass in the untended courtyard, and he notices the circles under her eyes, her thinner frame, the dress she is wearing – one he has not seen, a shimmering greyish-blue silk, the colour of hazy morning sky – and it dawns on him, amid growing bewilderment, that she must be real.

It makes him angry. He does not want her to see him wearing his old leathers and living in this barn of a house, a wreck of a man who has nothing left to live for, no solace but the memory of one good deed.

- Marian, what are you doing here? – he has managed to infuse his voice with all the hostility he can muster, and it makes him proud before he realises how stupid it sounds.

Perhaps she decided to take a detour en route to Portsmouth – out of the way though it is – before she sails to France.

- Come to say goodbye? – he taunts as she hesitates, ignoring how his own voice catches in his throat.

- No, Guy, I just wanted to... see you, - she wants to say, but he interrupts her.

- You just wanted to gloat, - he concludes grimly, – behold the former Sheriff of Nottingham, paying penance for his sins at last, - he spreads his arms, his face a broken parody of a smile. Just as he thought he was free from pain and could put not only Marian but his whole life behind him, she has come to torment him again.

But her expression has none of the wide-eyed artifice he had so long mistaken for interest, none of the hovering half-smile he had imagined to be warm when it was little more than smug. She is deadly serious, and when she answers her voice is very quiet.

- I did not come to gloat. Guy, I know what you did, and I came to...

Again, it is too much to bear. Gratitude or pity, whichever it is, is equally unwelcome. He would have preferred gloating, given the choice.

- You came to thank me, then. I do not ask for your gratitude, Marian, - he clenches his hand into a tight fist, as if trying to strangle the pain so that his voice would stay cold and level, - whatever sort of payback you may have in mind, I do not need it, or your pity, for that matter, - he adds, mistaking her expression for pity, not seeing in his own distress that it is pure pain at the rejection he is meting out to her in harsh words.

She knows that she should have expected this; she told herself at the outset, remembering their previous meeting, that Guy's first reaction would most likely be this, even though his recent conduct where she was concerned would suggest a very different attitude. But as her journey neared its destination she became progressively more excited to a point where she swept her reservations aside and gave in to unfettered daydreaming. So now, after imagining a dozen perfect scenes of her flying into Guy's arms, she struggles not to show that the reality hurts. She is not about to give in; it would take a lot more than that to dissuade her; but she is taken aback at the reminder of how daunting her task is.

Guy takes her pause for acquiescence, thinking that he has finally seen through her game. Better end it now, and end it quickly, than go through the pointless anguish of polite phrases.

- I thank you for your effort of coming here, Marian, whatever brought you. But there is no need for you to spend any more time on this errand. You can spend the night in the house if you wish, - he adds hastily, realising belatedly how rude he must have sounded, sending her away at sunset, - but I am sure that your friends – and your husband, – he adds pointedly, even though she is not yet married to Hood to his knowledge, - are anxious to have you safely back with them. – He is angry at himself for the husband quip but he could not help it; he needs to see her reaction, though he has no idea why.

- I am not married, - she says icily, and he struggles not to smirk, but checks himself and rolls his eyes instead.

- You may not be officially married... – he begins, and is surprised at her vehemence as she cuts in.

- What is that supposed to mean?!

- You have made your choice, Lady Marian, - by the time he speaks he has mastered himself well enough to have chased away any inklings of hope that her denial of marriage may have provoked. – Married or not, you have cast your lot with Hoo – with Lord Locksley, - he corrects himself, and the title reminds him of his present humble state, - and it looks as if you have made a wise, provident choice after all, - he continues, forgetting that Marian had seemed happy to choose Hood even when he was a destitute outlaw. Somehow, when he remembers that, it only hurts more.

He is again surprised to see Marian infuriated.

- You pushed me to make it! – she flings the words at him, listening helplessly as her own voice betrays the bitterness. – You lied to me about the King when we were to marry; did you think I would never find out? – she never acknowledged how much the revelation had rankled, choosing instead to relish the giddy memory of her escape with Robin, but now the wound is out in the open.

And her outburst finally breaks through Guy's veneer of indifference.

- I did not know it was a falsehood! – he shouts before he forces his voice down. – Vasey told me of the King's return as if it were real and only admitted the truth of the impostor two weeks later, two days before the wedding date. And as soon as I found out I wanted to tell you! I came to Knighton Hall at once to speak to you, but you were too ill to listen, - he continues, forgetting in the heat of the moment that he was to blame for her illness. - And then your father told me that you were very excited about the wedding, - Guy laughs coldly, belatedly, at the deception, - and in my foolishness I thought that maybe you cared enough about me to want to marry me anyway. – He looks away, trying to hold on to the remnants of his composure, knowing that he has shown too much already, that he has laid himself bare to this ruthless woman again. He wonders grimly at how easily she has managed to drag him back to life after he has all but believed himself dead, and at how much it hurts to feel alive again, as if every fibre of his being were aching as it thawed from an icy grave.

- Maybe I would have wanted to, - she mutters, - if you had not been such a bully at the wedding.

- So you had to make a public mockery of me for being a bully? – he counters bitterly, the humiliation still making his cheeks burn. Mercifully, he has managed not to mention the whole broken heart business.

- Even if I was being harsh, - she says pointedly, and he can tell that she is about to kick him down again, - it does not justify burning my father's home.

- I gave it back to you! – he almost screams, his fury born in equal measure from the long months of self-loathing that followed the fire and from the frustration that nothing he could do would ever satisfy the woman. – As soon as I could, I gave you the estate and the money to rebuild. What do you want me to do, give it back to you again every month? It will never change the fact that I destroyed it in the first place. But if that is what you want to know me by, Marian, then why the hell did you come here?! – he never meantto say it like this, but the wretched past is tearing him apart.

She is instantly, profoundly ashamed of herself. Why did she have to bring up the matter of Knighton Hall? By now Guy has more than made up for his crime, and she is surprised at her own mention of it. It is not even about the house, she realises, and not about the false king; but about broken trust. Until it happened, until Guy had lured her into the wedding and until he had left her and her father homeless and helpless in his fit of fury, she had trusted him despite his cruelty and anger. True, he had frightened her once before when she had a narrow escape in the silver necklace incident; but she still thought, rightly or wrongly, that he would have relented on her even if she were exposed as Robin's accomplice – after all, there was ample evidence of that in the months that followed and she survived. Then again, that incident was a betrayal of trust on both sides, prompted by her exposing his plans to Robin. As was the wedding, with Marian breaking into Guy's house to rob him mere days before. It has always been about trust, and they have both been careless with it. Yet it is Guy who made amends in the end.

She does not want to fight him anymore; she wants desperately to trust him again – and even more desperately, she wants him to trust her. If so, she has made a rotten start. But as she turns away so that she can cope with her remorse without being scrutinised, she notices him moving as if to stop her, as if he were afraid that she will go away, and even though he quickly checks himself, it gives her resolve. Ignoring the tears stinging in her eyes and the searing pain in her throat, she turns back to face him and says, as steadily as she can, talking with her eyes closed, for the woman who has defeated a prince still lacks the courage to cry openly in this man's presence:

- Guy, I am sorry for what I said. It was wrong. - It is all wrong. – I did not come here to fight. For that matter, I did not come here to gloat either, or to pity you, or to thank you, though I could never thank you enough, - she is surprised when he does not interrupt her, - I came here because I really missed you...

She wants to say more, but as she stands there, her eyes squeezed shut and her voice faltering, she is suddenly aware of him standing next to her, his arms around her, and she stops fighting the tears as she buries her face in his chest.

She thinks that she is finally home again. The place does not matter, she thinks, it could be Nottingham, or Knighton, or anywhere. So long as she is next to this most unlikely of lovers, she is home.

Guy's world has just turned upside down, and even as he tells himself that this is a momentary lapse, an inexplicable delusion that has overcome him, or her, or both, and he expects it to shatter any moment, he still holds her in the gathering dusk, his lips pressed against the top of her head, and prays that whatever new deception this may be, it lasts just a little longer.

*

It could be hours later. It could be days, or lifetimes. Neither one wants the embrace to stop, but the sun has set and a cold breeze is starting from the sea, and Marian shivers in her thin dress and Guy tightens his arms around her for a moment before pulling away and motioning her indoors.

- Come inside, you are going to freeze out here.

- Wait, - she remembers, - there is something I need to show you.

She leads him to her carriage at the front of the manor. She asked the coachman to wait – after all, she had to consider the possibility that Guy could order her to leave altogether – now she can finally tell him to unharness the horses, and Guy tells the two guards that Hubert Walter has graciously sent along with her that they are free to get supper in the kitchen and spend the night at the servants' quarters before heading back to London. But before they leave, Marian asks them to help get something out of the carriage – her things, he assumes before seeing the men pull not one but two chests out, clearly straining under the weight of the bigger one. The chests are brought inside, the guards leave, and when they are alone in the dimly lit hall Marian produces a key from a chain around her neck and triumphantly opens the lid of the bigger chest. It is full of gold, and Guy stares at the glittering bounty, hoping to high heaven that Marian is not going to boast to him about having just robbed England's treasury.

The truth, if nowhere near as infuriating, is no less amazing.

- This is yours, - she says, and he cannot understand why she sounds so pleased until she continues. – This is my ransom money that you gave John. I got it back. Well, he has spent a few hundred, but the rest is all here.

- Why? – is all he can manage.

- He is a traitor and a thief who stole it from you. I was not going to let him keep it.

- I thought you robbed the rich to give to the poor, - he mutters, still incredulous.

- I always did what I thought was right in fighting injustice, - she argues. – and in this case, the injustice was John extorting this money from you. Now, it would make me a happy woman to see some of it going to the poor, - she continues with a mischievously wry smile, - but it is yours to dispose of as you wish.

Guy is too confused to thank her, though in her excitement she does not notice. He is still shocked, and grateful, but her words have delivered an unexpected sting that is poisoning his contentment at having his wealth restored to him. Fighting injustice, she said. That's what it is, all that this is to her. Settling scores. With John, and with him, making sure she owes him nothing and having a nice little conversation before she saunters off to France or wherever it is she is going away to. And he, the fool, has allowed himself to believe that she truly missed him!

- I am most profoundly grateful to you, Marian, - he finally says, and despite his polite language, or perhaps because of it, she suspects that something is wrong, though she cannot fathom what. – You needn't have gone to so much trouble...

- What are you talking about, Guy? – she puts a hand on his arm, and is at least glad that he does not shake it off. – if it were not for you I would not be here now. I would not be alive, or at least sane, to see this day. It was the least I could do.

- I did not expect anything in return, Marian, - he says, his voice quieter and softer than a moment before. - I may be a vile killer but I could not live in the knowledge that you were in mortal danger and do nothing about it... whatever else I may have done in this life.

- I know, - she replies in a half-whisper. I should have known you better, too, but heaven be my witness, you made it difficult. – I tried to get your Sheriff's post back as well, but even with the threat of the letter, there was too much else at stake for John to be able to unravel that arrangement.

- Never mind that, - he chuckles. – I have been Sheriff for a year and a half and just about had enough of presiding at courts and councils and accounting for taxes.

He realises as he says it that there is more truth in his words than he previously cared to admit. Vasey, with his mad thirst for wielding power and inflicting pain, was so in love with his post as to fan the flames of Guy's illusions that greater power was an end in itself. But something else in Marian's words belatedly gets his attention.

- Letter? What letter?

She smiles, and though it is the same sort of cunning smile that he had once eagerly awaited as a shadow of a promise and later resented as a false lure, now he surprisingly finds it amusing, almost infectious. This time, he guesses, she will let him in on the secret, and for once he guesses right.

She steps closer as she lowers her voice in a parody of a conspiracy.

- I will tell you all about it over supper, I swear. But I need a bath first.

And even though Guy curses himself for being a rotten host as he hears it, even though he is still suspicious about her intentions, and expects some sort of trouble to start soon, he smirks back.

*

- You did what?! – Guy's voice is somewhere between a shocked whisper and an outraged growl as he stares at Marian across the table, having just heard how she had to crawl along a narrow ledge to get into Taisson's chamber. – Marian, were you out of your mind? This was downright... – he searches for a polite way to say it.

- Stupid, - she finishes. – I know. - Besides, I never thought through my escape route.

- You must swear to never, ever even think of doing anything of the sort again, - he continues hotly, forgetting for the moment that most of her previous promises counted for nothing.

- I have had my fill of being reckless, Guy, - she replies apologetically. She cannot whole-heartedly promise to never do anything of the sort, especially not to think of doing it, but she resolves to think twice before doing anything rash.

Her reassurance is met with a sigh and a wry smile.

- I damn well hope so. Or else... someone... had better lock you up again.

He listens in silence as she tells him what followed; he knows that part anyway, that she killed John's courier and was sent to the dungeon for that ostensible reason. But he looks impressed at her quick thinking with flinging the scrolls into the fire and hiding the valuable ones in the bed canopy - and downright disgusted when he hears about the contents of the letters.

- What a snake, - he spits. –To think that he begged for Richard's mercy and received his pardon and still keeps plotting to kill him... I probably should not be talking of such things, but that is beyond the pale. His brother is irresponsible, but of the two of them, John is the truly revolting one. I did not see it until I met him... makes me hope that Richard has a long reign, - he smirks.

- I know, - Marian says again, - but I fear he is too reckless for that.

She has started to suspect it; Guy may have failed in one assassination attempt and she may have helped foil another, but those are just the two she knows about, and in all likelihood, by no means the only ones. Richard's arrogant recklessness that goes hand in hand with his bravery is well-known, and between John, Philippe Auguste, Leopold, and countless others he has either openly offended or disappointed in their ambitions, there will always be someone wanting him imprisoned or dead. One can only wish that he has the prudence to protect himself, but it may be a vain hope.

- Then we'd better pray that the throne goes to young Arthur and not to that weasel, - Guy mutters. – John should not be trusted to rule unless there are better men around to keep him in check.

- There may be better men around, - Marian counters, surprised at how they have managed to say more than a dozen words about politics without arguing. The truth is, she knows, that until now every political discussion stumbled upon the subject of Robin, after which there would be no reasoning, just flinging accusations back and forth. - If Hubert Walter were to retain a high office in John's reign, - she continues, - he would know everything about ruling England. And I have seen him with John; the prince may fume all he wants at Walter's opposition to him, but he fears and respects Walter for his intelligence, and I suspect he would love to have the man on his side.

- You saw them together? When? – Guy realises belatedly that he has only heard the part of Marian's adventures that got her into the dungeon.

- I have not finished my story, - she smiles and proceeds with the rest of her incredible tale, of stealing back the letters and getting the Chief Justiciar's ear in London and getting John to do her bidding back at Windsor, including the part about the dozen hides in Leicestershire that she bullied the prince into granting – and to crown it all, triumphantly produces the deed to Huncote.

Guy is impressed and makes no effort to hide it.

- Leaving aside your complete disregard for danger, - he shakes his head, - you are better at political negotiations than any man I have seen. Probably as good as the Chief Justiciar, though a lot less prudent, - he chuckles.

- I was not a Sheriff's daughter for nothing, - she smiles back.

- My lord, would you like some more... Oh, forgive me - the maid pokes her head in and retreats as she sees that neither her master nor the lady have touched their food yet.

They have forgotten about the supper, and now finally divert their attention to it. It is a simple meal, but one made better by fresh cider, and as the pitcher empties, the two find themselves forgetting about letters and kings and elaborate blackmail and discussing horses and harvests and even poetry instead, and Marian wonders how they never talked like this before. She wishes they would stay up all night, but she looks more tired than she feels, and when the maid comes back to take the plates away, Guy orders the girl to make the bed in the spare chamber where the fire has been lit.

- I hate to cut short such a pleasant evening, - he turns to Marian, - but I know you need rest after your journey.

She lets him lead her upstairs. He suddenly feels self-conscious next to her, graceful and sophisticated in her silks, despite having done his best to scrub himself down with cold water and throw on clean clothes while she was taking her bath. But he is still wearing nothing better than an old leather vest and tunic - he was about to put on his fancy jerkin but changed his mind as it reminded him of their last meeting, and now, he thinks, he looks like a peasant next to a princess.

They pause outside the door; Guy kisses her hand, and she blushes, not because of his gesture but because she catches herself longing for a different sort of kiss – and other things besides. Still, she calmly bids him good night, but the moment the maid is gone and the candle is extinguished, she sits up in bed and pounds the mattress with her fist, all traces of sleep gone from her mind. Who would have ever thought that between her and Guy, she would end up being the frustrated one?

*

The fire is almost out, and Guy, propped on the cushions piled up against the headboard, listens to the wind outside, despairing of getting any sleep. He should have known the moment Marian showed up that would be no more peace in his mind. He is tempted to go downstairs and make use of the wine barrel stowed in the kitchen to drink himself into oblivion, but knows that he will do no such thing as it will turn him into a miserable hungover mess to be pitied and despised by Marian in the morning.

If she is still here, that is.

She seemed happy enough to stay and happy enough to talk to him over supper, but he cannot get rid of the gnawing doubts. Her words about fighting injustice have made him suspect that restoring the monetary part of her ransom has been the true reason for her visit, and her avoidance of the subject of Robin of Locksley – not that Guy is complaining – makes him wonder if she is bitter at Robin for not having married her yet, or is merely sparing Guy's feelings by not telling him that everything is still perfect between them. Surely she would not have changed her mind about the brat. But now that he has seen her, heard her, held her, Guy cannot bear to think about letting her go yet again, and he laughs bitterly at himself for wishing that her chamber door would bolt on the outside so he could lock her up and go to sleep in the knowledge that she will still be there when he wakes up. No use; she will climb out of the window, and knock me out if I keep watch under it.

He hears a tap at the door and says "come in" before it occurs to him that the servants must be in bed by now. Moments later, he is staring dumbfounded at Marian, looking like a ghost in a white nightgown, pausing to let her eyes seek him out in the near darkness before closing the door and stepping inside. This cannot be happening; he wants to ask her if she is real, but the faculty of speech has completely left him.

Marian – she must be real, for the floorboards creak slightly under her feet as she steps closer – walks up to the side of the bed and sits sideways on the edge of the mattress, facing him. She does not say anything either, and he finally finds the strength to address her.

- You could not sleep either, I see.

He does not know what else to say, does not know if they are supposed to be playing by the rules, or if there are no more rules after all that has happened, or at least if the rules are suspended for now, while they are alone in the dark room. He tries to remind himself that she is another man's woman – not just another man's but Locksley's, and he once bitterly promised to himself to never touch her after she chose Locksley over him, but all that fades away when she is sitting so close that he can almost feel the warmth of her body.

- I need to tell you something, Guy, - her voice is a mere whisper. – I could not sleep unless I did.

This is only partly true; she has tossed and turned in bed for a while and tried staring out the window and even tried praying, only to become more and more awake, mostly because she was too painfully aware that Guy was in the room across the hall from her, seemingly quite pleased with life while she was desperate to be next to him. She scolded herself for her impatience but eventually decided that he must still distrust her, and that must be giving him pause, and remembered that she had never carried out her old intention, born ages ago when she came to look for him in vain in Nottingham, to apologise for her old lies. The fact that it gave her a pretext to come into Guy's chamber was an added benefit.

- What is it? – he asks in a broken voice.

This is it, he thinks, now she will tell me about her impending wedding, or her imminent voyage to join Locksley, or apologise about having misled me by having been too friendly this evening.

- Guy, I wanted to apologise...

- Don't, - he almost snaps, as his fears take shape on her tongue. – I know what you are going to say, Marian, and you need not say it. You are going to tell me that you are off to France, or else... – he cannot bring himself to enumerate the possibilities. – I know.

She throws him an indignant look before turning sharply away from him, her shrill retort seemingly addressed to the fireplace.

- I am not going to France! If I wanted to go to France I would damn well be there already! I am sitting here instead. What more can I do to prove that I am not going?

He suddenly understands that they both know exactly what "France" stands for, and that she is answering his unspoken question with this rebuke, and for a moment he is too stunned to react but can only listen as she continues, her voice low at first but getting more urgent as she goes on.

- I wanted to apologise for lying to you, Guy. All those times before I... ran away... while I lived in the castle, and before then, when I was the Nightwatchman and when I covered up for Robin and his men and helped them... I wanted to help them, and I had to stop Vasey, and most of the time it meant stopping you, and sometimes I... enjoyed it... as if it were a fight, or a contest... but most of the time I was ashamed of it. And it made me resent you then because I hated lying to you but I saw no choice, and I wished I could stop caring about you but I could not help... liking you... still. – These last three words are once again uttered at a near-whisper.

Her face is burning; she does not know how she has managed to blurt it out. She has said too much in her tumult of emotions, and knowing their luck in misreading each other, she will not be surprised if Guy violently pushes her away or coldly orders her to leave, and she sits slumped dejectedly on the edge of the bed wondering which it will be... until she feels his hands, feather-light, touch her shoulders and slip down her arms, pulling her back against his chest, and she sinks against him, her sigh of relief turning to a shudder of pleasure as he kisses her neck.

- I liked you too, - she hears him murmuring in her ear, - in case you did not notice.


She laughs and he keeps kissing her neck and licking at the inside of her ears as his hands slide to her breasts, the long nimble fingers squeezing them softly before focusing on her nipples, tracing little circles around the hardening points through the fabric until she shivers and gasps under his touch. She wants to reciprocate and turns toward him, but he gently pulls her hands away from his body as he continues kissing her, and at first she wants to insist on being a more active party, but soon she is too caught up in enjoying his attentions and gives in completely to his will.

This is much more than he has ever allowed himself with Marian, and somewhat less than Robin has allowed himself, but nothing either one had done before made her feel this way. True, Guy's kisses had left her dizzy and breathless and wanting more, but she always ended up extricating herself, afraid of his urgent passion and angry at herself for being so carried away; meanwhile with Robin, her feelings ran the range from mildly excited to intensely awkward, knowing that his caresses were supposed to arouse her and feeling inadequate because they did not. It was strange, given that they were in love and attached to each other, and she told herself that it was lack of habit and practice on her part – and yet she found herself reluctant to engage in such practice. But now, as she succumbs to this exquisite torture of intense pleasure dealt to her in tantalising little morsels and her mind is unable to focus on anything besides her lover's touch, she knows that practice has nothing to do with it. And with what ability to think is still left to her, she wonders at his slow, measured caresses, light and careful, the intensity belied only by his eyes burning into hers when she looks at him. Part of her apprehension before had always come from the fear that Guy would be forceful and selfish and downright brutal about possessing her, ravishing her body with little regard to what she might be feeling; and while she now knows Guy to be a man vastly different from the image she once held, she is still surprised at how gentle he is with her.

For a while he continues stroking her through the fabric, watching her greedily, hungrily, relishing the most minute details of her reaction. He was slightly hesitant at first but was moved to comfort her when he heard her distressed declaration of affection, yet as time goes on he cannot help his growing excitement. She might have been Hood's woman but he can still sense her inexperience, the surprise in her reaction, and is darkly delighted that Hood must have never made her feel like this, and is determined to erase his rival from her skin and from her mind with every careful, deliberate touch, before his own mind gives up thought and he, too, is lost in the sensation. Unable to resist the temptation to see her, he pulls up her nightgown and casts it aside, and she gasps in blissful abandon as his fingers, light as a whisper, play delicately on her bare skin, and she moans out loud as he starts tracing patterns on her body with his tongue. But when he dips down to her stomach she is seized with apprehension, hoping that he manages not to notice the scar in her side – and her flash of panic gives it away.

He stares at it, a pale crescent of puckered tissue, almost gone but still visible against the smooth white skin around it, and then he sits up, away from her. When she sees him, eyes closed, straight and still and palpably in pain, she sits up next to him and throws her arms around his neck, her lips brushing against the dented skin on his cheekbone where she cut him with the wedding ring, as she speaks.

- It is all right, - she whispers, - it is all in the past.

- I have committed too many wrongs, - his voice is quiet in resignation. – I can never make up for it. I can never be... good enough for you, - he cannot muster the strength to finish.

- Forget it, - she says insistently, desperately searching for words that would distract and dissuade him. – do not take all the blame yourself. I have been no angel either. We have both hurt each other, - she kisses the scar on his cheek, - and none of it matters so long as we can forgive each other, none of this matters. All that matters is that we are here. You may tease me all you want about France but the truth is, I want to stay with you. I will never forget... Robin... but I have spent many days lately without thinking about him once. And in these two years since I ran away from you I could not get you off my mind for a single day. Sometimes I was just angry at you, but one way or another I would keep thinking about you. And when I was back from Windsor and came to Nottingham hoping to see you, not knowing that you had saved me, and you were not there... it hurt so much that I knew for certain, at that moment, that I loved you. I may have loved you before but I definitely knew it then.

He stays still and quiet and she stays there holding him, and her heart breaks as her lips brush against his cheek again to find it wet, and she tastes salt on her tongue.

– I can hardly remember a time when I did not love you, - he says, and knows it to be true. In all the dreary months that they spent apart, when he told himself that he would never see her, that he ought to hate her, despise her, forget her, it was always true nonetheless. – I suppose I never stopped.

As she turns her face aside to brush away her own tears, Marian wonders distantly how an almost-reluctant confession of love from a murdering villain she twice rejected can make her the happiest creature alive.

*

He does not hold her back anymore and she wants to know what she can do for him - and is embarrassed by her relative inexperience. Surely, there were things she did at Robin's request; but she has no way of knowing if that was merely something Robin liked and Guy might be indifferent to or angered by, and for a while she just runs her hands over his body, the feel of smooth skin under her fingers making her spine tingle. Damn, I do need more practice, she sighs inwardly, if only to know tow to return the favours so generously given. Still, before long she is once again lost in her senses, her eyes closed even though she still feels him watching her and tries not to think of what exactly she must look like, naked and wanton, offering up and opening up her body for his caress. She is surprised, therefore, when a sharp stab of pain shoots up between her legs when he slides a finger inside her and makes her give out a sharp moan – but not nearly as surprised as he is.

Guy stops abruptly, his eyes wide, his mind trying to absorb the meaning.

- Marian, I am… sorry, - he manages, - I did not know, I thought that…

- What? – she snaps, though her peevishness might have something to do with the fact that he has stopped caressing her.

- I thought you… – he sounds less worried and almost relieved now. He does not dare finish the sentence, but both know what he meant to say.

– I told you I was not married, - she protests angrily, - and I was not going to do anything of this sort unless I was certain of the marriage taking place.

This is her final concession to Robin, explaining her virginity thus and not admitting that she actually had not wanted to be intimate with him badly enough. She is slightly embarrassed when she realises that her remark could be seen as her cornering Guy into marrying her, and hopes that he is not angry with her for trying to trick him again, but whatever can be made of his reaction, angry does not even remotely describe it.

He goes perfectly still, but she can feel his whole body trembling.

- Does that mean that… that you would… - he stops mid-sentence, out of breath.

– It means that if you are thinking of proposing marriage, Guy of Gisborne, my answer is yes.

He stays still for another instant but then takes her face in his hands and kisses her at last, and she kisses him back, and the pent-up longing on both sides is so powerful and desperate that she is afraid that her heart will stop. I never thought such passion were possible in this life, flashes through her mind.

- By the way, - she whispers when she can speak again, taking his wrist and placing his hand on the inside of her hip, - I did not tell you to stop.

She moans again as his hand slips back between her legs, and he asks her if it hurts and she says no even though in reality it feels somewhat uncomfortable, but the overwhelming pleasure is too great to stop her from wanting more; soon her blood turns to fire and her skin tingles and she opens her eyes wide and stares at him because the sensation is so intense that she must share it.

- This is… so good, - she gasps between fast, shallow breathing.

- It can be better, - he teases and flashes her a dangerous, wolfish smile, and before she can ask what he means he moves over and pulls up one of her legs at the knee and dips his head between her hips and she gasps, her own head tipping back while his tongue slides against her flesh, teasing and exploring, and then thrusts inside her, gently at first but getting more insistent as she moans and thrashes on the bed and wonders if she will spend the rest of her days after this in a lunatic asylum because her brain is about to melt away.

- Guy – I cannot – this is too good,– she manages before time stops and her heart skips a few beats and she convulses with a shuddering scream and lies perfectly still, unable to move or speak and barely able to breathe while Guy sits beside her on the bed, watching her.

When she finally moves, it is to put her hand on his arm and pull him up to her, and she turns to him, her eyes fixed upon his face, thinking that she has never seen him so radiantly happy. You will be the death of me yet, she thinks, still incredulous at the intensity of the feeling he is able to provoke in her – and knowing that she will never want to let him go again.

But she is also aware of his unselfishness, knowing that he let her take her pleasure while he himself was content to merely watch her reaction, and she is desperate for a way to drive him to the same impossible ecstasy; yet when she asks what he would like her to do, he shakes his head.

Still, she has made up her mind.

- Guy, – she calls out to him, - I… really want you to… I want to do it with you.

He meaning is clear, but Guy does not look convinced, and does nothing to take advantage of the offer.

- Marian, are you sure – about the marriage, I mean? – he asks instead, and she knows that he is still offering her a way out, and her throat aches and her eyes burn at the thought of the heartbreak he is offering to endure for her sake - and she grabs him and presses her mouth hard against his before whispering in a stranger's husky voice:

– I absolutely insist.

He starts kissing her again, and she feels as if she were falling through thin air, weightless and light-headed and excited; once again his attentions are slow and deliberate; however, his eyes are no longer narrow with smouldering hunger but shining with passion and naked tenderness. She does her best to hide her slight nervousness; she is determined to go through with it and hopes that she can handle the pain and not ruin the moment for both of them.

But Guy is too excited to notice – and too terrified. He is carried away by lust and the promise of bliss held by her beautiful body, but underneath it runs a quiet dread that Marian will change her mind and try to push him away, and his fear is multiplied tenfold at the thought that by now he may be unable to stop himself from taking her, thus shattering this blessed delirium with a single gesture of violence. He has been with many women, both noble and simple, but he never felt so nervous, either in his or the women's first experience. At the last moment he crumbles and desperately pleads with her not to resist and to try and relax instead, even though she is not resisting at all.

When the jolt of pain tears through her, she gasps and whimpers but quickly bites her lip and even tries to smile, and is quick to reassure Guy in response to his anxious query, and is vaguely surprised at how relieved he suddenly looks, but despite her reassurances he is excruciatingly slow and careful when he next moves inside her. In a while the pain starts wearing off but Marian does not resent it; it is a reminder of the significance of the moment. The pain makes it real and seals the pact between them with blood and tears and love in an ultimate act of trust, and even though she knows that they will probably quarrel more than once in the days ahead, she also knows that so long as they have this trust they can never hurt each other beyond hope. For a while she is too distracted by these revelations, but when her reverie finally fades, all that is left of the initial sharp sting is a nagging soreness, and Guy feels her sliding against him, trying to match his movement, and stops worrying and gives free rein to his passion, and while Marian cannot quite reach the ecstatic heights of pleasure she felt earlier, she is no less gratified to watch that sublime ecstasy blossom on her lover's face. When he slumps against her and rests his head on her shoulder and drifts off to sleep as her fingers run through his hair, Marian is struck by how sweet and gorgeous and contented and almost helpless he looks, and she feels tears roll down her cheeks as the love floods her heart and spills over.

*

They must have shifted in their sleep, for when she awakens her head is on Guy's chest, his arm around her shoulders, and as she looks up at him her hair tickles his skin and he wakes up. For a few moments he looks at her in silent incomprehension until it dawns on him that last night was not a delirious dream.

- You are real, - his words sound like a prayer. – And you are still here. – he smiles blissfully down at her.

She smiles back at him before pressing her lips against his skin.

- I am real, and after what you did last night you would have to chase me away to be rid of me, - she laughs as she stretches lazily against him and runs her hand down his body. – And then I would probably come back anyway.

- Impossible woman, - he smirks as he pulls her close. – Please tell me you locked the door when you came in...

***

fin