*** Hello, beautiful people! I sincerely apologize for the wait in this story. I have spent the past several weeks going across Europe (including the French countryside!) where I haven't had the time or internet to continue. I hope y'all enjoy the coming chapters!***

For the first time in weeks, uninterrupted sun rays shimmered through the leaves of the crisp trees in northern France. Oranges and yellows danced through the sky at sunrise, the scene painted like a peach that had been perfectly sliced in half. Late September was pulling the county out of summer rains and into the invigoratingly cool breezes of fall, and Beatrice couldn't have been happier. She was camped out in the yard, a mug of barley tea in hand, by the time Gisborne was coaxed out of a deep sleep. The shine of morning had darted into his chambers, piercing the poor quality curtains, and brought him to the window with a mutter of curses. The grogginess slid a filter in front of his eyes, but still he could see Beatrice's shape seated at the back of the house. She appeared as if drawn in to an oil painting of the early morning, the colors rich, the country becoming aroused for the day ahead. This curiosity magnetized him down the creaking steps and out into the yard with her. Guy's feet were bare and did not resonate a sound in the lush grass. As he approached Beatrice's tune floated to him; she was singing some song or another as her fingers rearranged leaves on the lawn.

"I didn't know you sang." He greeted her with a run of his fingers through her loose hair, startling Beatrice a bit.

"I didn't know you were up." She quickly replied. The brunette craned her neck up to see Gisborne towered behind her and noticed that the earliness still clung to the blues of his eyes.

"Nor I you."

"I just wanted to see the sky… gorgeous, isn't it? Not a hint of gray." Beatrice grinned, flashing it towards him.

"I suppose it is different."

"Different? Our entire week in France has been thick humidity and rain storm after rain storm. But this… it's so fresh. Finally it smells like lilacs instead of rain. And the sky is huge without all of those clouds in the way; this place must have been crafted by God's hand himself. Those trees placed specifically, the sun hung just on the edge…" She trailed off into intense focus on the horizon. Gisborne scrunched his eyebrows at her passion for something as trivial as sunrise. But he could not deny interest; she had mentioned things he hadn't even noticed. The breeze did, in fact, drift the scent of flowered fields and the Italian cypresses that dotted the plains were spires against the blazing star. "We can't waste today – what should we do?"

"It may be best to continue along to Brittany." He blankly replied. This was the fourth day since he had killed the home owner and not a soul had come to inquire or find him; still one could not be too cautious. As gritty as the word felt on his tongue, Guy knew they were now outlaws. They needed to lay low and keep a clean nose, which did not include killing for a residence.

"I quite like it here. Cute little cottage, isn't it?"

"This place is terrible," Guy scoffed, "The rooms are small, the stairs are falling apart… I hardly got the back door open to find you."

"I suppose you think we're going to get another castle like yours, eh?" She joked. His eyes fell a bit at her notion that his standards really did need to lower. But he was worth so much, so great, so invincible that he deserved far better than the shack Beatrice had stayed in at Nettlestone. Gisborne had clawed himself out of a muddy pit of hell and created his existence before, he could do it again. Like a phoenix he would rise once more.

"We can do better than this… besides, you may find it easier there. Several of the immigrants and dukes are English. We should be alright."

"If you think it's best, we shall go." Beatrice answered without hesitation. She stood and brushed her hand to his chest before heading back into the cottage. Guy followed her with an itch in his mind.

"What do you think?"

"About what?"

"Leaving," he clarified without taking his stare away from her mint colored eyes, "You're just going to do it because I told you to?"

"Sure," she shifted her weight with discomfort with the sensation that he was unpleased, "You know better than I do."

"But what's your opinion? What do you feel about it?"

"Um… I don't know. Nobody's ever asked me that before." Beatrice's expression misted over for a moment before she began flying through cupboards to prepare breakfast. Guy approached her and hovered a hand above the strands of hair that had tumbled from behind her ear; he hesitated and retreated before tucking it back in place.

"I want you to be happy." He choked out as the syllables climbed the mountain of his pride. She paused before chopping the apples to smile in his direction.

"I will always be happy with you; I just know it."

After their meal the English couple stuffed their saddlebags with their meager belongings, somehow managing to fit in extra foodstuffs as well. They proceeded further south, away from the salty Channel, and drifted along paths that were pressed through waving amber grasses and fields. Deep green cypresses accompanied them on the horizon, their height contrasting the otherwise wide and untapped countryside. Gisborne began to notice the scenery repeat as each mile looked the same. The vastness of the plains disturbed him in the cold cavity between his ribs where his heart resided. The iciness began to float away, though, as Beatrice tightened her wrap around him on the horse. Clouds of panic and anxiety dissipated; he realized that she was watching the same scenery, the identical patches of empty waving grass.

"Not much out here." He mentioned with a false casualty.

"Lovely, isn't it? So much room for potential." Was her answer. Guy smirked to himself; where he saw a void she described a canvas. Where there was darkness she sought light. Beatrice truly was a whole different creature than himself, her hide much thinner, her sensitive belly more exposed. But her will to find happiness soared over any capability he himself had. Gisborne scratched at the sharp scruff along his jaw while pondering this. Since when could a girl like her care for him? And since when did a kiss taste even sweeter than her name? Perhaps love was actually more than just holding hands. If that's what this was, he had to get more in his grasp. He was hungry for it, just as he was thirsty for power, just as he was craving wealth. Gisborne knew he must hoard this passion as well and stick it deep within his mind where no man, nor force, could steal it away.