CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

NOTES:

Before proceeding to this chapter, I'd like to address a couple of concerns raised by readers. To those who felt that we were somehow engaging in "Robin-bashing" or selling Robin short with his arranged political marriage to the Saladin's niece, I can only assure you and other readers that we certainly meant no such thing. Obviously, if you don't like this turn of the plot that's entirely up to you. However, we felt that this was consistent not only with Robin's loyalty as the King's man, but also with his dedication to peace in the Holy Land and goodwill toward the Saracens. Also, don't be in a hurry to conclude that this will be a bad thing for Robin. ;-)

Another question that has been raised with us privately is whether it's in character or plausible for Guy and Marian to engage in sexual intimacies when they aren't married. I think that on some level they think of themselves as being engaged, and it was not uncommon for betrothed couples to take a lot of liberties prior to the actual marriage. However... stay tuned for further developments is all I'll say.

Speaking of which: yes, this chapter does have more sexual content. Be forewarned.

~ LadyKate

(Also, see more notes at the end.)

Guy ate little at breakfast, scarcely tempted by the fine cheeses, the fruit and the fresh bread laid out on the table. Across from him, Marian sat next to the Queen's man Rochefort, who was being a damnably talkative pest that morning: he complimented her squire's costume, then launched into a tale of how, nearly two dozen years ago, he'd accompanied Queen Eleanor whilst she traveled in male attire. Marian listened politely and responded with the occasional forced smile. Whenever she shifted her eyes to Guy, it was only to shoot him the dirtiest of looks.

She was angry at him, of course … for backing away? For daring to touch her at all? How could she have let him…? A dim memory haunted him, Marian laying his hand on her scar when she came to him in the dungeon … or had it been a nightmare? To think that he'd allowed passion to cloud his mind so much as to forget what damage he had done; and then to see it—the pinkish ridge of the healed cut, the blotched skin around it, the twisted dip of the flesh… Good God, did she think that he didn't want her, that he had been repelled by her blemished body…? Was she revolted by him? He needed to speak to her, and dreaded it. It was badly done; and yet he had meant to do the right thing. In the half-light of the dining hall, he watched her hopelessly as she spoke to the Frenchman; watched her lovely profile, the tilt of her neck, the curve of her shoulder, and struggled to keep at bay the memory of her nakedness.

Marian turned to sip her wine and glanced at him again, and he lowered his eyes in shame.

"What's her problem, then?" muttered Allan, seated to Guy's left; here at Chateau Amboise he was one of their company, not a servant. Unperturbed by Guy's scowl, he reached for the grapes with a told-you-so shrug and a quirk of the eyebrows. As if that weren't bad enough, de Rochefort picked that particular moment to ask if Monsieur de Gisborne had been to France before. Guy curtly replied that he had lived here as a boy with his mother's relations, and rebuffed the Frenchman's attempt at further inquiries by disavowing any present familial ties with them. Whatever Rochefort thought of his manners, it was the least of his cares.

He tried to speak to Marian as they left the dining hall and headed down to the stables. "Not now," she said under her breath, speeding up her step.

Soon they were riding at a slow trot out of the castle gates, Rochefort in front and Guy behind him, with Marian, Rochefort's squire and Allan in tow; and all the while Guy could only think of what he would say to Marian and she to him. His recent hopes now mocked him. He had damned himself, at least where she was concerned; even if she could forgive him, the thing he had done would always be there between them, every time they touched…

Fool, he told himself. Only a few weeks ago he'd been fully reconciled, not happily but tolerably, to knowing that at best he could earn Marian's forgiveness and friendship—had been determined, in fact, not to delude his heart with false hope as he had done before. So much for that.

As they rode toward the bridge on the sun-sparkled Loire, passing the clusters of merchants' and tradesmen's stalls and the people bustling around them, Guy glanced over his shoulder to see Marian behind him. She tilted her head and gave him an uncertain look; wary, perhaps, but no longer bitter.

He looked ahead, and in that moment he knew what he had to do. Her friendship: perhaps that was not yet lost. He would be her friend, her loyal knight. It was the only way he could do right by her; and, by God, he would.

She had been angry, at herself and at Guy, and confused and embarrassed and angry again. She'd wanted to talk to him, or maybe scream at him. Sometimes, for good measure, she had wanted to hit Allan, who kept looking at her with amused sympathy … or was it reproach? It didn't matter; he knew nothing, and she didn't care what he suspected. She could only imagine what sort of crude jest he'd make if he knew. Not bein' funny, but next time don't take your shirt off. Marian's face flushed hot. There would be no next time, of course … and there wouldn't have been a last time if she'd had a mite of sense.

By the time they were on their way out of town, the castle rising behind them in the gleaming sunlight, her anger had ebbed away, at first leaving behind an odd emptiness. Then she felt utterly foolish; how could she have believed that they would be able to move past that—that Guy, in whose essential decency she had put such faith, would be able to look at the evidence of what he had done, and never flinch? God's mercy, in his own way he was no doubt trying to be honorable…

As they neared the bridge, Guy looked back at Marian. His eyes locked on hers, and a small shiver prickled at her arms; she remembered the way he had stared at her when he'd asked her not to cut her hair. She realized then, with an unsettling finality, that for all her doubts and lingering questions she had begun to think of Guy as a part of her future. It was almost as if they were survivors of the same storm, or the same war —

She saw it in her mind, white stone and white sand, and Guy advancing on her—Marian, get out of the way!—with his sword slashing at the air. She winced, her hands tightening on the reins. The same…? No. No, he had tried to kill her. Perhaps Eleanor had been right: she was too forgiving, or soft in the head, or both. Was it not enough that she had granted him her friendship, had argued for a second chance for him to live and redeem himself? To even think of having him in her bed was madness; and Guy of all people seemed to understand that where she had forgotten it.

They rode on, and Marian tried to distract herself by looking at the sunlit fields and hills, the grazing cattle, the distant villages; but her mind kept drifting back to other things, to sitting under the stars by an abandoned mill and watching Guy drink from an aleskin, to waking up from a nightmare with him at her bedside, holding her hands—to the way he had looked at her when kneeling at her feet in her bedchamber in Poitiers, the warmth of his hands on her bare thighs—to that night at the village priest's house when she told him she had forgiven him. You mustn't. The memory of those terrible moments in the ruined town near Acre had faded back into a ghost of itself, a shadow of a past that didn't feel truly hers, as if she only knew of it by hearsay.

Her resolve, too, faded and thinned and turned flimsy, and now when she thought of Guy's kisses, his arms around her, his gaze on her face, none of it felt wrong; not even her fancy of waking up next to him and seeing him smile.

She did not know what to do.

It was past noon when they stopped to rest and eat by the roadside. As they dismounted, she found herself looking at Guy and noticed that he no longer seemed anxious; he looked back at her with an odd, resigned calm, and something about his expression jolted her with a keen awareness of how different he was from the man he had been. Had she changed him? It wasn't that simple; he had changed because of her, because of his own remorse, his battered humanity on which she had refused to give up ... except once.

Marian, I will do whatever it takes to prove myself.

Maybe she was a fool; maybe it was only her weakness speaking. But she would not give up on him again. Not yet.

The day had passed and still he had not been able to speak to her alone.

Their stop for the night was at a manor near Blois belonging to some relation of Rochefort's. Here, Guy was once again an English knight traveling on personal business with his squire and manservant; and it was only at supper that the question of the bedding arrangements occurred to him. He shifted anxiously in his seat and cast a furtive look at Marian, seated between him and Rochefort. A few moments later, watching from the corner of his eye, he saw the Frenchman say something to her in a low voice and saw her whisper back. He scowled, not liking it.

After the meal, a lanky boy some twelve summers old was ordered to show Monsieur de Reymes and his squire to their chamber. As they followed down the dimly lit hallway, Marian said quietly, "I told Rochefort I was safe sharing a room with you."

Taken aback, Guy managed nothing better than "I see." They would be alone then. His clothes felt too warm; he rubbed at the bridge of his nose as if it could help collect his scattered thoughts.

The lad ushered them into the chamber, lit the candles and closed the shutters against the cooling night, and retreated with a muttered Bonne nuit, m'sieur. The door closed, and Guy and Marian were left facing each other.

Marian clasped her hands, unclasped them, tugged at her collar; her eyes slid around the room, plainly furnished and decorated only with a faded tapestry on one of the walls and a painted wooden statue of the Holy Virgin and child in a corner. Their bags were piled on top of a roughly hewn chest near the door—bags heavy with the hidden jewels of the English crown—and for a moment Guy bitterly wished he'd stayed far away from all kings and princes. Never mind that now. There was a bed, and a pallet on the floor obviously meant for the squire; he was reminded, jarringly, of the night they had spent in his childhood home, for all that this was a guest's room and not a servant's.

He had to talk to her.

Marian walked over to the lone chair in the room, near the foot of the bed, and sat and looked up at Guy. Her hair shimmered gold in the candlelight. He took a long breath.

"Marian—"

"Guy," she said at the same time, both of them stopping abruptly.

"Please hear me out," he said. "I know I've offended you…" She gave an impatient headshake, and his prepared speech began to fall apart in his head. "Marian, I know we can never have—never be as man and wife to one another, not now. I don't know how I could think that it could happen after—after everything that happened…" For Christ's sake, he was very near to babbling. He closed his eyes, making a desperate effort to put his mind in order. When he looked at Marian again, she was waiting. "If I cannot be your husband, then let me be your friend, your knight—your champion. If we can have that…"

She seemed to ponder this, gazing into the distance, then looked at him again. Her eyes shone softly.

"A chaste friendship," she said.

"A chaste—yes, I suppose."

She nodded pensively, watching him. "It will not work."

"What?"

Her smile was wry and a little rueful. "What we have isn't chaste."

Blood rushed to his face. "Is that what you…" He inhaled sharply, clenching his fists. "You think I am such a beast that I cannot control my passions." His eyes lingered on her mouth and he flinched away, fighting against the memory of her kisses, the warmth of her tongue between his lips. "It won't be easy; I know that. But if that must be my penance—"

"I am to be your punishment?" She gave a short laugh. "That is not very flattering."

"That's not what I meant," he said hotly.

She studied his face, and he thought, disconcertingly, that he saw the flicker of another smile. Then she said, "And if I take a husband? What of our friendship then?"

Guy swallowed. "Then… I don't know. It is… whatever you choose, I will accept it. You will always have my devotion."

"Guy, stop it." She gave him a frustrated look. "You make it sound as though you would be my dog more than my friend."

And there they were again: he could do nothing right, no matter how well he meant. He threw his head back and sighed.

"I don't know what you want."

She folded her hands in her lap and lowered her eyes, then looked up again, as if bracing herself.

"What if I want you to take off your clothes and get on the bed?"

He blinked at her dizzily, feeling the thumps of his heart.

"Have you not considered that I have passions of my own?" she continued, rising to her feet. Her eyes sparkled, and he wasn't sure if she was teasing or not; he was bewildered, terrified, aroused. Marian took a step toward him and he backed away, very near panic.

"You have already seen me undressed; it is only fair that you should go first now." This time she did smile, her lips twitching nervously, and Guy spun away toward the wall, not wanting her to see him turn crimson or to notice his physical state. His confused emotions spiked into bitterness.

"You are being very cruel, Marian. And—"

"And what?"

"Unwomanly," he said stiffly.

She made a sound, a chuckle or an exasperated huff. "Really, Guy; I'd have thought you would be used to my unwomanly conduct by now."

"This is different." Guy tilted his head up. "I think you have spent too much time around those brazen women in Poitiers."

"Mm. Perhaps I am a brazen woman." Her fingers grazed his arm and he nearly jumped. "The sort of woman who sings songs about having a naked man in her bed—"

"Marian, for God's sake…!" Bloody hell, was she trying to drive him mad?

After a moment she said, her voice hushed and no longer playful, "What about Poitiers, Guy? Was I a brazen woman when I lifted up my skirts and you—"

"Marian," he rasped, pleading. To listen to her talk about this, now—to remember it—

He heard her walk away and sit down again, the chair creaking slightly in the brief silence.

"Well?" she said.

Somewhat recovered from his earlier shock, he half-turned toward her. "What?"

"If you are my knight, must you not do as your lady commands?"

"This isn't a game," he ground out.

"I know that. Do you?" Suddenly she was very earnest, and Guy stared, uncomprehending, while she went on, "I think we have a chance; I am willing to fight for it."

"A chance at what? What do I have to offer you?"

He saw Marian's expression soften; yet her eyes were on his face again, as if searching for an answer.

Finally she said, "You are a good man, Guy."

He shook his head, unable, for the moment, to speak.

"Even if you're right, it's still—"

"It is enough for me." There was that near-smile again. "Do men not believe that a lady's love is a far greater prize if it's not too easily won? Perhaps it is the same with your goodness."

His chest grew tight with emotion; gratitude, and a strange bitterness, and love and impossible longing.

"You are mad."

"And you are afraid," Marian said; then, in a softer voice, "Do you think that I'm not?"

She fidgeted a little and brushed her hair off her forehead. She would have her way, of course. How far did she mean to go if they did—? His imagination conjured a too vivid image of Marian stroking him, grasping him with warm supple fingers, and a shudder of lust pierced him, wiping away all coherent thought. He tugged feverishly at the top buckle on his coat.

In a moment his coat and shirt were thrown on top of the bags, his boots kicked aside; and then Guy became aware of Marian's gaze on him, her eyes a little wide and gold-flecked from the candles. His face was blazing again, and he was tempted, absurdly, to turn his back to her. To make it worse, unlacing his breeches in this condition took an eternity of fumbling. Finally sliding the breeches down over his hips, he was struck by how utterly ridiculous he looked, with only the thin woolen braies for cover, and under Marian's blatant stare. He cringed, wishing he'd sat down on the bed before undressing and not left himself so exposed. Frustrated, he jerked at the strings of the braies and leaned over to push them off along with the breeches; and then there was no choice but to stand and face her.

Marian let out a small breath. After a moment her eyes traveled up to his face, and he was a bit relieved to see her flustered.

She got up and came closer. Guy swallowed. This was … nothing like he could have imagined.

She reached out and touched his chest, making him shiver. Her palm slid over bare skin, down to his stomach, down, down—he shut his eyes, steeled himself—and then she touched him there, the lightest brush of her fingers—

He gave a hoarse gasp, and she moved her hand back. When he opened his eyes, she tried to smile.

"I'm—" She stumbled, took a deep breath. "I'm glad we did not decide for a chaste friendship."

"Let me kiss you," he said raggedly.

She tilted forward to let him catch her lips, and he kissed her frantically, clung to her, still mindful not to press his body into hers for fear that he would be completely and disgracefully undone; at last he tore himself away, and she caught her breath and after a moment nodded awkwardly toward the bed.

Guy sat down and watched, riveted and apprehensive, while Marian took off her shirt and freed her breasts from the binding. Her skin was amber-tinted in the light, her right breast half-shadowed, her nipples dusky blooms. She raised her eyes to meet his and paused; undid her belt and dropped it to the floor, bent down and slowly removed her boots and then her breeches, leaving on only the braies. The thought of what would happen next nagged at him, chilled him. He could not look away, had no right—and even if he'd tried, his eyes would not move from that still-covered spot on her stomach.

With a brusque movement she untied the strings, and it was done. He drew in a shaky breath.

"Look at me, Guy," she said. "Look at me."

He flinched and dragged his eyes up to her face, and truly saw now that she was afraid. Brave, brave Marian. Gingerly she raised her hands—to cover her scar, Guy thought, but her hands flew higher and she touched her breasts, a gesture somehow at once so innocent and seductive that it was enough to stir him again. He exhaled the breath he'd been holding and let his eyes slide over her, all of her that was lovely; her face, flushed and transformed by her nakedness, her body's slender lines and curves—her belly, marked as it was and always, always beautiful—the patch of dark hair below. He imagined parting it with his finger, caressing—

Unnerved by his thoughts, he snapped his head up. Marian was watching him, with a strange attentive look that unnerved him more.

"What?"

"I like looking at you." There was a hushed wonderment in her voice, as if she were surprised to hear herself say it.

Guy could only stare at her, at a loss for words or for what to do next; until, finally, he moved back and stretched out on the covers and Marian lay down beside him. Then it all happened at once, his arms tight around her, her breasts pressed into his chest, skin to bare skin, their kisses hurried and hungry, her fingers digging into his back, his hands moving down to her bottom; their tangle grew more urgent, and by some shift of their limbs he found himself sliding between her thighs, against the wet warmth of her, caught up in the sensation, the thrill—the small noise she made—but it was only an instant before he felt her stiffen.

"Guy—" She pushed at his shoulder. "Guy, wait—we cannot risk—"

He grimaced; did she think he was trying—

"You are safe with me," he murmured; he cupped her face, covered it with quick grateful kisses—"you are safe with me"—and she was kissing him too and whispering, "I know—I know,"and it was all too overwhelming. He let go of her and rolled on his back, panting.

Next to him, Marian raised herself up on her elbow. Her gaze wandered over him, in a way that was gratifying and disturbing and even more arousing. Guy's own eyes drifted to her neck, her shoulder, the dip of her breast. He reached for her again but she held him back, her palm flat on his arm.

"Lie still."

She leaned down to kiss him, then moved her lips over his jaw and to the side of his neck. By the time she had reached his chest, he had screwed his eyes shut, his hands clutching at the bedcover.

"Marian—"

There was more, the pull of her mouth on his nipple, making small tendrils of heat race down under his skin—the wet flick of her tongue,the tiny sting of her teeth. He was shaking, unable to stop from bucking toward her, desperate for relief, equally desperate not to lose control, and amidst all this madness it was a while before he realized that Marian was now kissing his belly. He opened his eyes, watched the dark top of her head as she moved downward. Surely she wouldn't—

"Marian," he managed, "what—" Her tongue swept below his navel and his words were lost in a helpless moan.

Marian stopped and sat back; which, frustrating though it was, also gave him some respite.

"What's this?"

Alarmed, Guy lifted his head to see what she was talking about; her fingers brushed his thigh, tracing the scar the Sheriff had given him. He dropped his head back with a sigh.

"Vaisey," he said tightly. "When we fought, when—" When I failed to kill him. He wished she hadn't reminded him, not now; but at least the thought of it calmed his overexcitement.

She muttered, "Sorry"; then, before he even knew what she was doing, pushed his thighs apart. Startled, he tried to close them but Marian wouldn't let him. She knelt between his legs and dove down, and now her kisses were trailing up his thighs and his mind and senses were reeling—the warmth of her lips on his skin, the shock of what she was about to do—would she?—her fingers grazing along the inside of his thighs, then between them, stroking and cupping him—and then it was no longer her fingers but—

"What are you doing?" he cried out, lurching away from her in an undignified scramble.

She sat up, staring at him, bewildered and a little sheepish.

"I—I—" she stammered. "I thought that—you did this to me and—I thought you would like it if I—"

"Marian … it isn't the same! You are a lady!"

"Do you not like it?"

"I cannot ask such things of you."

"But you are not asking," Marian said softly.

Guy watched her lean toward him again, his mind a shambles, his heart pounding, horribly torn between wanting to stop her and wanting this—sweet heaven, the mere sight of her dipping her head was almost more than he could bear—still wrestling his own conscience but also knowing that he could not exactly pry her off him by force. If this is what she wants—

He closed his eyes and surrendered to her very tender mercies, letting himself bask in the pure pleasure of what she did to him. After only a few moments of this he knew he would not last much longer; and that was followed by the half-formed thought that Marian—of course—knew nothing of these matters, that she would be insulted, repulsed. His fists clenched harder on the bedcover, panic creeping in. It did nothing to help his self-control.

"Marian," he said hoarsely, trying to soften the edge of desperation in his voice. "Come up here." She paid no heed, and he made a valiant effort to rally himself. "Marian, wait—"

She stopped, at least. "What's wrong?"

He gritted his teeth, wanting release so badly that it hurt. "Just—come here," he blurted out, and clutched at her arm and pulled her up. Thankfully, Marian wasn't in a particularly stubborn mood. He clasped her to him, pressed frenzied kisses to her face; and then, too far gone to mind his courtesies, seized her hand and guided it downward.

He arched into her touch, choked out a broken sound of her name; the fever rose higher, flooding him, and this time he gave in to it completely. Marian. Marian. Already near-lost, his vision blurred and half-lidded, he saw her watching him, and suddenly he did not want to be seen so defenseless. Gasping, he looked away, fixed his eyes on the roundness of her breast, its flesh quivering from her movements; then turned his head and buried his face in Marian's neck and stayed there, stayed there. Marian.

It was a while before Guy stirred; the aftermath of pleasure lingered as a tingling in his skin, a faint thrum in his blood. Now, no longer driven by urgent need, he was left with the stark knowledge of what had just happened; and, for a moment, was acutely embarrassed by his own weakness and worried that he had offended Marian. He turned his head toward her with some trepidation. Her eyes were bright, and she wasn't quite smiling but her expression was warm and excited and a little anxious. He felt a rush of gratitude, joy at what she had willingly given him—a satisfaction almost like the pride of possession, for all that he could make no such claim.

Marian reached over and stroked his face, wiping off beads of sweat; and then he knew only that he loved her. Guy caught her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist, and gathered her in his arms and held her.

His lips brushing her hair, he murmured, "I think you're right."

"About what?"

"I am also glad that we did not decide for a chaste friendship."

Marian gave a small laugh. "Of course I am right."

Guy chuckled at that, and flipped her on her back and kissed her again with tender and deliberate care: her cheek, her slightly puffy lips, her chin, the soft skin underneath it. Her breaths grew shallow and quick, and when he slid lower to caress her breasts with his mouth he felt her move against him, felt her tremble. Her fingers tangled in his hair.

He lingered at her scar—could not, still, do otherwise—and she let him: let him graze his lips over the rough ridge of it, kiss it as if in penance. Yet only a moment later she shifted her hips and sighed, and pressed her palm against the top of his head; not forcefully but enough to let him know that she wanted him to move further down.

This time he did as his lady wished, and did not stop until she was very well pleased with him.

It was dark.

It was dark and she couldn't breathe, couldn't move, trapped in some small cramped space. Panic shot through her, churned, jabbed at her chest. I'm dead. No, it was worse, she was buried alive, they all thought she was dead and they'd buried her and left her here—she wanted to shout for help, shout to Djaq—Djaq was supposed to be there—but her voice died in her throat and sand was filling her mouth, choking her, crushing her as she tried to flail—

"Marian!"

Robin. Thank God; he would save her.

"Marian! Marian. You're safe. You're safe."

The blackness lifted. As Marian gulped for air, her terror ebbed and the nightmare with it; there was the room, drowned in shadows beyond the faint glow of a lone little candle, and the bed, and—Guy. Guy, leaning over her, his eyes glittering in the near-dark. She flinched in a moment's confusion, wisps of the dream still floating around the edges of her waking. This was no dream. She breathed in and out, steadying herself.

"You're safe," he said softly, his fingers brushing her cheek.

"I know," she murmured. "I—I haven't had these dreams in a long time … not since—not since we came to France…"

Marian trailed off, suddenly jolted by the fact that she was naked in bed with Guy. The things they had done… It came back to her, the first fever of their grappling, his reaction to her touch—her own rush of excitement and power—the feel of him, the hot hard feel of him under her hand, the surprising softness between his legs—the helpless look on his face that one could almost-easily mistake for agony... She shut her eyes. For all her bravery and would-be worldliness, she had not been prepared for this—for any of it—and had felt startled and a bit foolish when she realized why he'd been so insistent on getting her to move up.

She remembered lying nestled against Guy, her back pressed to his chest, his arms wrapped around her; it should have been too snug an embrace for her liking, but she had felt too drained and drowsy, and she had let him hold her as sleep pulled her in. And then… The dream. The nightmare—was that why it had come again, this dream of being trapped in a grave, unable to move—because Guy had been clutching her so tightly? Wasn't this a part of what she had feared all along—that if she let him too close he would leave her no room to breathe?

She looked up at Guy, a twinge of anxiety in her chest. Even in the shadows she could see the concern in his face, and right now it was perhaps more unsettling than comforting.

"Are you all right?"

Marian nodded. He sighed and drew her close, nuzzled her hair, her neck. Somehow his touch was calming; the tension began to melt away, and she found herself shifting her hips slightly, feeling the flush of familiar warmth. Guy's mouth trailed up to hers; but this time his kiss was gentle and undemanding, his tongue barely grazing her lips.

"Sleep," he whispered. "You need your rest; we leave early."

She kissed him back, slid her hand up to stroke the back of his neck, twining her fingers through his hair; rested her head on his shoulder while he held his lips to the top of her head. A trace of her earlier unease lingered yet. Sleep; she did need rest, or she'd be dozing off in the saddle all day.

She pressed a quick kiss to Guy's shoulder, then turned around and settled on her side, pulling up the covers. After a moment his arm draped around her again. Too close; he was holding her too close, it was too warm... She could move away, wriggle free —

"I've dreamed of this," he muttered into her hair.

After a moment she asked, in a small voice, "What?"

"Having you fall asleep with me."

Marian lay still, keenly aware of the soft brush of Guy's breath, the faint thumps of his heartbeat. She could not push him away—not now, not on this night … and besides, she knew that a part of her liked it: his solid presence next to her, the heat of his body. She shifted a little to get more comfortable, then gave Guy's arm a light squeeze and allowed herself to relax.

Sleep.

This time it was Trifels Castle, and King Richard was leaving with his train of knights and she had forgotten to ask for a pardon for Guy; she raced across a courtyard, trying to catch up with them, but her feet got tangled in her skirts and she would never make it. She shouted after the King but it was too late, the gates had slammed shut and she was still running and then someone was banging on the gate, again and again and —

Marian bolted awake to see daylight, and Guy stirring next to her, his messy jet-black hair, the wild flash of his eyes.

"M'sieur Godefroi!" called a muffled voice, followed by a knock on the door.

She sat up, rubbing groggily at her face. "We've slept late. Guy, come on—"

"M'sieur Godefroi!"

Guy shouted back to acknowledge that he was awake. The knocking stopped, footsteps receded. Marian threw off the covers and began to climb out of bed, but Guy's hands were on her waist and she was flipped around and pulled against him, her protest cut short by a kiss. She squirmed, her hands sliding up his back. When they broke apart she was flushed and aroused and Guy was catching his breath and watching her, his lips parted in a half-smile that was somehow both cocky and anxious.

"I wish we could stay longer," she said softly, surprising herself.

At breakfast, Marian felt stiff and tired; perhaps she hadn't rested enough after all. At least, to her relief, Guy had the wits not to look at her in ways wholly inappropriate to her station as his squire. Still, she could hardly wait to leave the table. She finished her food quickly and excused herself to take care of the horses.

Entering the stables, she saw peered into the half-darkness pierced by dusty shards of sun, and saw Allan. Busy brushing his horse, he glanced back at her as she came in.

"Good morning," she said briskly, not quite looking at him. She walked toward her horse and it nickered softly in greeting.

"Mornin'," Allan muttered.

Marian stroked the mare's warm muzzle, fed it a bit of apple she'd saved from the table, then set to brushing its dark mane. The silence, laced with the small noises of the stables and distant voices and barks from outside, began to grate. She could feel Allan's sideways looks, sense some unspoken question hanging. The conversation they'd had just before leaving Lincoln, on their way from the marketplace, came back to her now. Back then, Allan had been worried that she was playing some kind of game with Guy, and she had bristled at the accusation… He had walked in on them kissing at the inn in Poitiers. Did he suspect—?

"Look," Allan said reluctantly, "at the inn … reckon you an' Giz oughta get a room to yourselves now."

The blood rushed hotly to her face and pounded in her ears. Her hand with the brush stopped moving.

"What?" she choked out.

Allan cleared his throat. "Hey, it's none of my business; just don't want to be in the way."

Marian started brushing again, her arm stiff as a wood puppet's. "All right," she said, staring straight ahead. God's mercy, was it that obvious…? It occurred to her that Allan no doubt believed she had surrendered her maidenhead to Guy; but it wasn't as if she could disabuse him of that notion by explaining what they had done. She glanced at Allan, who was saddling his horse, then moved away to brush the mare's flank on the other side.

After a brief pause he asked, "You gonna marry him, then?"

Her cheeks were blazing again. "I thought it was none of your business…" She took a deep breath. "Yes. I am."

The mare tossed her head and snorted, as if laughing at her. Marian couldn't see Allan from where she was now but she thought she heard him chuckle.

"I s'pose you could do worse."

She gave an exasperated sniff; and then a memory came, unbidden. You could do worse: her father had said it, at Knighton Hall when she was annoyed by Guy's attentions. Yes, if I married the Sheriff, she had shot back.

"Yes—I could marry you," she snapped, only to cringe at once. Allan had tried to help her as best he could, and she couldn't exactly blame him for his meddling considering how often she'd dragged him into her plans … and how many of those plans had involved Guy. "I'm sorry," she said.

Allan chuckled again, unperturbed. "Not bein' funny, but only way I'd marry you'd be if it was either that or swing from a rope."

"Thanks," Marian said dryly, patting the mare's side and moving to tend to Guy's horse. "That's the only way you'd marry anyone, isn't?" she added on mischievous impulse, and they both laughed.

The crunch of someone's boots at the stable door made her flinch and turn; but it was only de Rochefort's squire, Giscard, who spoke no English. The three of them busied themselves with the horses for a while. Marian was checking the straps on Guy's saddle when Allan, loitering at her elbow, said under his breath, "Robin's not gonna like this, y'know."

She tugged hard at the straps. "Robin has a bride."

"I know. Just sayin', 'e's not going to like this." He shuffled his feet. "He's gonna be mad at me too, I bet; 'e asked me to look out for you."

Rattled, Marian spun toward him. "He did? Robin put me in charge."

Allan gave her an uncomfortable look. "Yeah, well, before we left… He—he said to make sure you were safe."

Marian lowered her head. There was an odd nagging hollowness inside her chest. Of course Robin had his reasons to be concerned … and suddenly she felt as if she'd let him down. Then again, it wasn't as if he had asked Allan to guard her chastity.

"I am safe," she said, turning away.

"When we are married," Guy said, "we will have a much larger bed."

The bed they shared was, in truth, barely large enough for a man his size, and most assuredly not meant for a man and his lady. Yet it would have been churlish to complain; for there he was, lying on his side with Marian pressed against him, both of them naked and sated, his arm around her, his hand idly stroking her breasts.

This was their third night together since the manor near Amboise: nights spent in cramped shabby rooms on uncomfortable beds, and utterly wonderful. Forbidden a true union for now, they had sought and found new ways to please each other; Marian, with her playful and teasing habits, had been quick to discover that delaying his satisfaction made it more intense, and Guy had returned the favor so well that afterward they both worried that someone might have heard her. And then, perhaps sweetest of all, there were moments like this, when she snuggled against him and they could touch in tender affection; when he could hold her and kiss her hair, and she could rest her head on his shoulder and gently run her palm over his chest. He had never quite realized just how much he had craved this, needed it—almost as if he hadn't, until now, been able to breathe fully.

He did not dare to think much of the future. This was the first time he had brought up the matter of their marriage; he was not sure what had possessed him to say it, and he almost immediately wished he had not. He felt Marian tense, and the small huff she gave sounded more nervous than pleased or even amused.

"Guy…"

He fought off a chill. "What?"

She sighed. "I don't know… Let's just wait until we are back and—things are settled."

"You're right," he murmured. He pressed his lips to the top of her head, and, relaxing again, Marian raised his hand to her mouth and kissed his palm. Her fingertips slid over his wrist, brushed the scarred skin where that damned tattoo used to be… God's mercy, their whole history could be written in scars. Chasing away that thought, he clutched her tighter, as if that could somehow ward off the threat of losing her—as if he could hold on to her forever.

There was a discreet rap on the door. At once alert, they both raised their heads. Who the hell—

A loud whisper hissed, "Giz! Open up!"

"Allan!" Marian untangled herself from Guy and sat up. "What does he want at this hour?"

"What do you want?" Guy snarled. Bloody hell, it was bad enough that Allan knew he was bedding Marian, but to have him walk in on them…

"C'mon, open up!"

Marian jumped off the bed and looked back at Guy, frowning. "Something's wrong."

"There'd better be something wrong or I'm going to kill him." Guy got up, lunged toward the other bed and tossed Marian's clothes to her. Cursing inwardly, he hopped into his breeches and headed toward the door once Marian was decent. Then it occurred to him that perhaps Allan was being followed. He picked up his sword and drew it out of the scabbard, and nodded quietly to Marian who took up her shortsword as well.

He unlatched the door and threw it open in a quick motion. The first thing he saw was the crossbow, pointed straight at his chest and held by a stocky stranger. There was no sign of Allan anywhere in the narrow hallway, dimly illuminated by candlelight that seemed to come from somewhere behind the man with the crossbow.

After the first shock, Guy felt a surge of rage. If he moved fast enough, he could grab—

Another figure stepped into view, with a candle in one hand and a sword in the other. Despite the candle's flame, Guy's vision went black for a moment, and it was as if his insides had turned to stone.

"Now, Gisborne," Vaisey said through the haze, his voice quiet and deadly, "be a good boy and put down that sword."

NOTES:

And you thought the cliffhanger at the end of Chapter 18 was evil! ;) I'll get the next chapter posted no later than Tuesday, and possibly even Monday.