Chapter Twenty-five: Rude Awakening

The light but insistent banging on the door awakened Deirdre from a pleasant sleep. She could hear Martin whispering frantically through the crack by the door-latch.

"Deirdre, time to get up. The manor is waking. Deirdre?"

She rolled over, ignoring the voice, and snuggled up to Allan, who embraced her in his sleep. A moment later, she was shaking him in alarm, having suddenly realized the source of Martin's distress. "Allan, wake up!"

He moaned and smiled, talking in his sleep, "Not again Luv, I'm exhausted."

She shook him harder. "Allan, you have to go. The sun's nearly up and so's the manor!"

Allan sat up with a start as her words sank into his sleep-addled brain. He jumped up and threw on his clothes, pausing by the door to put on his boots, hopping up and down as he did so to try to keep his balance. He had his hand on the door, then suddenly he turned to rush back to the bed to give his wife a long, hard kiss before practically launching himself out the door and into the common room, where he received a slap on the back of the head from Martin.

"Ow, what was that for?" he asked grumpily, rubbing the back of his head.

"The pair of you are idiots and I can't get my hands on her right now," Martin replied, slapping Allan again as the younger man turned to go sit before the fire and make sure his clothes were in order.

"Ow!" Allan cried as Martin's hand met his skull one more time. He settled down in his seat and glowered up at the captain.

In the bedroom, Deirdre sighed and stretched contentedly. She and Allan had "comforted" each other a lot during the night, and she was finding that she very much enjoyed this aspect of married life. She decided that since she was awake, she might as well get up, and by the time the maid came to her door, Deirdre had already stoked the fire, picked up her clothes from the floor, washed up, and dressed. She sprinkled herbs on the bed to freshen the linen and keep the fleas down before wandering out to the common room to find her breakfast.

As she exited the bedroom, Martin and Allan rose to greet her, the one looking grim, the other cheerful. The three ate a light breakfast of bread and cheese and then Deirdre turned to Martin and Allan, "Go and gather the men please. We leave directly." As the two men left the manor, Deirdre spoke quietly to Thornton.

"Thornton, Milord Gisbourne had a bit too much wine last night. We should let him sleep in, yes?"

Thornton smiled at the lady, gratefully accepting the coin she pressed into his hand which would keep the village fed for another month. He knew that the previous night Lady Deirdre had sent him away despite her obvious nervousness around Sir Guy. Being afraid for her, Thornton had spied through the doorway to the servant's quarters; he had watched as she had slipped something into Sir Guy's wine, and had turned away, shaking his head, laughing lightly. This morning he knew exactly why Sir Guy was still sleeping and why the lady wanted to be gone before his lordship woke up.

"Thank you, My Lady. I will see to it that Sir Guy has a good breakfast before he leaves—it will make him feel better, no doubt."

Deirdre smiled back innocently at the butler before impulsively kissing him on the cheek.

"No doubt," she echoed, then was off to the stable. Thornton sighed wistfully—the lady was much like Lady Marian was and Sir Robin's mother had been. It was almost a shame since Sir Robin would not be returning anytime soon, that she seemed unable to abide Sir Guy. Locksley could use a lady with such a giving heart.

On the way back, Martin rode up beside Deirdre. He looked to his right and spoke across Alemah's neck to Allan. "Give us a moment alone, if you don't mind, A'Dale."

Allan looked at Martin, raising his left eyebrow questioningly, then relented, turning Samar's head to go back with the men. Martin turned in his saddle to let the men know that he and Lady Deirdre would be riding ahead, then the two nudged their mounts into a canter for a few seconds to give them a bit of distance.

As they slowed to a walk again, Deirdre looked at Martin expectantly. Martin sat back in his saddle, seemingly relaxed.

"You haven't told him yet, have you?"

Deirdre turned back to stare forward over Alemah's perked-up ears. "Told him what?"

"About the plan. About who you are and what you do."

"He knows some. He knows about Mum. He knows I give to poor people."

"Does he know how often you give to the poor? Or where the money comes from?"

She turned back to look at Martin. "No. But I will tell 'im, I swear!"

He glanced at her quickly.

"You'll not! You'll stop this foolishness now. No more thieving, even if it is for others less fortunate than you. You wanted to be married, so now it's time to grow up, to act like a married woman. Do what you can with your father's money, with your dowry. You've a quick mind, and I hate to admit it, but so does Allan; between the two of you, you can make that money grow. Besides, it's bad enough keeping secrets from the rest of your family, but you should never keep them from your husband. Stop now and you don't have to worry about it."

"I know I should stop Martin, but think how much good we could do with the sheriff's money too!"

"No, Deirdre. It's over. The plan stops now."

"But…"

"Not another word, do you hear me?"

One look at Martin's face and Deirdre subsided. She knew there was no use in fighting with Martin when he was in this sort of mood, and after last night, she decided to let him win this one, or at least to let him think he had. She frowned at Alemah's withers and turned the mare as she and Martin rode back to the others.

Allan rode up and looked at her quizzically. She smiled, but only told him part of the truth.

"Martin was angry about last night. He wanted to give me a tongue-lashing, that's all."

Deirdre felt horrible not telling Allan about the whole conversation, but that would mean telling him about the Thief, and she didn't know if she'd ever be ready to tell him about that. Allan was no do-gooder, but what she did was not exactly what a woman would do, traditionally, and her husband was a bit of a traditionalist in that department. Best to table things. For now.

Guy frowned up at the rafters in his bedroom. His head was pounding and the light hurt his eyes. The last thing he remembered was holding Deirdre in his arms, thinking that he had her where he wanted her and that once he took her to his bed—willing or not—she would have no choice but to marry him. He looked over at the pillow next to him, expecting to see Deirdre there, but found only emptiness.

He sat up, too quickly, as the pain hit him like a blacksmith's hammer, and stared uncomprehending at his clothed body. Something was very wrong. He turned to the night stand and drank down the water there, then called for Thornton, flinching at the volume of his own voice. When he asked the old man what had happened and listened to his explanation, Guy's feeling that something was wrong turned to certainty. He had meant to take Deirdre last night—he would not have drunk too much. No matter, his man would return from London any day now and she would be his, even if she had escaped him for the moment.