A/N: I'm updating when I can, I'm sorry, I hope I can update sooner, but I can't promise. The story is writing itself when I can sit down and just spill. I'm sorry for errors but I do reread and check, but I, and my computer, are not perfect. Merry Christmas, and enjoy this little chapter of this whole bit of nonsense.

She waited and waited for him to come home. She had been working for over three hours, and even though it had almost killed her, she had done it. And that man was not going to have the last laugh… not this time. She had only had a few hours, but she knew she could do it. There was enough fibers and even though they cut her hands, she quickly got the hang of it. She spun at least two basketfuls of thread. She quickly covered the baskets with old cloths when she heard him approach the hut. She rushed to lie back down on the cot and pretended to be asleep.

'My hands!' she thought. ' He'll notice the new cuts on my hands!' she shoved one hand under her head and wrapped the other in the blanket and bit her cheeks in pain as he walked in the door. She peeked through the bottom of her eyelids to watch him. He had a cloth thrown over his bare back, and Marguerite tried to hide a smile as she watched him walk around the room. He was not anything to scoff at. The man must have lived a rough life. He not only had the muscles that accompany a hard life of labor, but he also had the scars to prove his struggles as well. As Marguerite was wondering to herself what kind of life this man must had led, she realized that James was staring at her. She tried to steady her breathing again, and she tried not to show any expression. James walked toward her, and she felt like she was either going to burst out in laughter from the deceit, or she would scream in fear for what he might do to her. He was not happy with her when he left and who knew how he felt now.

He leaned over and looked at her inches from her face. Marguerite again steadied her breathing as she caught that strange smell again…. Almost cinnamon, no … roses.. maybe thyme. He reached up and brushed the hair out of her face which had been tickling her tremendously. His hands were rough, with calluses on the tips. He had played his lute the night before they were married, but his shop was filled with carpentry tools, and a spinning wheel, and the man knew how to cook and make baskets for heaven's sake, so who knew what he could be doing all day, all Marguerite knew was that his hands were deliciously rough and at the same time tremendously gentle. It was all Marguerite could do to control herself and she almost decided to 'wake up' when….

"Marguerite," James whispered, "Marguerite, wake up, your hands are bleeding all over the blanket. Your basket wounds must be splitting open again." Marguerite slowly sat up and stared back at him. "Well, do you want me to bandage them or not?" He asked staring back. He reached for her hands and she pulled back.

"No, " she whispered. " I think I'll keep these scars." She smiled. He smiled back slowly.

"Why the sudden change?" he asked

"I think that I shall like to remember the time I almost did real work," she teased.

"Fine, have it your way," he grinned. "But don't nag me for all eternity and for the sake of all that is tormenting about how your precious perfect hands are mangled and twisted when we are old and gray." She was silent for a moment, and he looked up to face her. They both stared for a moment and each knew what the other was thinking.

'Old and gray? I never thought about the reality of living here that long…. With him…' Marguerite pondered this over and over before a knock on the door pulled them both from their thoughts. James answered the door to an elderly woman who was carrying heavy pots. James took the pottery from her and invited her in. Marguerite pulled a small chair from the corner and let her sit down. The woman looked tired and as if she were about to collapse at any moment. She took a few deep breaths before she began to explain herself.

"My name is Mary Acton. My daughter sells the pottery that I make in the market everyday. It is a long travel and too hard for a woman of my age to make. I know that you do not know me, but I am asking for your help as a fellow Englishman and as a neighbor of the forest."

"We would be happy to assist in any way we can, but I do not quite understand your problem." James repled.

"My daughter is a pretty girl of the age of twenty and seven. She is widowed herself, but is constantly persisted by a few 'suitors' who are not of the most respectable and gentlemanly lifestyles. She has been recently attacked by one while out to sell. She cannot go out there in her condition for at least a week, and the only source of money for us is in what we sell everyday at the market. We need someone to take our pottery into town and sell it for us. We would offer you part of the money we make everyday, and you may keep a piece that you choose for yourselves to keep, just please do not let us starve."

"It seems a terrible injustice has occurred, and I will do everything I can to remedy it. I myself must work to keep our living, but my wife would be happy to sell your pottery for you." Marguerite glared back at him. 'My wife? He makes it sound as if we are a perfectly normal couple. And since when do I go into a dangerous city to sell someone else's pottery? And why is he so willing to send me into a dangerous city?'

"Oh Thank you!" the woman cried as she turned to Marguerite. "Thank you, my dear. You have no idea of what your charity means to me!" Marguerite just took the woman's hand as she began to cry and James put an arm around the lady's shoulder.

"Now Mistress Acton, Marguerite will pick up the pottery tomorrow morning and bring it to market. She is quite honest and trustworthy, I assure you. Now how may we find your house?"

Marguerite lay on the floor as a chill ran through her body and she let out an audible shiver. "Why do you want me to sell her pottery in such a dangerous town?" she asked him in the darkness.

"Because I would hope that if something ever happened to my mother, someone would have enough mercy and compassion to help her." James said simply, not stirring in his cot.

"You have never told me of your mother, or your childhood for that matter." She questioned.

"You never asked, nor did I think it necessary for you to know." He sounded as if he wanted the conversation to end at that.

"Well, I'm asking now, who was your mother?" she shivered again.

"Maybe you should get up here. You're probably freezing. It's going to be a cold night." James avoided the question again.

"Oh, no you don't, I'm not letting a little chill stop me from keeping my resolutions to sleep separately from you." She laughed.

"Well, then I don't need to answer your question." He countered.

"So if I crawl up there with you, will you answer me?" she asked.

"I don't know, let's see." He smiled. Marguerite crawled onto the tiny cot and tried to keep as much space as possible between them, but it was practically useless.

"So, Master Buxton, who was your mother and where did you come from?" Marguerite asked.

"All these questions from someone who hates me is making me rather confused as to how I'm supposed to treat you. But I shall tell you of my childhood. My father was a carpenter, my mother sewed for the small village I grew up in. unfortunately my father was not a very kind man and treated my mother horribly. Someone eventually killed my father. No one knew who had done it, but no one really cared. It was a matter of time. He had many enemies, and not a single soul cried at his funeral, save me. I felt that I could have saved him somehow. At the time, I could not realize how evil a man he truly was, but it was not before long when my mother married again. He was a wonderful man who fell in love with my mother on one of his travels. She lives with him still and is quite happy. He took me in and became a second father to me. But they live quite a ways from here, and I do not see them as much as I would like." He trailed off.

"So, you never found out what happened to your father?" she asked.

"No, he most likely made a customer mad one too many times and it got him into trouble. Like I said, he was in no way a kind man."

"I'm sorry,"Marguerite said through silent tears. "I wish you had not had such a troubled childhood." She realized then how she missed her father and wanted desperately to just be home with him.

"It was not as bad as all that. Are you still freezing?" He asked when he heard her sniffle.

"Uh, yes, I guess I am ." she tried to hide her crying as she brushed away more tears. He reached out and put an arm around her.

"Well, I must say that I am happy you finally did bathe. I must say that what I said about that plan to murder me by stench was working better than I would admit. Marguerite, your sleeve is very wet. What's happened?"

"Oh, nothing, I just..um.. spilt.. some.." she stammerd. She needed to stay strong. She could not let him comfort her. She could not let him get to her. She needed to pull out now. She needed to stay strong. She still had a plan. She could still get out. She needed to pay revenge on this man. Why was he being nice now? He had happily taken her from her home, and was more than happy to watch her fall. He wanted one thing from her and she knew that she was able to hold that away from him. She started to pull away and get out of the cot.

"Marguerite, are you crying?" he asked pulling her back.

"No! Of course not. I just need to get back to sleep," 'Damn the man, why can he make me want to cry all the more?'

"Marguerite, you are to crying, what is wrong with you?" he asked again.

"Nothing, I'm just being a silly woman, remember. I'm just a stupid former princess with nothing more in my head than my own problems. So, please let me go back to sleep."

"Here," he said as he stood up. "Lay in the cot."

"Pardon me?"

"You heard me, " he said. " You need one night of decent sleep this week, so please take the cot and I will take the floor."

"I don't need charity from you. And according to who's standards are you calling a 'decent' night's sleep a night in a cot with one blanket in a freezing cold hut?" She spat.

"A poor peasant and his wife's standards. I'm sorry, Madame, but you are not the bloody queen of Prince Roxton. You were rejected from him because of the same bloody stubbornness that you are showing now!" he countered in a strained voice. Marguerite's eyes flashed at him and even in the darkness he knew that she had just taken the low blow with as much dignity as she could muster. James braced himself for another blow to the face, but instead, Marguerite sat on the cot and swung her legs over dramatically.

"Get in the bed," she said flatly. James just stared at her. "Well, we are married aren't we? It's not wrong for us to sleep in the same cot. So get in the damn bed." James slowly walked towards the side of the bed, still dumbstruck from the sudden change. He sat on the edge and Marguerite rolled over to face the wall. James laid down and turned his back to her. They lay there, sleeping and waking over and over through the night, their heads both spinning with thoughts, until morning. The sun broke over the horizon and Marguerite sat up. She looked tired and miserable. "Time to sell some pots," she sighed as she crawled out of bed.