Biting back her desire to lash out with a fierce, "Get off me," Marian guarded her tongue and instead politely demured, "Sir Guy, please release me. You're hurting my wrists."
Gisbourne lightened his grip, but still held on. Now that he had bared his soul, he demanded an answer. "What do you say, milady?" he pleaded. "Will you marry me?"
Her eyes, clear and cold and steady, gave him the answer he refused to accept before her lips delivered the blow. "I'm sorry, Sir Guy," she told him, in a voice matching the look in her eyes. "I told you once before. I'm not the marrying kind."
There were times when he thought he detected hatred beneath her cold, proper demeanor...hatred and scorn towards him. But then, at other times, she would thaw, and behave cautiously friendly, and kind. Very rarely, such as earlier today, she might even smile, sending a rush of heat through him that would gather in his groin and burn so fiercely, he'd forget his duty to the sheriff.
At this moment, she was elusive, guarding herself the way a father guards his maiden daughter's virginity. Gisbourne, refusing to lose any more dignity, had no other choice but to release her.
He was angry at her refusal, angrier still at himself for losing control and blurting out a proposal, before the time was right.
It was her fault he'd done it. She had made him lose control, with her smiles and her scent, and her incomparable body hidden beneath her modest gown, tempting him.
He wanted her body, dreamt at night of ravishing it. Yet it was important for him, too, that she remain pure and untouched, like a clear lake without a ripple to disturb its purity. He often found himself angry at her because he couldn't have her, yet mistrustful lest she give in to his desires and prove wanton, like other bitches.
Despite his conflicting emotions, he knew he still wanted her. And so, even though he was angry and stung that she'd dared refuse his noble offer, he controlled his temper. "I will not give up," he coldly warned her. "I will continue to give, until I break down your resistance."
"Sir Guy," Marian snapped back, as angry as he now, "do you think I am a colt, to be broken?"
"I think," he replied, his voice smooth and bitter, "you are a woman who needs a husband."
How he wanted to ride her like a colt, hard and fast and furious, and pound her, breaking her prideful spirit that her weak willed father ought to have curbed years ago. But he would wait, and let her hold onto her precious maidenhead and her unflinching pride, so she could come to him a pure, unawakened, intact bride.
But, if he was indeed to win her, he needed now to go. He couldn't answer for what he might say or do to her, if he stayed in her presence.
"Keep my gift," he told her, looking back over his shoulder on his way out her door. "Let it remind you of all I can provide for you. Goodday, milady."
It wasn't until his stallion's hoofbeats had thundered away that Marian remembered she had failed to state her case for Sarah and Jess.
She would still need to do so, masking her indignant anger with friendly persuasion. But first things first. Right now, she wanted to ride to the forest, and give Robin back his mother's brooch.