The eyes, hard as flint, that Robin lifted from his mother's brooch to Marian's face held none of the anguish he felt, but only seething anger.

"Let me guess," he snidely ventured. "Another present from Gisbourne?"

"Does it matter?"

"That depends. How grateful were you to receive it?"

"Grow up."

Much shifted uncomfortably back and forth on his feet, wishing he were miles away from their argument. All the same, he couldn't hide his curiosity over what Robin was holding in his hand.

"Robin, what is it?" he asked, cautiously. Hearing the tone in his master's voice when Robin answered, made Much wish he hadn't asked.

"It seems, Much, the gallant Sir Guy of Gisbourne is robbing my house again, to present his lady love here with gifts meant to win her into his arms."

Robin was truly too gallant himself to say what he was really thinking, substituting the less offensive "arms" for "bed."

But it didn't matter. Marian had stopped listening when he'd accused her of being Gisbourne's "lady love."

"Is it my fault he gives me gifts?" she asked, angry and defensive. "And how dare you call me his 'lady love?' "

He was battle seasoned enough to know it was better to stay on the offensive, and so, ignoring her second question, he answered her first by issuing a further challenge. "It's not, unless you encourage him by showing your pleasure accepting them."

He grew very jealous now, recalling one Christmas evening alone by the fireside in Knighton, when she'd very warmly shown him how much she had appreciated the present he'd given her. Robin wasn't thinking clearly enough now to remember it wasn't his present, but him that she found so nearly irrestible.

They had been younger then, careful of propriety and virtue, but he knew the fire smouldering within her. He'd felt it, tasted it, kindled its flames with his own heat, and he'd be damned before Gisbourne caught even a spark of it.

Marian, justifiably angry at his insinuations, snapped her hand forward to retrieve the brooch. When her fist closed around it and Robin's around hers, the pin on the brooch pierced his palm, drawing blood.

"Ow!"

"Master! Are you hurt?"

Marian scoffed off his pain, since he'd "won" by holding onto the brooch. Rolling her eyes, she mocked, "Five years in battle, and can't take a little pin prick. No wonder it's taking so long to liberate Jerusalem!"

At that, Much joined in sharing his master's indignation. "Long? Long? Unbelieveable! You have no idea, Marian, what we went through! I'll have you know, my master can take any pin prick you dare to inflict on him! That's right! If you'd seen what I'd seen...if you'd lived through the holy hell of battle with us, you wouldn't-"

"Much, shut up!"

Much stood staring at Robin, opening and shutting his mouth like a fish. "You! I was trying to help you! Unbelievable! That's it! You two, go ahead and enjoy your argument without my help! Oh, yes! I know when I'm not wanted! I can take the hint!"

With that, he started to storm away, then rushed back, pointing a finger in Robin's face. "And don't even think of dripping blood on your trousers, after I worked so hard washing them and stitching up the knee, because, if you do, well...you can just...just...you can clean the stain yourself!"

With a crisp nod of his head, he spun around, lost his balance, regained it, then sauntered proudly away, meaning for his words and his departure to sting.

Once he had gone, the awkward silence was broken by Marian slyly asking, "What did you wear, while Much was working on your trousers?"

Laughing, Robin answered, "I wrapped myself in one of those blankets you brought us. Kept getting it caught between my legs. Now I know why you prefer wearing pants!"

"Open your hand. I won't take your brooch. Let me see your 'war wound.' "

Snickering, Robin transferred the brooch to his other hand and opened his bleeding palm.

Leaning over to study it, Marian coolly joked, "I hope you didn't break the pin."

"The pin? What about my hand? Just like a woman, more concerned over the state of a trinket than a man."

"Well, it's a very pretty trinket." While carefully pouring water from his flask over his palm, she grew serious. "And a very special one to you, as well. Am I right?"

No longer laughing, he nodded.

Wrapping her linen handkerchief tightly around his hand, she told him, "I never ask Gisbourne to bring me gifts, Robin. I hate it that he's taken your things."

"I can do without things," he mentioned grimly. "It's my people, who matter."

Wondering whether he included her in that grouping, and longing to hear him admit it, she pursued what she was after by boldly adding, "Your people love you, Robin. He can never take them away. Believe me."

Their faces were so close, he could feel her breath on his cheek. His own breathing deepened, as the urge to kiss her overcame him. Slowly, he inched closer, his heart throbbing wildly in his chest when he noticed her head fall slowly back, her lips rising to meet his.

Just as their lips touched, they pulled quickly apart, for Allan a Dale had interrupted them, saying, "Sorry. Did you hear? There was fire earlier in Nottin'am. Nothin' major. But you oughta hear Will goin' on and on about how he wishes he was there to rebuild the house. Oh. And Much wants to know...is Marian stayin' for supper?"