"Do you mind, Sir, if I borrow your daughter a few hours?"
Marian stood perfectly still while the seamstress fitted the new crimson velvet gown she would wear to Gisbourne's party, enduring her present situation by casting her mind back upon pleasant memories of another party, the evening she had turned seventeen.
Her father, as Sheriff, had hosted a lovely dinner party for her in Nottingham Castle, and Marian had felt quite the grown up lady, mingling with the noble guests. Happily, Robin had been seated next to her at the table, and he had shown her every courtesy, making certain she wanted for nothing, and enlivening the conversation with clever but perfectly polite discourse.
"See that you bring her back to Knighton before Matins," Marian's father had insisted, indulgently.
"Robin, where are we going?" Marian had asked, holding tightly to her beloved, as his horse carried them westward, under a star lit sky.
"You'll know soon enough, Wren," he'd answered cockily, but with a note of adoration in his voice.
His voice! His handsome, golden voice, as warm and sensual as he was! How she'd missed hearing it, after he'd gone to war! How she still missed it, for she never had enough time with him now. Never, never enough time.
"Tell me, Robin," she'd insisted. "You know I don't like surprises!"
"Very well," he'd conceded, lovingly. "Seeing as it's such an auspicious occasion, you turning seventeen, the people of Locksley have decided to throw you their own birthday celebration, honoring their future mistress."
"Really?" Marian asked, touched. "So late?"
"Time counts for nothing, in the face of your loveliness," Robin told her, passionately.
Marian smiled and kissed his ear, but told him, "Dribble."
At that, Robin reined his horse and leapt to the ground, then lifted Marian down beside him.
"This isn't Locksley," Marian teased him.
"I know. But I can't kiss you the way I want to, there."
While the seamstress marked and measured her new gown, Marian trembled, remembering too well the feel and taste of his mouth, and the throbbing of their beating hearts, as they clung together under the stars.
"Locksley's lucky to have you as its lady, but not as lucky as I'll be, when we say our I dos," he had told her, breathlessly.
"When?" she asked him, aching deliciously for him.
"Not soon enough," he'd told her, grinning, yet passionate still.
"One more year until I'm eighteen," she realized.
"I hope it's true what they say, about Time flying. Your next birthday can't come soon enough."
Marian closed her eyes tightly as the seamstress baste stitched the sides of her gown, feeling his arms around her as they'd been that night, tasting the sweetness of his lips. She could smell his scent, horses and leather and new mown hay, clean and fresh and masculine. "Robin," she whispered, longingly. "You meant it that night, didn't you? Why, then, did you go?"
"Milady?" the seamstress asked. "Did you speak?"
"Forgive me. I was...I was only thinking out loud."
The party at Locksley was everything Marian could have wished for, had she imagined such a celebration. Everyone was up and outdoors, from Old Elspeth to little Maggie, the potter's tiny daughter. Bonfires lit up the night, and trestle tables groaned under the abundance of food and drink, so heavily laden that Marian feared they might collapse.
Musical villagers strummed their home-made instruments, while others beat their drums.
"Dance with me?" Robin asked, holding out his hand.
"I thought you hated dancing!"
"Who, me? Not on your birthday! If you enjoyed embroidery tonight, Marian, I'd be threading a needle and stitching right along beside you!"
"Good thing I don't!" Marian smiled, taking his hand and joining the circle of rollicking villagers.
"Happy birthday, Marian!" Much had greeted her, gnawing contentedly on a joint of mutton. "Fun party, isn't it? May 28th...a good day to be born, I think you'll find. I myself don't know when my birthday is. Not that I mind, of course. Strange thing that, not knowing. Oh! Cake!"
"Oh, Much," Marian was thinking. "Loyal, trusting, innocent Much! How different your life is, too, from what you dreamed it would be!"
Marian, close to tears, did not think she could stand any more fitting. "Thank you," she told the seamstress. "I'm sure the gown will be lovely."
"But, milady, I haven't finished! I need to measure the neck line, and the shoulders!"
"There isn't time," Marian complained, carefully wriggling out of the crimson velvet. Already, she hated the dress, through no fault of the hard-working seamstress. "I can't breathe," she told her, leaving the gown in a pile on the floor.
She needed to get away, somewhere where she could breathe again. But where? She'd spent far too much time, idly suffering in bed, since Gisbourne had forced her to accept his proposal.
The forest! Sherwood, her childhood playground! She needed to go there now, run there, roll down a hill and fling herself onto her back, in a pile of leaves, and just breathe again. She needed to feel free.