Summary: "Kill the Sherriff. Save the king. And I will give you what you want." Guy stared into her tense face a long moment, black brows narrowed together, his eyes gleaming. "Prove it," he said.


RULES OF ENGAGEMENT

PART II –- MARIAN

'No weapons… no friends… no hope. Take all that away… and what's left?'

'Me.'

The single word hung, heavy and potent in the space between them.

Marian was agonizingly aware of the heavy, suffocating silence, the drift of dust across the worn stone, the dim flicker of the solitary candle and the faint hiss of wax on the wooden table. That silence thickened the air until she could not breathe, constricted her chest, made everything heightened – intense – magnified.

It was the loudest silence she had ever known.

Guy remained still, deadly still, shrouded in shadow. For a moment, a wild, irrational hope made her wonder whether he hadn't heard her. His pale face was inscrutable. But then his hard jaw tightened. She heard the breath escape between his teeth in a low hiss. Her heart pounded in the pervasive quiet. She held herself deliberately still, every muscle in her body pulled taut to a painful tension.

It seemed an eternity passed before he finally spoke.

"What?" His voice was very low.

Marian lifted her chin and swallowed hard, praying for the courage to carry this through. Robin was dead and her hopes had ended with him. At the very least, she would not allow his death to be for nothing. He was at rest now, gone out in a blaze of glory (recklessness) and it had all fallen on her – the weight of the cruelties, the tragedies, the injustices that poisoned the nation. What was the sacrifice of personal feelings in the face of all that? The cause lived on, and she must fight as she had fought before Robin came back into her life - alone. Back when she had been the aloof lady of Knighton Hall, always collected and quietly disdainful, and not governed by outbursts of impulsive emotion that led to those she loved dying-

"Do this for me, and I promise I will be yours."

The silence sharpened, if that were possible. Then Guy smiled, slow and dangerous. Steel-bright, all sharp edges and aggression. "You're lying."

"I give you my word."

She swallowed. They both knew how little her promises meant now. The unspoken accusation struck her like a knife to the heart, she who had always prided herself on her morals, her strong sense of right and ideals of justice. Yes, she had deceived him, but only because she had to. She had never counted on things going so far. She had never counted on him falling in love with her.

Guy's low voice was deceptively smooth. "You agreed to give me your hand once before, to save yourself. What makes you think I'll have you a second time?"

Marian forced herself to meet his gaze, hopelessly bracing herself for the words she had prayed she would never have to utter. She wondered how long the thought had been at the back of her mind, how long she had denied to herself that, one day, it might come to this. Her stubborn jaw tightened and eyes turned sapphire. "I said nothing about marriage."

A wild, hungry light flared in his eyes. Swiftly, he came towards her in a movement of threatening grace, and she realized with a momentary flicker of fear how vulnerable she was against him like this, how powerless. But she was too exhausted, too scared, too hopeless to make a show of resistance. And it seemed a futile effort. Something about this man had always frightened her; his coldness, his violence. His passion. There was a darkness lurking within him that she loathed and recoiled from with her entire being. She could never forget that he was the enemy, acting against her interests and everything she was fighting for. And yet… she had once thought of him as a friend, had felt something for him in her way, and owed him her life on more than one occasion. She had cared for him, seen – or believed she had seen – buried qualities deep inside that could make him noble, beautiful even. Was it really possible that she could have been so wrong?

He was standing directly in front of her and Marian looked up, half-unwillingly into his face that had become all too familiar to her now. His features were squarely cut, his nose strong and defined. The shadow of stubble darkening his jaw. She could see the predator's gaze in his cold eyes. Ice lit by flames. It was a handsome face, and at times, a hateful one. And the thought of it being in her future forever…

The last time she had almost been his, it had been the day of her wedding, and she had felt as though she were walking to her death. But there had been Robin then, and now he was lost to her forever. Marian swallowed down the sudden fierce, burning pain in her throat, refusing to think of Robin. She was sacrificing her virtue, her pride and her freedom. But she could endure it. She thought of the late afternoon sun slanting golden through the emerald leaves of Sherwood Forest; she thought of Robin, merry-eyed and daring, who had given his life for what he believed in; she thought of the gratitude on the faces of a starving family when she gave them food. Yes, worth it. Worth it all.

She drew a sharp breath as gloved fingers gripped her chained wrists. Goosebumps skittered across her skin at the touch, the metal cutting painful lacerations into the tender flesh. Yet she did not flinch; she would not give him the satisfaction. Guy held her hands hard between his, leaning towards her in that old familiar, too-close way.

"You would offer yourself willingly, to me?"

"Yes," she said, thanking God her father was dead and couldn't see her now.

A dark, deep pause filled the air. He was silent a moment, considering her with narrow-eyed suspicion, and she recalled the words he once said to her, half in jest, but she had sensed the seriousness behind the amused tone. You must be the least easily-won woman in England. Well, now he had won her, and she could not for the life of her tell whether he was satisfied or repelled by the victory. Humiliated colour burned high in her cheeks. Not even when dressed in gaudy finery and flaunted before Count Friedrich had she known such depths of degradation. She tried to slip her hands from his, but his grip tightened and drew her closer. The expression of raw wanting she saw in his face shook her to the core. "You're playing a dangerous game, Marian," he breathed, velvet against her throat, lips grazing bare flesh that prickled under the unsettling warmth. There was a disorienting kind of solace in the contact; she had been so alone, so dry and empty inside, that this was closest she had come to tenderness in longer than she could remember. She found herself unnerved by the ache his proximity awoke within her – it was something too close to weakness.

Guy released her hands and drew back slightly. Marian could feel the sensitive skin chafe against the handcuffs and winced slightly. But she felt a measure of her old courage and strength returning, burning away the horrible sense of grief and powerlessness that had been weighing down upon her for so many days. No, she was not defeated yet. And now she had said the words, a curious sense of relief and clarity flooded her being; it was all so startlingly simple. The blood pounded through her veins with renewed vigor, filling her with warmth and energy; for the first time in weeks she felt alive. Her sword-hand tingled, frustratingly shackled. The rebellious spirit for danger and adventure had awoken within her and the sudden thirst to do something reckless and impulsive was almost overwhelming – the same mad thrill she had felt the night she had broken into his house as the Night Watchman. She had thrown down the gauntlet; it was for him to decide whether he would accept the challenge. Her own safety meant little now. Guy still stood over her, menacing and aloof, but she regarded his threatening posture with defiance dancing in her eyes. She could have laughed in his face; let him do what he would. Whether he proved to be an ally or an enemy, she would see this through to the end, and if it killed her, well then – then I would see Robin again.

She heard the creak of leather as his gloved fists clenched at his sides. "Why should I believe you?"

He no longer trusted her, and Marian was startled to discover how much the knowledge hurt – to see that his admiration and implicit belief in her was gone. She wondered if this was how he regarded her now; as someone who had mastered and used him with ruthless grace, caring nothing for the man she was destroying to further her cause. The thought filled her with a hollow, sickening feeling. She had never realized before just how much his high opinion meant to her. She was not the only one who had cause to be disappointed. Neither of them had turned out to be the person the other thought. There was a strange irony in the realization. It was enough to make her (for once) speak the truth without hesitation.

"My father is dead," she said slowly. "I have no one. I have nothing left to lose."

Guy's hooded gaze raked over her. "I wouldn't be so sure," he murmured. His smile was horrible.

Marian could not suppress a shudder as she watched him, wrapped in the gloom of some sinister emotion. His hardened face was suspicious, an intimidating, dark look in his eyes. And something else that flickered beneath the veneer of mistrust. Something like desperation.

"And what about Hood?" he demanded suddenly.

"Robin Hood is dead," she said flatly, and the words were like daggers in her throat. "He means nothing to me."

An expression of almost ferocious cruelty flashed across his hard features. Marian was suddenly taken back to the night he had come armed with the Sherriff's men, drunk on power and blood, his dark figure wreathed in the infernal reflection of Knighton hall in flames as he had her at his feet, begging for mercy. She had almost forgotten for a time, but his recent actions had called to light every contemptible thing he had ever done, exposed all the black, ugly places in his soul. She was forced to remember all the cruel, hateful deeds he had committed; striking her father, burning down Knighton Hall, forcing her into a betrothal under duress. Could this be the same man who had stood as a shield between her and Vaisey's wrath for so long and who had been prepared to die defending Nottingham against the armies of Prince John? But he had chosen Vaisey in the end and betrayed her trust in him. Her faith in his potential for goodness was faltering, and she feared that he truly was lost in his ambition, his ruthless hunger for power that rendered him a willing slave to the Sherriff's schemes. The old frustration burned within her. How was it that this man, so stern and commanding, could be held so entirely in Vaisey's clutches? Why did he shackle himself to a madman? What strange power did the Sherriff hold over him?

Marian watched, tense and wary, as he began to pace the small room, circling her like a hungry wolf, a lean, caged animal. Once, she might have played coy and laughed off the threat with light and teasing words, but things had changed, and she was no longer sure what rules they playing by. The last time she had underestimated him, it had cost her a home and her freedom. She would not make the same mistake again. There was a cold, deadly aura she had not sensed from him since that evil day he had discovered her identity as the Night Watchman. His gaze, sullen and brooding, never left her guarded face.

"What are you playing at, Marian? What is it you want?"

"Peace. Justice. To protect the King and save England."

Guy's face darkened, thin lips pressed into a rigid line. "How very noble," he sneered, an unmistakable bitterness clouding his tone.

Marian realized then that she had said the wrong thing. She should have said, For things to be as they were or To know that I was right about you being a good man. That unspoken implication had always been at the core of their past interactions, but she was weary of this deception. But still, it was another miscalculation; one in a long line of the careless, foolish, desperate mistakes she had been making recently. Ever since her father died, her courage had turned to frenzy as she struggled to keep fighting in a world that was falling apart. Every day of her life was a battle. But of all the rash, dangerous things she had done, this was the worst. She cringed at the thought of the maniacal glee on Vaisey's sadistic face if he ever discovered the extent to which she was willing to sacrifice herself for the cause. Her pride was all she had left and now she was about to give that up, too. She had once been the lady of Knighton, the Night Watchman, and it had all been taken from her. What else did she have?

Robin wouldn't want this, cautioned a voice in the back of her mind, but she stubbornly ignored it. Robin would want you to survive – no matter what the cost. Even if it means accepting Guy.

She had come close, once. More than once. The first time he had proposed to her, she had despised and feared him, but the second? That was more complicated. She could not fully shake off the memory of his face, taut with defiance and hunger and aching desperation. Marry me now, and make it the last thing we do. Let's steal that from them at least. But that was when she had thought – when she had believed – he had a noble heart beneath the untouchable exterior of steel and leather.

And now?

He moved deliberately towards her, his shadowed figure seeming to grow larger in the confined space. Standing squarely in front of her, towering over her form. She could feel the warmth of his body, the closeness of leather and musk clouding her senses. Strong scents. Male. A bead of perspiration ran slowly down his exposed throat and disappeared beneath the line of his collar. His lowered face was thrown into deep shade; it was impossible to discern his expression.

"What makes you think I still want you?"

So, he was going to be stubborn and unrelenting. Or perhaps he really was speaking the truth, and all that mattered to him now was power and position. Once, she might have known, but now she wondered whether she had really known him at all. His face gave away nothing. His expression was unfriendly and angry. Menacing.

"If you don't," Marian said, making her last, desperate gamble, the heart beating wildly in her temples, "Then tell the Sherriff. Have me punished. Free yourself of me at last."

Something dark and primitive flickered in his eyes. "Have you punished?" he murmured. Close. Warm. "How would I punish you, I wonder?"

"Guy -"

He was toying with her. Another power struggle. But this was not Nottingham Castle and he could no longer influence her by wielding her father's life over her. It was only her own neck she had to fear for, and she had been toying on the brink of death for weeks now. If she had to stake her survival on someone, Guy seemed her best chance. He was her only hope. England's only hope. The cause, she reminded herself. Always the cause.

She reached out her chained hands in appeal, grasping his arm. The leather was warm, and smooth with wear beneath her fingers. She felt him tense sharply at the unexpected touch, startled – almost scared. The sudden movement reminded her of a wild animal, wary of some new threat, and the instinctive reaction gave her the conviction to go on. No, Guy was not lost to her yet.

"Kill the Sherriff. Save the king. And I will give you what you want."

Guy stared down into her tense face a long moment, black brows narrowed together, his eyes gleaming. "Prove it," he said suddenly.

She should have expected this, but something – guilt, shame, the memory of Robin - held her back. But still she felt her blood rise at the provocation, and it was a welcome flare of passion through the cold apathy of despair that had been haunting her for so long. Her proud courage had never faltered before, and it did not fail her now. She had right upon her side, faith in God, in England, and in the memory of Robin whom she had loved; and the Sherriff was a madman trapped in his own hell, loathed even by his most loyal servant. Marian smiled then, having made her decision. Her conscience was clear. She knew what she had to do.

She moved towards Guy, her bound hands seeming strangely small and delicate next to the hardness of his features. He was close enough that she could see a faint scar beneath his left eye, the mark left by her wedding ring. But then, he had scarred her too, ran his curved dagger through her side; only he hadn't known it was her, while she had no such excuse… She was trembling slightly as she stood on her toes – he was much taller than her – and pressed her lips to his hard cheek. Guy remained rigid and unmoving; his flesh was like cold stone to the touch, but she would not believe him so indifferent. He had to want this, after everything he had claimed to feel, everything he had once said -

Marian drew away and looked up at him, her eyes bright.

"Now do you believe me?"

"It's a start." His voice was rough. Those rasping tones betrayed him.

The heat was impossibly stifling. She could feel the warm moisture clinging to her brow, pooling at the nape of her neck and behind her knees, but her mouth was drier than desert sands. Rough cotton at her waist, and the press of leather. His presence overbearing and suffocating. Two points of light danced in a sea of diamond blue. His icy gaze lingered on her lips. Marian suddenly recalled the hard, insistent pressure of his mouth against hers, and a shiver ran through her body. He must have noticed it, for a strange expression of satisfaction curved his thin mouth.

Marian lowered her eyes, hating the fact that she was resorting to begging. "Untie my hands," she said calmly, as though it were an order, not a request.

His expression was suddenly wolfish, eyes gleaming with a deadly sort of amusement. "Why would I do that?"

"Guy." Her voice had recovered its former steel.

Slowly, he pulled off his gloves, carelessly letting them fall to the floor. Her breathing quickened. There was something too familiar, too intimate in the action. Hopelessly, she braced herself for the touch of those large, brutal fingers. The pulse thudded hotly in her upturned wrists as he set to work unfastening the shackles with a strange awkwardness, light blue eyes narrowed, his mouth pressed tight with concentration, and a part of her scornfully wondered whether he was deliberately prolonging the moment of contact, despising herself for the trembling in her hands. It was fear or anger that made her shake like this, she who was so normally in control over her emotions. But she had been living this strained existence for weeks now, knowing that any moment could be her last, the weight of Robin's death, Vaisey's sadistic whims and Guy's wrath hovering over her. Was it any wonder she had reached the threshold of her self-control?

"There."

She breathed a relieved sigh as the heavy irons fell away, rubbing at her sore wrists that felt curiously light without the restrictive weight of the chains binding them. "Thank you," she stammered back, and jumped, nerve-edged and agitated, as his hand, large and heavy, pressed against her upturned jaw. Warm (too warm). She had always thought his skin would be cold, to match his cold heart, but every touch burned. So different from those former clumsy attempts at courtship that she had so easily been able to dismiss with contempt and the faintest stirrings of pity. Calloused fingers brushed her temple, her cheek, her throat - he could crush the life from her and she would be powerless to stop him. But instead, the grim set of his mouth softened slightly, losing its hard, cruel lines. His heavy-lidded gaze was entranced, almost mesmerized. She swallowed, wondering uneasily what it was about her that made him so relentless in his pursuit of her, made him so mad with craving.

"Marian…" He paused, the single word echoing softly in the small room.

Suddenly, she was back in Locksley Manor, the warmth of firelight flickering over bare skin, achingly close, as he leaned over her half-clothed, tenderly tracing the line of her upturned jaw. It was the first time she had seen him stripped of the leather armour that made him so aloof and untouchable, seen the man through the layers of cruelty and cynicism that cloaked him so effectively in the harsh light of day. That night she had seen him, not as the Sherriff's snarling dog, but as a man genuinely hurt by her actions. He had deliberately held himself away from her, cold and distrusting, yet hopeful still, the barely-leashed passion simmering in the depths of his intent gaze. The slow brush of fingers warm on her skin. This isn't about friendship.

It had never been about friendship. She realized that now. Whatever she had felt towards Guy – loathing, affection, disgust, pity, frustration (and perhaps, buried somewhere in there, a hint of longing?) – friendship had never been a part of it. Even when living in the forest, fighting the Sherriff on Robin's terms, something had been missing. There had been an emptiness, a lack, a sense of… incompletion (boredom?). Never fulfilling that restless craving for freedom and danger. She had known, deep down, that it was because her fight had never been with Vaisey. That was Robin's battle. For her, it had always been Guy. That was what had brought her back to Nottingham Castle, though she would never admit it, not even to herself. Neither one of them had been able to leave in the end, not even when staying meant almost certain death. What strange influence did he hold over her that made her unable to pull away? He had insinuated himself fully into every corner of her existence. It was the way he put her in chains, then was the one to set her free; he would stab her with a poisoned dagger and be the one to save her from hanging. The way he told her the things she desperately wanted and didn't want to hear... there is another side to me… you don't know me as well as you think…

Her gaze fell on his mouth. A vivid reminder of the taste of him she remembered far too well; leather, smoke and old wine. Marian inhaled sharply, the dust dry in her mouth. She did not know how much betrayed itself in her face, but either way, Guy took her hand enfolded within his own much larger one and held it against the sharp plain of his cheek, the texture of his skin rough against her palm. A shuddering sigh escaped his lips as he closed his eyes. She had expected coarse violence; this tender and lover-like gesture startled her. She could feel the shaking in his fingers, the conscious effort to be gentle. He was more afraid than she was. For a moment, a surge of intense pity overcame her. If the mere act of touching her affected him so strongly, he must truly have been suffering. A spear of guilt pierced through her heart. Would she ever understand this strange, bitter man? What inner world of pain and rage and love lurked beneath that cruel and violent exterior?

His breath was warm against her cheek. Then his eyes hardened again, like diamonds.

"I warn you, Marian…" he said in low voice, "Do not take me for a fool again. I'll not be humiliated a second time."

An intuitive corner of her mind protested that this was wrong – a lingering cord that bound her to Robin (now until always) – but Robin was dead. Robin was gone. Robin was -

Breath escaped her lips in a sharp gasp as Guy caught her in a half-painful hold. Combat-roughened hands gripping her shoulders. Heavy, strong hands. She could feel the possessiveness in his clenched muscles, the tightening of his jaw. She had never seen anyone so close to losing control. He was gazing at her with a glazed, desperate sort of hunger, a furious intensity blazing in his steel-coloured eyes. "I knew you would come to me," he whispered harshly, a hot exhalation against her skin. "I knew it. The only thing that has ever been real is you and me…"

She wondered how he could still believe this, even now. The thought of surrendering to this large, ruthless man was a terrifying one, and strangely electrifying. She had never known what it was to be needed so intensely, not even by Robin, whose passionate devotion to the cause often overrode his displays of affection towards her. A tang of metal hit her mouth and she realized she had bitten the inside of her cheek. But she did not push him away. She could not. He had crawled inside her, buried himself beneath her very skin, and she had not realized until it was too late. She had gone too far down this path to back out now.

When had things become so complicated? When had she stopped being strong?

She closed her eyes and shuddered, grappling with an array of conflicting feelings. I am doing what must be done. For Robin. For England.

His face had lost its sneering lines and was bare and vulnerable at last, raw with emotion. Confusion. Fear. Hope. There was an almost childlike innocence and dependency in the way he was gazing at her like a man half-starved, as though he truly would die without her. The desperation of it staggered her. "I need you, Marian," he breathed hoarsely against her skin. "You alone can save me."

She was in his arms, softly, then firmly. He lowered his face to hers, a lock of coarse black hair brushing her cheek. Marian jumped, skittish as a wild colt, and could only marvel at this uncharacteristic show of nervousness. Was it really possible that she could be so strongly affected by him? Reason struggled to reassert itself in her mind. She could not think with him so close, looming over her, distressingly intimate -

"Guy…"

The sound of her shakily saying his name seemed to break down whatever vestiges remained of his self-control. He crushed her fingers in his, and kissed her.

Nothing like the kisses she had shared with Robin that had been sweet and ardent and tender, the confident (too confident) assurance with which he held her that always made being in his arms the safest place in the world. Even when earnest and passionate, she had always known that Robin would never hurt her, and now she was faced with no such certainty.

Instead, it hurt when Guy kissed her, his mouth furious, branding her with the taste of his fervor and desperation. As strong as a draught of heavy, drugging wine, bitter and strangely intoxicating. She could smell sweat and salt and leather, the iron studs of his jerkin pressing sharp against her chest. Hands gripping her with urgent strength and bruising need. Marian wondered dimly how long he had been holding himself back, how many times he had hovered on the brink of losing all restraint. But the bars of the cage were broken and the beast had been unleashed at last, dark and savage and ravenously hungry. A part of her wanted to push him away, let loose all her strength and years of training, free herself of his discomforting presence once and for all, but for the first time in her life every fighting instinct had fled even as her muscles tensed with stubborn resistance. Her blood thrummed as it did on the edge of combat. She was too wild, too changed to ever go home, and home to what? She had lost everything.

The close, hot darkness enfolded her like a dream. His hold was ruthless, arms too hard for tenderness. His lips, too soft for a murderer. Almost unconsciously, her mouth opened beneath his and she felt, rather than heard him groan, deep in the back of his throat. Seeking fingers ran down her back, scorching through the thin material of her gown, pushing her harder against him. Sensations – warm, strange, surging – shuddered through her. She shouldn't have been shivering – not in this heat – but her actions were beyond her control, this whole situation was beyond her control, though it was her fault they had even come to this point; she had challenged him and he had called her bluff –

When he lifted his mouth off hers, she made a short, involuntary clasping at his jacket to steady herself, aware that she was trembling violently, but this was something different to fear, deeper and more primitive. Guy drew a harsh breath, his intent gaze never leaving her, eyes blazing like a winter storm, and Marian wondered how much her appearance must betray her as she faced him, breathless and flushed and wild, dark hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Her parted lips throbbed. She drew back slightly, struggling to remain aloof, but he grappled her to him again without effort, crushing his lips to hers.

His arm was iron against the curve of her waist, cutting off her breath, pressing against her heart and lungs. A flicker of fear ran through her – fear of his strength, fear of her own uncharacteristic weakness. Throughout their encounters she had always been the one in control, always the one wielding the power, and now their roles seemed entirely reversed as she realized that this time he had her at a disadvantage. His hips pressed her into the wall, the stone rough and warm against her back. His body, hard-edged and firm, the scrape of stone on her skin. No sound but the movement of his mouth over hers, softer now, and slow, though the dizzying sensation did not leave her. Her tense limbs loosened as she felt herself sinking into the warm, leather-scented darkness.

Cautiously her hands moved; daring to touch him, the tips of her fingers gliding over the harsh lines of his face. Downwards, to the rapid throb of the pulse in his throat, and there was a dark satisfaction, half-maddening, as she knew she was the cause of it. She could feel the furious pounding of his heart against her chest, the rigid tension in every muscle, the heavy shudders passing through his large frame. All for her.

Her hands found their way to his dark hair, fingers sliding through the coarse strands, tightening until Guy groaned again into her neck, muffled, incoherent. The stubbled line of his jaw scraping her skin in a tantalizingly rough caress. Marian bit back a gasp that wasn't quite pain. The blood was burning in her veins. She was shaking, almost as much as he was, and she felt the fumbling movement of his hands as he traced the wings of her shoulder blades, the curve of her spine that arched instinctively beneath the uncertain exploration, softness yielding to hardness. His hands, though cold, burned wherever they touched her, searing through the fine cotton of her gown. It felt as though there were no barriers of clothing between his touches and her bare skin, the realization sending ripples of heat blazing through her nerves, and she found herself clinging to him, the one real and solid thing in a world that was falling away beneath her feet. Leather creased between her fingers, the firm hardness of muscle beneath. His black head bent over her throat (that arched with uncharacteristic compliance), following the smooth dip of white skin, warm, seeking lips moving downwards, towards the opening of her bodice. Strange tension tightened through her –

And suddenly, he was gone.

"I can't…" he muttered. "I can't…"

He left her wavering on the rough stone. Marian opened her eyes (when had she closed them?) His cheekbones burned high with colour, his hair hanging in dark, perspiring strands over his brow. He had stumbled a few steps back, feral and intent, breathing harshly.

"Not like this…" His voice was low and quiet, of forced control.

Marian drew an unsteady breath. Her skin was still burning; the ghost of his touches seared across her flesh, the light material clinging to her uncomfortably. Her mind could not adjust itself to the swift change of situation. What could she hope to do now? She had gambled everything and he… he…

"Marry me," he said hoarsely.

She could only stare at him, wide-eyed.

Guy fell to his knees before her, hands gripping her waist with bruising urgency. He raised his torn face to her, raw with yearning and frighteningly intense. His voice, rigid and forceful, cut through her like a sword. "I'll do it," he said roughly, "The Sherriff… all of it… marry me now, and the rest doesn't matter…"

Before she could give an answer (even think an answer), a flicker of movement blurred in the corner of her vision. A shadow halted in the doorway. Her eyes strained in the gloom. A male figure, lithe and light and heavily-cloaked, a strange familiarity about his mocking features… Marian felt her jaw drop. Allan.

Over Guy's shoulder, she read the unspoken message in his eyes even before she saw his lips move.

Robin's alive.

The world tilted to one side. The stone floor wavered beneath her and she put out a hand to steady herself. Guy's dark figure swam before her, frighteningly blurred and unfocused.

"Marian?" Those deep tones, roughened with desperation and concern.

"I need…" Her voice seemed to come from very far away. "I need to think…"

Cautiously, she raised her eyes. Allan had not moved, was still concealed in the shadow of the partly-opened door. A swift jerk of the head that could mean only one thing. Get out of there.

She looked at him, uncomprehending. He raised his eyebrows at her, wondering at her hesitation. But she couldn't move. It was all too much to take in. Robin was here. The man she loved was alive, was even now coming to find her. And Guy – Guy –

She swallowed. Her heart thudded. Once. Twice. She could feel Allan's gaze on her, could sense his confusion and worry and irritation. A small, cold voice at the back of her mind was telling her what she had to do, what was necessary, for the cause, for Robin –

A shadow fell across her and suddenly, Guy was standing in front of her.

"Drink this."

Marian started slightly. She hadn't even seen him move. He was pressing something cool and metallic into her hands. She stared down absently and saw that he had brought her a goblet, not of water, but wine. A sudden pang struck through her. Even when he hated her, he had still done what little he could to make her imprisonment bearable. But she couldn't think about that. It just made what she was about to do harder.

Marian held the goblet in her hand; stared at the dark red liquid swirling inside, then, slowly, looked back at Guy's expectant face. He moved towards her. Instinct honed from long hours of training impelled her to act. She raised the goblet –

I'm sorry –

And brought it crashing down on the back of his skull, the red liquid splashing across his skin like steams of blood. The sound it made was horrifying – a sickening thunk of metal against bone – that caused the eyes to roll back in his head as he slid, boneless and fluid, into a crumpled pile on the stone floor.

The empty goblet fell from her nerveless fingers with a ringing clatter. It rolled across the floor, coming to a stop by Allan's booted feet. The echoes died out into heavy silence.

Marian gazed down at the prone figure lying at her feet. Oh my God. What have I done? What have I done? She had hurt him before, as the Night Watchman, but never –

"Blimey, Marian," said Allan blankly from the doorway. "You killed him."

"He's fine," said Marian. She could hear the harsh sound of his breathing, knew that if she knelt and placed her fingers at his throat that she would feel the pulse thudding strongly. But she couldn't touch him. Not now. She turned to Allan suddenly, shaking her head, fear or shock (or something) making her tones more clipped and sharp than usual as she demanded, none-too-gently, "What are you even doing here? How did you find me?"

"Came to rescue you, didn't I? Robin's outside. Thought if I went in, I could always pretend I'd come back to join Giz if I was caught –"

"That was brave of you."

He laughed with more bitterness than she remembered. "Didn't get much of a choice, to be honest. Now come on. I promised Robin I'd get you out."

Marian hesitated, glancing back at the huddled figure on the floor. The dark hair fell messily over his brow, his mouth was parted slightly. One long arm flung out as though in mute appeal. He looked uncharacteristically helpless; the thought of leaving him to the mercy of Vaisey's wrath…

"What are you waiting for?" demanded Allan. "If he wakes up, we're both done for."

"I know," she muttered distractedly, "I just…"

She felt an urgent grip close around her upper arm like a vice, and Allan – self-preservation always foremost in his mind – was pulling her towards the door, and the roughness of the gesture sent a shudder of a half-familiar memory through her. She stumbled alongside him (long confinement in chains had made her unsteady on her legs, it seemed), casting one last, fleeting look at Guy's unmoving form –

Then the long, dim corridor loomed before her, severing him from her sight as she slipped back into her old, accustomed stealth, the mask falling smoothly back into place as, with Allan at her side, she made her way swiftly (and reluctantly?) towards salvation.


GUH. I am SO tempted to continue this, but will probably just slap a finis on it as a) I have no idea where I would go with this, b) would never get around to updating it and c) don't trust myself to write a Robin who wouldn't come across as a bratty ten-year-old (shipping bias? You betcha!)