Fallout - Chapter Eleven
The third time Marian knees him in the back, Guy wonders if it is on purpose. He does not know if she is always this restless, or if what happened tonight has made her so, but whatever the case, she is getting her revenge. He had always expected her to be a dainty bedmate. She is not.
When she gets up in the middle of the night, he hears the shuffle of sand, a muffled curse, and then a sigh of relief. He fakes a half-yawn and turns to see her slip her shift over her head, but not before he gets a heady glimpse of shadowy hips and the dark under-crescent of a silhouetted breast. As he watches, she brushes aside the flap of the tent and looks outside. Just as he is about to sit up and snap that he will walk her if she is so eager to leave, she lets it fall, and he closes his eyes, not wanting to be caught starting. He hears the crinkle of padding as she lies back beside him, senses her gentle weight.
Once she has stopped fidgeting, Guy allows himself another peek. She is hugging the edge, knees drawn up defensively so that all he can see is the curve of her back. There is less than a foot between them-he could easily trail a finger down the length of her spine or place a hand in the dip of her waist-but it feels like an entire country. A large, bristling country full of hidden traps and murky waters.
As her breathing becomes more even, her limbs relax. Without warning, she turns over onto her back, her face shielded by a wild mass of hair. He can see the point stubborn chin and the bow of a bottom lip, but nothing more. His gaze drops to the subtle jut of her breast, the smooth contours of her legs, and the lingering afterglow of sexual pleasure sparks to life. He is almost thankful when, rolling the rest of the way toward him, she nearly pokes his eye out; it reminds him of the danger.
He is still angry, but not nearly as angry as he wants to be. To be honest, a good deal of the rage that still burns in his gut has switched sides. While it taunts him for being so easily won over, the resentment he still feels toward her is inconveniently tangled up with the memory of how smooth her thighs felt wrapped around his waist, the sounds she made as she arched beneath him. He is scared to unravel it, afraid that it will cloud his judgment even more.
He had been so sure that she was on a seduction mission. Marian is determined to be a martyr-it was plain then, it is plainer now. But her angelic sacrifice would have been tarnished if it became clear that she was weighted down by another man’s child. He had expected her denials, but not her entreaties against a cold marriage. When she had met his challenges with promises, the poison of hope had begun to flow in his veins once again; it surged even stronger when she kissed him.
Suddenly he was convinced that the only way to staunch it was to take what he had desired for four years. Once he had her, his brain insisted, he would be fine; he could settle back into a sea of blessed numbness and deal with the evidence of her betrayal later. There was also the insidious whisper that it may be one of the few times she would welcome him eagerly; that alone was worth twenty bastards.
But then, somehow, it turned into the most erotic disaster of his life. Guy had never been with a virgin before, but he knew enough to recognize her gasp of pain for what it was, knew enough to belatedly realize what she was trying to tell him. He had felt like a brute, yes, but he had also experienced a rush of delirious joy. He had claimed something of her that Hood did not; if he feels even a hint of shame over how happy that makes him, the scraps are well hidden. The joy is, however, tempered by one realization: having her has done nothing to stem his desire. If anything, it is stronger than ever. She had told him that she could not love a man in sides; he only sees sides, and yet he loves her all the same.
That is why he has to leave today. He will go to Jerusalem and finish up this business with King Richard so he can return, marry her, and end all this confusion. It is foolish to think that things will be simpler when she is his wife and he her husband-he knows this-but at least then he will have rights. At least he will have control under God and the Law, if not within the realm of his own emotions.
Bracing himself on his arms, he starts to climb over her sleeping form. Hovering over her chest, he hears the swift hiss of a quickly drawn breath. He glances down. The torch outside failed hours earlier, and the early morning half-light paints her eyelids a cool violet and her mouth a pale rose. She looks to be asleep, but her eyelashes flutter. Guy is tempted to kiss her, to see if whatever rare stars aligned in her head last night are still in position. But then he remembers her immediate retreat, the press of her palms pushing him away, and it reminds him that he can still not pinpoint her exact motivation. Was it an apology or a challenge? A promise or a taunt? Whatever her intentions, it feels like a proclamation of the latter. See how much power I have over you, it says.
Guy moves the rest of the way over her and crosses to the stand that holds a small basin of water. As he splashes it over his face, he senses her eyes on his back; when he turns to check, however, she is still and silent. He continues to dress, forgoing the outer jacket due to the heat. In the middle of pulling a thin black shirt over his head, it occurs to him that the camp is waking up and here she is with nothing fit to wear outside.
Her recklessness brings a rush of anger, but it is mixed with a hefty dose of fear. He must leave or lose his head, and here she seems to be possessed by one insane idea after another. It is testament to his own weakness that he has been sucked into most of them.
“I am going to find you some clothing. Stay here,” he tells the silence. It comes out more sharply than he intended; he thinks he sees her shoulders tense.
There is no guard waiting outside for him, a fact that Guy notes with surprise and a good deal of relief. A single Crusader trudges past, leading a reluctant horse by a taut rein. A few men huddle in front of a tent several paces away, casting idle glances in his direction. Considering the particulars surrounding his presence here, you would think that they would be more alarmed, but he is beginning to see how tired the entire camp is, just how ready they are to return to England. All but for their King.
As he makes his way to Marian’s tent, he begins to wonder if she knocked out her guard. His fear grows stronger when he sees the slouched figure poised before its entryway. He really wishes that she would stop punching people.
Fortunately, the man turns out to be asleep instead of unconscious. It is the young one, the one who looks like he is sixteen. No wonder they have not reclaimed the Holy Land, Guy thinks darkly.
He nudges the boy with a toe. “Get up,” he orders, and then nudges harder.
The guard blinks up at him for a few seconds before springing to his feet. “Sir Guy. It is early. Lady Marian is not-,”
“Lady Marian is not inside,” he finishes, and then smiles when the boy goes white. At this point, Guy is fairly certain that no one would sound an alarm, but he can use the man’s fear. “What is your name?”
“William,” the boy says morosely. “We have to tell someone.”
“No we don’t. She is with me,” Guy snaps. “If anyone asks, she is in there and does not want to be disturbed.” He holds up a change purse, dumps out a few coins. “But I have a favor to ask.”
William’s eyes dart to the side. “What sort of favor?”
Guy bites back frustration. Things are easier when you can yell at a guard and have him scamper off to help. “I need you to procure a few things for me. And then no one needs to know about the sleeping.”
It takes a few more threats, but William finally agrees to try his best, and Guy moves on to making preparations for Jerusalem. It is an infuriating task-every person he asks about a horse or food refers him to another who is just as unhelpful. Sometimes he ends up back at the first man he asked, only to have him suddenly remember how to procure Guy’s original request. The structure of the camp is in shambles; Guy had expected to be questioned again and again about his motives; instead he has a hard enough time catching soldiers awake.
He is loitering in front of a blacksmith’s tent when he hears the raised voice of Robin’s servant approaching around the corner. Guy steps back, out of sight.
“It is Gisborne’s doing, I know it,” the man frets. “We should do something.”
“We do not know what happened, Much,” the Saracen woman says.
“It does not take a scholar to figure it out. He was bleeding and unconscious. He is still unconscious!”
“We have been over this. He was unconscious; now he is sleeping. It will be fine. Please be quiet now, unless you spot something clean enough to use as a needle.”
As Guy listens to the sound of the manservant’s whinging fade away, he marvels at the eternal irony of being glad that Hood is not dead. It would have made things difficult, personally and politically. And yet his immediate relief is soon replaced by the worry that he has left Marian too long. It is already noon. He heads back toward his tent and takes the last few strides too quickly, pushing back the flap with one sweeping gesture only to come face to face with Marian’s bare back.
“Guy!” she scolds over her shoulder as she scrambles to pull her top over her head. He turns away out of habit, but then thinks better of it. This is his tent, after all, and he has seen more of her skin than that.
He watches as she smoothes the fabric down far longer than necessary, before consenting to face him. He had asked William to go to Acre and find the same sort of garment that they had bought for her when they first arrived, the kind that had been destroyed when she was tending to his wounds. He was successful; the one she wears now is a dark mulberry. It complements the flush staining her cheeks, and he is once again taken aback by how radiant she looks even in the worst of situations.
“I see that William was here,” he says as casually as he can manage, gesturing to the stack of clothing and the tray of uneaten food that is arranged to one side. “Good.”
“He was.” Her eyes flicker to meet his, then dance away. He has not seen her fidget this much since the first time he visited her and Edward at Knighton. Back then he thought that it was maidenly modesty; now he knows that it is nerves.
“You should eat,” he tells her, starting to idly gather the few items of clothing he will be taking with him. He hears the rustle of bed linens as she sits, but no sounds that resemble a clinking glass or tearing bread. She is perched on the edge, hands folded in her lap as she ignores the array before her. Guy had asked William to get whatever he could find, the more expensive the better, but she hasn’t touched any of it, not a fig or piece of flatbread or whatever white substance is in the small wooden bowl.
“You do not like it,” he says.
“Like what?” she asks before following his gaze to the untouched meal before her. “Oh,” she says dumbly. “No, it is . . . very considerate of you.” She picks up a pale wafer of flatbread but does not attempt to eat it. “Guy,” she starts, staring at her hands even as she charges ahead boldly. “Last night was a-,”
“Last night was a mistake,” he says quickly before she can elaborate; he has, after all, heard these lines before.
She looks surprised. “It was?” she asks, blinking, before correcting herself. “No. Yes, it was.”
“There could be a child,” he says bluntly, and tries to ignore the twinge of hurt that passes through him when she blanches. “Circumstances being what they are, it was . . . unwise.”
She begins to break the bread into tiny pieces. “Are you sure the King will not let us marry?” she asks between snaps.
He would be happier to hear her ask that if she did not look as though someone had requested she eat her own arm. “He will not,” he says tersely.
“But surely if we can explain the situation. . .”
“He will not, Marian,” he barks, cutting her off. What a rosy picture of Richard she must hold in her head-and how similar it is to Hood’s, he thinks darkly. A part of him longs to tear down her lofty ideals in the same way that he had done the outlaw’s, but he is too afraid that by destroying the cause, he will destroy the guilt that binds her to him. His anger at himself turns outward. “Are you going to eat the bread or break it into pieces like a madwoman?”
Her head whips up, and he is surprised to find how relieved he is to see the indignation back in her eyes. Her resigned demureness was beginning to scare him. She snaps it into three more parts before slowly bringing a piece up to chew.
He takes a seat by her on the bed, causing her to immediately lifts the tray and set it between them. “You should eat as well,” she says coolly, before tearing a wounded grape from a full bunch and popping it in her mouth. Afterwards, she licks the juice from her index finger. It is not rude in any way, or even suggestive, but Guy’s mind suddenly flashes to memory of her lips against his neck when he was moving inside her. He shifts uncomfortably. It is difficult to align the woman who welcomed him passionately last night with the one who sits here now as though she is teaching a lesson on posture. More proof that he does not have any inkling what is going on inside her head.
To distract himself, he reaches for a grape; his knuckles brush her hand when she reaches for it at the same time, and they both draw back.
“You can have it,” he says.
“No. It is yours.”
“I really don’t mind.”
“There are twenty there. I will have another.”
“Eat the grape, Marian.”
“I will eat what I like, Guy.” To prove her point she reaches beyond the fruit, picks up the bowl of mystery porridge, dips a finger in it and tastes it. Her nose wrinkles. “What is this?”
“I don’t know. Holy Land food was never my favorite,” he says, realizing too late that he has just offered up a sore spot to be poked. She opens her mouth, and he prepares himself for attack.
“The things you told me last night, are they true?”
It is not the question he expected. “I really do not know when my birthday is.”
“No, not about that. About . . . about your family.”
Guy stands up. He had said a lot of things in the heat of the moment that he would have rather not shared. “That is not something I lie about,” he says shortly.
“Then I did not realize the true weight of what I asked you to do. I am sorry for that.”
An apology is the last thing he expected, and he can only stare at her dumbly as she tucks a wing of hair behind her ear. He struggles to find the proper response.
Before he can speak, however, she begins to speak in a rush. “But it does not excuse the wanton violence that I witnessed you commit against people who had no means of defending themselves.”
If he had no idea what to say before, he has even less now. “What does this have to do with anything?”
“If we are to be married, you should know how I feel about things. And I feel that the people of Nottingham were treated abominably under Vasey’s rule. He was a monster. And you followed him blindly.” She pins him with her gaze, chin set, jaw stubborn. In the brief second before his pride bucks against being chastised, he wonders what she is so desperate to prove.
“Do not lecture me on morals,” he says tightly. “You who manipulate everyone in your path for your own ends.”
“The two have nothing to do with one another! And I do not manipulate everyone,” she mutters, reaching for another piece of flatbread to resume her crazy-person snapping.
“Just me, then,” he says, and then waits for a response that never comes. He had been feeling guilty about not telling her of Jerusalem earlier, but that is no longer the case. He turns to resume gathering his things. “Right, well, you will have plenty of time to dig up your grievances against me when I am gone. Perhaps you can make a list.”
“Gone?”
“I am leaving for Jerusalem today.”
The silence behind him is thunderous, but he refuses to give in to the desire to search out her reaction. “Why?” she finally asks from behind him, her voice tight.
“Richard has ordered me there. And when I return he has promised me that we can be married-he has promised me land. Things will be better,” he says, turning around to face her dark expression. “For us.”
She drops her eyes, but not before he sees how tight her mouth is. “And what are you to do in Jerusalem?”
The reminder of his own ignorance chafes. “I do not know. Hopefully it will be quick. I will return as soon as possible, I promise. In case you are-,”
She cuts him off. “You mean you did not ask?”
“I asked. He did not tell me.”
“How is it that you are not curious?” she asks in disbelief before her eyes narrow. “You are lying to me.”
“What?”
“You promised,” she insists, high color creeping back into her cheeks. “And yet after . . . after everything that has passed between us, you would still leave me in the dark.” Abruptly, she stands to leave. “Do not let me keep you. Safe wishes for your journey.”
Caught unawares, he barely has time to catch her arm before she is passed him. “I am not lying!” he yells, which only earns him a hissed request not to touch her. He hangs on, tries something softer. “Marian, why do you always think the worst of me?”
“Because I have seen the worst of you. Let me go.”
He is about to release her with a veiled reminder that she is his wife in everything but name, but then he sees how her eyes are glistening; she is close to tears. “I am not lying,” he repeats softly when the shock has passed. “I will show you everything I have. Will you stay?”
Her eyes widen, and she darts a longing glance toward the outside. “Please,” he says uncomfortably, and is relieved when she finally nods.
He walks over to his bag, pulls out the parchment that Richard gave him. “This is all I know,” he tells her before she rips it out of his hands as though it were the most precious gift that he had ever given her.
“They are only directions,” she says, giving him a confused glance.
“I am to meet a man named Baldrick there when I reach the city. He will tell me more.”
“What do you think it is?”
Nothing you will approve of, he thinks darkly. Outwardly, however, he only shrugs.
“I do not understand. Why does he not send--,” she starts before cutting herself off. He watches as she calmly folds the paper and hands it back to him, all the while evading his gaze.
“You meant to ask why does he not send Hood. Say it if you are going to say it.”
She only presses her lips together.
The jealousy that he has been holding at bay with the memory of last night overflows its cage. “I have swallowed more of your betrayals than I can count, Marian. I will not suffer another,” he warns.
He expects her to rage at that, but instead she only looks at him sideways. “Very well, then,” she says. “Take me with you.”
“What?”
“Take me with you,” she repeats, stepping forward and smiling widely enough that her dimples are out in full force. “I can help.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps. “It is not safe. I have no idea what is waiting for me.”
“Why is it ridiculous? I can think. I can fight. You will need someone.”
She moves closer, puts a tentative hand on his arm. He feels the warmth through his sleeve, feels his body respond. No, last night did not solve anything.
“Please, Guy.” She looks up at him through her lashes, and for a second he feels his resolve weaken. Truthfully, she is more competent than all of Nottingham’s guards combined. He has never seen someone so adept at evading questions, so quick on their feet when caught in a lie; he would almost admire it if he were not the rock she used to sharpen her skills. And he does not want to leave her here alone, leave her close to him; his mind goes dark at the thought of it.
But then he spots the calculating gleam in her eye, the way she logs each and every reaction. He will not be bought with pats to the shoulder.
Guy leans over so that he is on level with her ear. “If you are going to seduce me, do it properly,” he says, and doesn’t know whether to feel triumphant or disappointed when she jerks back, startled. For a few moments they regard each other warily. “You are staying here,” he says with finality. “Away from Hood.”
“Despite what you might think, I am not a whore. I believe I have proven myself in that respect at least,” she says primly. “I will return to my tent. Let me know when you are leaving-I should say goodbye.”
He feels a flood of shame, remorse. The words are polite, but there is a coldness that was not there before as she brushes past him on her way out. He prefers her anger to icy detachment.
“I am sorry, Marian. For everything . . . for all of the scars.” He tries to swallow, finds that he can’t. “You are the last thing that I have ever wanted to hurt,” he finishes. But when he turns to see if she understands what he is trying to say, she is already gone.
When she gets up in the middle of the night, he hears the shuffle of sand, a muffled curse, and then a sigh of relief. He fakes a half-yawn and turns to see her slip her shift over her head, but not before he gets a heady glimpse of shadowy hips and the dark under-crescent of a silhouetted breast. As he watches, she brushes aside the flap of the tent and looks outside. Just as he is about to sit up and snap that he will walk her if she is so eager to leave, she lets it fall, and he closes his eyes, not wanting to be caught starting. He hears the crinkle of padding as she lies back beside him, senses her gentle weight.
Once she has stopped fidgeting, Guy allows himself another peek. She is hugging the edge, knees drawn up defensively so that all he can see is the curve of her back. There is less than a foot between them-he could easily trail a finger down the length of her spine or place a hand in the dip of her waist-but it feels like an entire country. A large, bristling country full of hidden traps and murky waters.
As her breathing becomes more even, her limbs relax. Without warning, she turns over onto her back, her face shielded by a wild mass of hair. He can see the point stubborn chin and the bow of a bottom lip, but nothing more. His gaze drops to the subtle jut of her breast, the smooth contours of her legs, and the lingering afterglow of sexual pleasure sparks to life. He is almost thankful when, rolling the rest of the way toward him, she nearly pokes his eye out; it reminds him of the danger.
He is still angry, but not nearly as angry as he wants to be. To be honest, a good deal of the rage that still burns in his gut has switched sides. While it taunts him for being so easily won over, the resentment he still feels toward her is inconveniently tangled up with the memory of how smooth her thighs felt wrapped around his waist, the sounds she made as she arched beneath him. He is scared to unravel it, afraid that it will cloud his judgment even more.
He had been so sure that she was on a seduction mission. Marian is determined to be a martyr-it was plain then, it is plainer now. But her angelic sacrifice would have been tarnished if it became clear that she was weighted down by another man’s child. He had expected her denials, but not her entreaties against a cold marriage. When she had met his challenges with promises, the poison of hope had begun to flow in his veins once again; it surged even stronger when she kissed him.
Suddenly he was convinced that the only way to staunch it was to take what he had desired for four years. Once he had her, his brain insisted, he would be fine; he could settle back into a sea of blessed numbness and deal with the evidence of her betrayal later. There was also the insidious whisper that it may be one of the few times she would welcome him eagerly; that alone was worth twenty bastards.
But then, somehow, it turned into the most erotic disaster of his life. Guy had never been with a virgin before, but he knew enough to recognize her gasp of pain for what it was, knew enough to belatedly realize what she was trying to tell him. He had felt like a brute, yes, but he had also experienced a rush of delirious joy. He had claimed something of her that Hood did not; if he feels even a hint of shame over how happy that makes him, the scraps are well hidden. The joy is, however, tempered by one realization: having her has done nothing to stem his desire. If anything, it is stronger than ever. She had told him that she could not love a man in sides; he only sees sides, and yet he loves her all the same.
That is why he has to leave today. He will go to Jerusalem and finish up this business with King Richard so he can return, marry her, and end all this confusion. It is foolish to think that things will be simpler when she is his wife and he her husband-he knows this-but at least then he will have rights. At least he will have control under God and the Law, if not within the realm of his own emotions.
Bracing himself on his arms, he starts to climb over her sleeping form. Hovering over her chest, he hears the swift hiss of a quickly drawn breath. He glances down. The torch outside failed hours earlier, and the early morning half-light paints her eyelids a cool violet and her mouth a pale rose. She looks to be asleep, but her eyelashes flutter. Guy is tempted to kiss her, to see if whatever rare stars aligned in her head last night are still in position. But then he remembers her immediate retreat, the press of her palms pushing him away, and it reminds him that he can still not pinpoint her exact motivation. Was it an apology or a challenge? A promise or a taunt? Whatever her intentions, it feels like a proclamation of the latter. See how much power I have over you, it says.
Guy moves the rest of the way over her and crosses to the stand that holds a small basin of water. As he splashes it over his face, he senses her eyes on his back; when he turns to check, however, she is still and silent. He continues to dress, forgoing the outer jacket due to the heat. In the middle of pulling a thin black shirt over his head, it occurs to him that the camp is waking up and here she is with nothing fit to wear outside.
Her recklessness brings a rush of anger, but it is mixed with a hefty dose of fear. He must leave or lose his head, and here she seems to be possessed by one insane idea after another. It is testament to his own weakness that he has been sucked into most of them.
“I am going to find you some clothing. Stay here,” he tells the silence. It comes out more sharply than he intended; he thinks he sees her shoulders tense.
There is no guard waiting outside for him, a fact that Guy notes with surprise and a good deal of relief. A single Crusader trudges past, leading a reluctant horse by a taut rein. A few men huddle in front of a tent several paces away, casting idle glances in his direction. Considering the particulars surrounding his presence here, you would think that they would be more alarmed, but he is beginning to see how tired the entire camp is, just how ready they are to return to England. All but for their King.
As he makes his way to Marian’s tent, he begins to wonder if she knocked out her guard. His fear grows stronger when he sees the slouched figure poised before its entryway. He really wishes that she would stop punching people.
Fortunately, the man turns out to be asleep instead of unconscious. It is the young one, the one who looks like he is sixteen. No wonder they have not reclaimed the Holy Land, Guy thinks darkly.
He nudges the boy with a toe. “Get up,” he orders, and then nudges harder.
The guard blinks up at him for a few seconds before springing to his feet. “Sir Guy. It is early. Lady Marian is not-,”
“Lady Marian is not inside,” he finishes, and then smiles when the boy goes white. At this point, Guy is fairly certain that no one would sound an alarm, but he can use the man’s fear. “What is your name?”
“William,” the boy says morosely. “We have to tell someone.”
“No we don’t. She is with me,” Guy snaps. “If anyone asks, she is in there and does not want to be disturbed.” He holds up a change purse, dumps out a few coins. “But I have a favor to ask.”
William’s eyes dart to the side. “What sort of favor?”
Guy bites back frustration. Things are easier when you can yell at a guard and have him scamper off to help. “I need you to procure a few things for me. And then no one needs to know about the sleeping.”
It takes a few more threats, but William finally agrees to try his best, and Guy moves on to making preparations for Jerusalem. It is an infuriating task-every person he asks about a horse or food refers him to another who is just as unhelpful. Sometimes he ends up back at the first man he asked, only to have him suddenly remember how to procure Guy’s original request. The structure of the camp is in shambles; Guy had expected to be questioned again and again about his motives; instead he has a hard enough time catching soldiers awake.
He is loitering in front of a blacksmith’s tent when he hears the raised voice of Robin’s servant approaching around the corner. Guy steps back, out of sight.
“It is Gisborne’s doing, I know it,” the man frets. “We should do something.”
“We do not know what happened, Much,” the Saracen woman says.
“It does not take a scholar to figure it out. He was bleeding and unconscious. He is still unconscious!”
“We have been over this. He was unconscious; now he is sleeping. It will be fine. Please be quiet now, unless you spot something clean enough to use as a needle.”
As Guy listens to the sound of the manservant’s whinging fade away, he marvels at the eternal irony of being glad that Hood is not dead. It would have made things difficult, personally and politically. And yet his immediate relief is soon replaced by the worry that he has left Marian too long. It is already noon. He heads back toward his tent and takes the last few strides too quickly, pushing back the flap with one sweeping gesture only to come face to face with Marian’s bare back.
“Guy!” she scolds over her shoulder as she scrambles to pull her top over her head. He turns away out of habit, but then thinks better of it. This is his tent, after all, and he has seen more of her skin than that.
He watches as she smoothes the fabric down far longer than necessary, before consenting to face him. He had asked William to go to Acre and find the same sort of garment that they had bought for her when they first arrived, the kind that had been destroyed when she was tending to his wounds. He was successful; the one she wears now is a dark mulberry. It complements the flush staining her cheeks, and he is once again taken aback by how radiant she looks even in the worst of situations.
“I see that William was here,” he says as casually as he can manage, gesturing to the stack of clothing and the tray of uneaten food that is arranged to one side. “Good.”
“He was.” Her eyes flicker to meet his, then dance away. He has not seen her fidget this much since the first time he visited her and Edward at Knighton. Back then he thought that it was maidenly modesty; now he knows that it is nerves.
“You should eat,” he tells her, starting to idly gather the few items of clothing he will be taking with him. He hears the rustle of bed linens as she sits, but no sounds that resemble a clinking glass or tearing bread. She is perched on the edge, hands folded in her lap as she ignores the array before her. Guy had asked William to get whatever he could find, the more expensive the better, but she hasn’t touched any of it, not a fig or piece of flatbread or whatever white substance is in the small wooden bowl.
“You do not like it,” he says.
“Like what?” she asks before following his gaze to the untouched meal before her. “Oh,” she says dumbly. “No, it is . . . very considerate of you.” She picks up a pale wafer of flatbread but does not attempt to eat it. “Guy,” she starts, staring at her hands even as she charges ahead boldly. “Last night was a-,”
“Last night was a mistake,” he says quickly before she can elaborate; he has, after all, heard these lines before.
She looks surprised. “It was?” she asks, blinking, before correcting herself. “No. Yes, it was.”
“There could be a child,” he says bluntly, and tries to ignore the twinge of hurt that passes through him when she blanches. “Circumstances being what they are, it was . . . unwise.”
She begins to break the bread into tiny pieces. “Are you sure the King will not let us marry?” she asks between snaps.
He would be happier to hear her ask that if she did not look as though someone had requested she eat her own arm. “He will not,” he says tersely.
“But surely if we can explain the situation. . .”
“He will not, Marian,” he barks, cutting her off. What a rosy picture of Richard she must hold in her head-and how similar it is to Hood’s, he thinks darkly. A part of him longs to tear down her lofty ideals in the same way that he had done the outlaw’s, but he is too afraid that by destroying the cause, he will destroy the guilt that binds her to him. His anger at himself turns outward. “Are you going to eat the bread or break it into pieces like a madwoman?”
Her head whips up, and he is surprised to find how relieved he is to see the indignation back in her eyes. Her resigned demureness was beginning to scare him. She snaps it into three more parts before slowly bringing a piece up to chew.
He takes a seat by her on the bed, causing her to immediately lifts the tray and set it between them. “You should eat as well,” she says coolly, before tearing a wounded grape from a full bunch and popping it in her mouth. Afterwards, she licks the juice from her index finger. It is not rude in any way, or even suggestive, but Guy’s mind suddenly flashes to memory of her lips against his neck when he was moving inside her. He shifts uncomfortably. It is difficult to align the woman who welcomed him passionately last night with the one who sits here now as though she is teaching a lesson on posture. More proof that he does not have any inkling what is going on inside her head.
To distract himself, he reaches for a grape; his knuckles brush her hand when she reaches for it at the same time, and they both draw back.
“You can have it,” he says.
“No. It is yours.”
“I really don’t mind.”
“There are twenty there. I will have another.”
“Eat the grape, Marian.”
“I will eat what I like, Guy.” To prove her point she reaches beyond the fruit, picks up the bowl of mystery porridge, dips a finger in it and tastes it. Her nose wrinkles. “What is this?”
“I don’t know. Holy Land food was never my favorite,” he says, realizing too late that he has just offered up a sore spot to be poked. She opens her mouth, and he prepares himself for attack.
“The things you told me last night, are they true?”
It is not the question he expected. “I really do not know when my birthday is.”
“No, not about that. About . . . about your family.”
Guy stands up. He had said a lot of things in the heat of the moment that he would have rather not shared. “That is not something I lie about,” he says shortly.
“Then I did not realize the true weight of what I asked you to do. I am sorry for that.”
An apology is the last thing he expected, and he can only stare at her dumbly as she tucks a wing of hair behind her ear. He struggles to find the proper response.
Before he can speak, however, she begins to speak in a rush. “But it does not excuse the wanton violence that I witnessed you commit against people who had no means of defending themselves.”
If he had no idea what to say before, he has even less now. “What does this have to do with anything?”
“If we are to be married, you should know how I feel about things. And I feel that the people of Nottingham were treated abominably under Vasey’s rule. He was a monster. And you followed him blindly.” She pins him with her gaze, chin set, jaw stubborn. In the brief second before his pride bucks against being chastised, he wonders what she is so desperate to prove.
“Do not lecture me on morals,” he says tightly. “You who manipulate everyone in your path for your own ends.”
“The two have nothing to do with one another! And I do not manipulate everyone,” she mutters, reaching for another piece of flatbread to resume her crazy-person snapping.
“Just me, then,” he says, and then waits for a response that never comes. He had been feeling guilty about not telling her of Jerusalem earlier, but that is no longer the case. He turns to resume gathering his things. “Right, well, you will have plenty of time to dig up your grievances against me when I am gone. Perhaps you can make a list.”
“Gone?”
“I am leaving for Jerusalem today.”
The silence behind him is thunderous, but he refuses to give in to the desire to search out her reaction. “Why?” she finally asks from behind him, her voice tight.
“Richard has ordered me there. And when I return he has promised me that we can be married-he has promised me land. Things will be better,” he says, turning around to face her dark expression. “For us.”
She drops her eyes, but not before he sees how tight her mouth is. “And what are you to do in Jerusalem?”
The reminder of his own ignorance chafes. “I do not know. Hopefully it will be quick. I will return as soon as possible, I promise. In case you are-,”
She cuts him off. “You mean you did not ask?”
“I asked. He did not tell me.”
“How is it that you are not curious?” she asks in disbelief before her eyes narrow. “You are lying to me.”
“What?”
“You promised,” she insists, high color creeping back into her cheeks. “And yet after . . . after everything that has passed between us, you would still leave me in the dark.” Abruptly, she stands to leave. “Do not let me keep you. Safe wishes for your journey.”
Caught unawares, he barely has time to catch her arm before she is passed him. “I am not lying!” he yells, which only earns him a hissed request not to touch her. He hangs on, tries something softer. “Marian, why do you always think the worst of me?”
“Because I have seen the worst of you. Let me go.”
He is about to release her with a veiled reminder that she is his wife in everything but name, but then he sees how her eyes are glistening; she is close to tears. “I am not lying,” he repeats softly when the shock has passed. “I will show you everything I have. Will you stay?”
Her eyes widen, and she darts a longing glance toward the outside. “Please,” he says uncomfortably, and is relieved when she finally nods.
He walks over to his bag, pulls out the parchment that Richard gave him. “This is all I know,” he tells her before she rips it out of his hands as though it were the most precious gift that he had ever given her.
“They are only directions,” she says, giving him a confused glance.
“I am to meet a man named Baldrick there when I reach the city. He will tell me more.”
“What do you think it is?”
Nothing you will approve of, he thinks darkly. Outwardly, however, he only shrugs.
“I do not understand. Why does he not send--,” she starts before cutting herself off. He watches as she calmly folds the paper and hands it back to him, all the while evading his gaze.
“You meant to ask why does he not send Hood. Say it if you are going to say it.”
She only presses her lips together.
The jealousy that he has been holding at bay with the memory of last night overflows its cage. “I have swallowed more of your betrayals than I can count, Marian. I will not suffer another,” he warns.
He expects her to rage at that, but instead she only looks at him sideways. “Very well, then,” she says. “Take me with you.”
“What?”
“Take me with you,” she repeats, stepping forward and smiling widely enough that her dimples are out in full force. “I can help.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps. “It is not safe. I have no idea what is waiting for me.”
“Why is it ridiculous? I can think. I can fight. You will need someone.”
She moves closer, puts a tentative hand on his arm. He feels the warmth through his sleeve, feels his body respond. No, last night did not solve anything.
“Please, Guy.” She looks up at him through her lashes, and for a second he feels his resolve weaken. Truthfully, she is more competent than all of Nottingham’s guards combined. He has never seen someone so adept at evading questions, so quick on their feet when caught in a lie; he would almost admire it if he were not the rock she used to sharpen her skills. And he does not want to leave her here alone, leave her close to him; his mind goes dark at the thought of it.
But then he spots the calculating gleam in her eye, the way she logs each and every reaction. He will not be bought with pats to the shoulder.
Guy leans over so that he is on level with her ear. “If you are going to seduce me, do it properly,” he says, and doesn’t know whether to feel triumphant or disappointed when she jerks back, startled. For a few moments they regard each other warily. “You are staying here,” he says with finality. “Away from Hood.”
“Despite what you might think, I am not a whore. I believe I have proven myself in that respect at least,” she says primly. “I will return to my tent. Let me know when you are leaving-I should say goodbye.”
He feels a flood of shame, remorse. The words are polite, but there is a coldness that was not there before as she brushes past him on her way out. He prefers her anger to icy detachment.
“I am sorry, Marian. For everything . . . for all of the scars.” He tries to swallow, finds that he can’t. “You are the last thing that I have ever wanted to hurt,” he finishes. But when he turns to see if she understands what he is trying to say, she is already gone.