Serpents
Marian felt like the world's most coddled prisoner. From her perch at the window, she surveyed her chambers in the early morning light. The embellished stone hearth was wide, and the fire it provided was more than adequate for chilly Fall nights. The ceilings were high, the tapestries were rich, and the furniture-the high-posted bed, the small writing desk, the ornate chair by the fire-were all made of the same dark wood, the kind that reflected the red of the flames come evening time. It was nicer than Knighton, with its strange drafts, leaking roof, and threadbare linens. But Marian missed her home with a fierceness that swelled every time she opened her eyes to a ceiling made of stone rather than timber.
A noise from the courtyard drew her attention. A cart with thick wooden wheels rattled through the gates, pulled by two castle guards and piled high with heavy burlap bags that threatened to spill over the sides. Marian recognized its contents as the villages’ “surplus” grain. If the coming winter was hard, the people would have nothing to fall back on, and Vasey would use it to reward those peasants who had information that he desired. Marian knew what this year’s question was likely to be: Where was Robin Hood?
Realizing that she should pay attention to where it was taken on the off-chance that Robin might have the opportunity to steal it and give it back to its rightful owners, Marian leaned forward just as the cart’s back wheel caught on a raised stone. The guards tried to free it by rocking it back and forth, but only succeeded in dislodging the top layer of bags, which toppled over the side and split on the flagstones. The smaller guard was attempting to scoop the grain back into a split sack when a familiar bark rang out from below.
“Leave it!” Guy ordered, striding to the center of the courtyard. “It will be left to rot anyway.”
“But Sir Guy--,”
“Leave it,” he growled and then pointed to a guard who had been watching the proceedings and yawning. “You. Stop being useless. Help free the cart and then take it. . .”
Marian frowned as a gust of wind swallowed the last half of the sentence. Really, of all the times that Guy could have chosen to speak in a normal tone of voice . . . Stretching her ears as far as they could go, she prayed that he would repeat himself.
“. . . and quickly for once,” Guy sneered.
She sighed-so much for things being easy. As much as she wished that she could get the information she desired from another person, she knew that Guy was the best option, especially now that his anger had shown the first signs of thawing. Her nighttime visit to Locksley had proved more effective than expected; he still watched her like a hawk whenever they were forced to be in one another’s company, but he no longer glared holes in her back. He no longer mimicked the Sheriff’s taunts or mentioned the disastrous wedding attempt. And, most importantly, he no longer set fire to her possessions.
Now she watched as Guy prowled about the courtyard, his form a decisive black against the grey of stone and sky. She wished that she could remember the magical words she had babbled that night. Instead the only memory left to her was how disconcerted she felt when she found him half-dressed and soaked in the oranges of the fire. It was not her best moment; the way she had snapped at Robin afterward haunted her still, for it had been a snap of guilt, a snap of shame at having been caught-although caught at what, she couldn’t say.
Suddenly Guy stopped walking and looked toward her window, leaving her no time to duck inside and avoid his gaze. He seemed as surprised as she was to find her watching. Flustered, Marian acknowledged him with a nod and then abandoned her post, pulling her dressing robe tightly around her shoulders. That should teach her not to lurk at windows when there were better things to be done.
Marian had not been allowed to see her father ever since he had been thrown in the dungeon. That didn’t mean that she wouldn’t keep trying. She had petitioned the Sheriff several times on his behalf, only to be told to go to her room like a recalcitrant child. Living in the castle had taught her Vasey’s routine; he would storm through the halls in the morning, Guy nipping at his heels, and then settle in the Great Hall for nuncheon. Today she would be waiting. If he would not let her attend him, then at least he could have someone take her father warmer clothing.
She cast a glance toward her sewing basket, which was perched on the raised ledge that ran along the bottom of the hearth. She had been working on mending several padded jacket, adding extra wool to guard against the creeping chill. There were still a few hours left to finish it.
Marian lifted the latest one from where it covered the basket, contemplating the work that was still needed as she reached for the needle. The first thing she heard was a low hiss, followed by the scrape of something quickly moving. By the time she looked down, the snake was already attacking, its mouth wide and pink.
Her hand let go of the jacket as she stumbled backward until her hip knocked into the sharp corner of her writing desk. Marian could only watch in horror as the snake slithered from the basket and nosed its way beneath the fallen clothing. After wriggling several times, its tail disappeared.
Marian told herself to take a deep breath. It was just a snake-just a snake!-and a non-poisonous one at that. The tan and black markings were those of a garden snake, not a black adder. The poor creature had obviously been drawn to the lingering heat of the fire and crawled into her sewing basket to hide until the day brought more warmth. She had startled it as much as it had startled her. All she needed to do was to approach it silently, wrap it in the jacket, and take it outside. That’s all.
If only the idea of doing any of that didn’t make her stomach heave.
Marian hated snakes, had hated them ever since she was a girl. Back when Robin had shown his affection by pulling hair and jumping out from behind corners, this weakness had delighted him. The few times that they were able to escape into the forest on their own, he would tell her that they were coiled beneath every rock. Once he had found one, picked it up, and threatened to throw it at her. Robin’s return had resurrected many good memories of their time as children, memories that she had tried her hardest to bury when he had left for the Crusades. That was not one of them.
She inched forward, but the sight of a tiny forked tongue darting out from the jacket’s collar was enough to send her into a humiliating full-scale retreat that ended with her climbing on the wobbly desk chair. What if she just stayed here until it slithered away? That seemed like a much better plan than her first one. Yes, that was what she would do. She was congratulating herself for coming up with such a simple-yet-brilliant solution when there was a knock on her chamber door.
A rescuer! Marian thought, and offered up a prayer of thanks. Now that she could be honest, standing on the chair for all eternity was a horrible plan. Hoping that it was her assigned guard for the day, Marian bid the visitor to come in.
“Marian, I wanted a word,” Guy said as he pushed the door open, in a tone that was more order than request. As soon as his hand left the knocker, he crossed his arms over his chest, a defensive gesture that matched the frown on his face-the frown that was soon replaced by surprise when he spotted Marian balancing on a chair in her night clothes.
Marian wanted to kick herself. She might have tried if she weren’t so afraid of losing her balance and toppling on the floor with the snake and, now, her frequently irate former betrothed.
His eyes roved over her body, causing her body to stiffen. She wore her thickest nightgown and dressing robe, but the perusal made her uncomfortable enough to pull the flaps of the robe tighter over her chest.
“You are standing on a chair,” Guy said when his gaze finally returned to her eyes. He spoke as though this was something she did not know.
Marian’s toes curled in defiance. “I am,” she replied, hoping that her matter-of-fact tone would dissuade him from inquiring further.
No such luck.
“Why are you standing on a chair?” Guy asked, pressing the matter.
‘What is it that you wanted?” Marian said. She did not want Guy’s help-she was still angry at him for saying nothing to help her father, even though the action that caused his imprisonment was in defense of Guy’s own life.
Guy’s eyes narrowed when he heard the peevishness in her voice. “Nothing,” he growled, turning to go. “I will leave you.”
The jacket started to ripple just as Guy wrestled the door open. Marian’s insides went green.
“Wait!” she cried. “There is a snake.”
“A snake?”
“Yes.” She pointed to the floor. “Beneath that jacket.”
Guy shut the door and approached the mound with caution. The jangle of his boots and keys made the creature writhe more.
“Is it poisonous?” he asked.
Was he trying to increase her humiliation?
“I do not believe so. Just . . . slimy,” she finished lamely. On second thought, why must she increase her own humiliation?
Guy did not move, preferring instead to stare at her with an expression of dawning understanding. “You are afraid of snakes,” he said.
For God’s sake, it wasn’t alchemy. “Yes,” she said, working hard to smother her annoyance and keep her voice conciliatory. “I know that I do not have much right to beg favors of you, Sir Guy, but if you could remove it, I would be forever grateful.”
Instead of moving toward the jacket, Guy took several steps toward her, stopping next to the desk. Her fingers wrapped around the back of the chair; there was no room to retreat.
“I am surprised, Marian. I would not have thought you afraid of such things.”
She looked down at him, surprised to find his eyes lightened by what could only be humor. He was mocking her.
She snapped. “And I suppose you aren’t afraid of anything?”
“I do not fear reptiles,” he said dismissively. “But you are a woman. It is understandable.”
He said it as though he were pardoning her for a crime. Rage filled her breast, although she managed to keep her voice tight and controlled.
“Pray tell me-what do men fear?” she asked, looking down at him and wishing as she often did that they could be entirely frank with one another. For she knew what Guy feared even if he did not. Humiliation. Anonymity. Powerlessness.
A moment passed, and Marian realized that they were holding one another’s gazes for the longest time since . . . well, perhaps ever. She wondered if the surprise showed on her face, because for a brief second Guy’s expression of detached amusement cracked, softened.
Then he realized his error.
“Men fear nothing,” Guy sneered, his eyes shuttered and cold once again.
A brief flare of disappointment fluttered in her stomach, but she pushed it away. “Then you will not mind taking care of my snake,” she said. She needed to get them back on familiar ground; she needed to get Guy out of her chamber.
Marian turned to point at the jacket again, and then froze. The snake’s brown head was sticking out from the sleeve, moving slightly as it surveyed the terrain of the castle floor. And then it was moving, sliding, curving, essing-and headed toward her chair. She stepped higher onto the desk, hoping that the extra few hands of height would ease the panic that bumped beneath her breastbone. It did not.
From her lofty perch, she watched the tail disappear beneath the edge of the desk. It was coming for her, she thought wildly. It would slither up the chair legs, crawl on the desk, and attach itself to her leg like a vine. She could already feel the rasp of scales around her ankles. She had to get off the desk; it didn’t matter how.
Marian leapt toward Guy. He caught her at the last second, his gloved hands wrapping around her in a way that slowed the slide down his body but did not prevent it. His shock was apparent. He blinked down at her, his hands dancing about her waist, settling and releasing as though they did not quite know what was appropriate.
The position of her own body came to her in parts. Her arms were wrapped around his neck, and her toes barely touched the ground. His mouth was too close to hers, and the memory of their one aborted kiss shouldered its way into her mind unbidden. She had run from one enemy only to jump into the arms of another.
“Please,” she said, her voice cracking in the most alarming way. When his brow creased, Marian realized that she should have been more specific. “The snake,” she croaked. “Please.”
His eyes narrowed, and then he turned, releasing her so abruptly that she stumbled back into the stone wall. She watched him stride to the desk. The snake had curled its tail around the front leg, but its head and neck still searched for an exit. Guy lifted his heel.
“Don’t kill it!” Marian cried.
He paused, turning to look at her as though she were deranged. “I thought--,”
“It’s just . . . lost,” she said.
Guy lowered his foot; she did not know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. She licked her lips, her fingers digging into the jagged stone of her chamber walls. “Take it to the courtyard,” she ordered, but then an image of it creeping back up the stairs made her change her mind. “On second thought, take it to the forest. The deepest part. Or find some grass in a field that’s very far away. Just . . . don’t kill it,” she finished in full babble.
The look he gave her was indecipherable. “Marian, you are too sympathetic.”
Marian stared at the man in front of her. She knows that-oh, how she knows that. She made a show of pressing her lips together, emphasizing her silence.
After heaving a sigh, Guy leaned over and grabbed the snake by the neck without a single flinch, not even when it opened its mouth and bit the leather of his glove. It whipped and writhed in his hand.
Marian closed her eyes to keep from being sick. She heard the thud of his footsteps walking by her and the creak of the door opening. Guy barked for one of the guards to enter. By the time she had found enough bravery to peek, Guy was holding out the wriggling creature to a very confused looking man in castle livery.
“Take this to the forest,” he said.
The man looked toward Marian as though seeking confirmation that this was a joke.
“But Sir,” he said, his eyes sliding back to Guy when Marian said nothing, “the Sheriff said that he wanted us ready in case--,”
“Did I ask you what the Sheriff said?”
The guard shifted uneasily. “It’s just a snake.”
“I know it’s a snake,” Guy said. “And I want it taken to the forest.”
“Is it a special snake, Sir?”
Guy let out a growl of frustration and pushed the serpent into the man’s chest, violently enough that the guard stumbled backward. He took it, obviously realizing that he should save his breath. After muttering his assent, the guard exited the room. Marian was alone with Guy once again.
“Thank you,” she said. “Truly, I do not know what I would have done.” Now that the snake was gone, she felt much more at ease. She would feel entirely at ease once Guy was gone as well.
“I do not wish to keep you any longer,” she told him, crossing to pick up the jacket. “I fear I have wasted enough of your time already.”
She concentrated on dusting off the sleeves. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Guy still watched her.
“You do not waste my time,” Guy said, and Marian stiffened. She had not heard that tone-the one that was warm and pompous and tender and demanding reciprocation-since the failed wedding. She shot him a wary glance. He took it as a signal to step closer.
“I have been thinking about what you said,” Guy continued.
Oh Lord, she knew that night would come back to haunt her. She brought the hem of the jacket up to her nose and scratched at an invisible spot. “About what?”
Guy sniffed and looked away, as though uncomfortable at having to remind her. “About friendship,” he said darkly. “About your offer of friendship.”
Marian paused as words and phrases began to reappear in her memory. Not knowing how to respond, she studied him in silence.
Guy brought a fist to his mouth to cover a small cough. “I realize that I may not have expressed my gratitude for saving my life the other day in an appropriate manner.”
“You have more than repaid me with today’s act of bravery,” she said, offering him a tight smile in the hopes that it would bring the conversation to an end.
Encouraged, Guy stepped forward again. “It is not enough,” he said, his voice low and unnerving. He was too close. It confused her-it always confused her. She needed to make him retreat.
“You can convince the Sheriff to release my father from the dungeon,” she attacked. “He is there, after all, because of my defense of you.”
The accusation had the desired effect. Guy stopped and turned away. “That is out of my control.”
“Isn’t it convenient how many things are out of your control?” she snapped, not caring when he growled her name in warning. She jerked her head toward the jacket. “I need to finish this. Then perhaps I can pass it off to someone who is not so inconvenienced by my father’s comfort.” She showed him her back. “Good day, Sir Guy.”
Marian listened for the stomp of footsteps and the slam of a door, but they never came. Instead she heard a light jingle of keys and a creak of leather, neither of which faded to indicate that their bearer had moved away.
“That is for your father?” he asked from behind her.
“Yes,” she said, and then nodded toward the two others stacked by her basket. “And those. He needs warmer clothing. I have been unable to take it to him.”
The jingle moved closer. She whirled around to find him holding out a hand.
“I will take it,” he said with a small, almost private sigh.
“It is not done.”
“Then I will take the others.”
“What about the Sheriff?”
“I will deal with Vasey,” he said.
Her pride told her to refuse; she knew that all of Guy’s gifts came with strings, that there was an endless tally of things he had done for her that she would never be able to repay and never wanted to repay. She had already added one mark today. But this was for her father, and if she were being honest, the idea of letting him solve this second problem was so very tempting.
She crossed to pick up the pile of clothing, making sure to keep a good arm’s length between her and his shoulders, which seem to be growing wider every second that he is in the room. When she handed them over, his fingers brushed her wrist.
“I do not trust the jailer,” she said, quickly stepping back.
“Then I will deliver them directly,” he said and then, after a slight quirk of his lips, strode toward the door. His fingers had just wrapped around the knocker when he paused. “Marian, I hope-nay, I ask-that you will consider this the first act of our friendship.” He hesitated over the next few words. “And perhaps in time . . .,” he said, and then let them trail off.
If she had a response to that, it was stuck in her throat. With a final curt nod, he shut the door, leaving Marian to wonder why she let herself be drawn into deals with Guy of Gisborne over and over and over again.
A noise from the courtyard drew her attention. A cart with thick wooden wheels rattled through the gates, pulled by two castle guards and piled high with heavy burlap bags that threatened to spill over the sides. Marian recognized its contents as the villages’ “surplus” grain. If the coming winter was hard, the people would have nothing to fall back on, and Vasey would use it to reward those peasants who had information that he desired. Marian knew what this year’s question was likely to be: Where was Robin Hood?
Realizing that she should pay attention to where it was taken on the off-chance that Robin might have the opportunity to steal it and give it back to its rightful owners, Marian leaned forward just as the cart’s back wheel caught on a raised stone. The guards tried to free it by rocking it back and forth, but only succeeded in dislodging the top layer of bags, which toppled over the side and split on the flagstones. The smaller guard was attempting to scoop the grain back into a split sack when a familiar bark rang out from below.
“Leave it!” Guy ordered, striding to the center of the courtyard. “It will be left to rot anyway.”
“But Sir Guy--,”
“Leave it,” he growled and then pointed to a guard who had been watching the proceedings and yawning. “You. Stop being useless. Help free the cart and then take it. . .”
Marian frowned as a gust of wind swallowed the last half of the sentence. Really, of all the times that Guy could have chosen to speak in a normal tone of voice . . . Stretching her ears as far as they could go, she prayed that he would repeat himself.
“. . . and quickly for once,” Guy sneered.
She sighed-so much for things being easy. As much as she wished that she could get the information she desired from another person, she knew that Guy was the best option, especially now that his anger had shown the first signs of thawing. Her nighttime visit to Locksley had proved more effective than expected; he still watched her like a hawk whenever they were forced to be in one another’s company, but he no longer glared holes in her back. He no longer mimicked the Sheriff’s taunts or mentioned the disastrous wedding attempt. And, most importantly, he no longer set fire to her possessions.
Now she watched as Guy prowled about the courtyard, his form a decisive black against the grey of stone and sky. She wished that she could remember the magical words she had babbled that night. Instead the only memory left to her was how disconcerted she felt when she found him half-dressed and soaked in the oranges of the fire. It was not her best moment; the way she had snapped at Robin afterward haunted her still, for it had been a snap of guilt, a snap of shame at having been caught-although caught at what, she couldn’t say.
Suddenly Guy stopped walking and looked toward her window, leaving her no time to duck inside and avoid his gaze. He seemed as surprised as she was to find her watching. Flustered, Marian acknowledged him with a nod and then abandoned her post, pulling her dressing robe tightly around her shoulders. That should teach her not to lurk at windows when there were better things to be done.
Marian had not been allowed to see her father ever since he had been thrown in the dungeon. That didn’t mean that she wouldn’t keep trying. She had petitioned the Sheriff several times on his behalf, only to be told to go to her room like a recalcitrant child. Living in the castle had taught her Vasey’s routine; he would storm through the halls in the morning, Guy nipping at his heels, and then settle in the Great Hall for nuncheon. Today she would be waiting. If he would not let her attend him, then at least he could have someone take her father warmer clothing.
She cast a glance toward her sewing basket, which was perched on the raised ledge that ran along the bottom of the hearth. She had been working on mending several padded jacket, adding extra wool to guard against the creeping chill. There were still a few hours left to finish it.
Marian lifted the latest one from where it covered the basket, contemplating the work that was still needed as she reached for the needle. The first thing she heard was a low hiss, followed by the scrape of something quickly moving. By the time she looked down, the snake was already attacking, its mouth wide and pink.
Her hand let go of the jacket as she stumbled backward until her hip knocked into the sharp corner of her writing desk. Marian could only watch in horror as the snake slithered from the basket and nosed its way beneath the fallen clothing. After wriggling several times, its tail disappeared.
Marian told herself to take a deep breath. It was just a snake-just a snake!-and a non-poisonous one at that. The tan and black markings were those of a garden snake, not a black adder. The poor creature had obviously been drawn to the lingering heat of the fire and crawled into her sewing basket to hide until the day brought more warmth. She had startled it as much as it had startled her. All she needed to do was to approach it silently, wrap it in the jacket, and take it outside. That’s all.
If only the idea of doing any of that didn’t make her stomach heave.
Marian hated snakes, had hated them ever since she was a girl. Back when Robin had shown his affection by pulling hair and jumping out from behind corners, this weakness had delighted him. The few times that they were able to escape into the forest on their own, he would tell her that they were coiled beneath every rock. Once he had found one, picked it up, and threatened to throw it at her. Robin’s return had resurrected many good memories of their time as children, memories that she had tried her hardest to bury when he had left for the Crusades. That was not one of them.
She inched forward, but the sight of a tiny forked tongue darting out from the jacket’s collar was enough to send her into a humiliating full-scale retreat that ended with her climbing on the wobbly desk chair. What if she just stayed here until it slithered away? That seemed like a much better plan than her first one. Yes, that was what she would do. She was congratulating herself for coming up with such a simple-yet-brilliant solution when there was a knock on her chamber door.
A rescuer! Marian thought, and offered up a prayer of thanks. Now that she could be honest, standing on the chair for all eternity was a horrible plan. Hoping that it was her assigned guard for the day, Marian bid the visitor to come in.
“Marian, I wanted a word,” Guy said as he pushed the door open, in a tone that was more order than request. As soon as his hand left the knocker, he crossed his arms over his chest, a defensive gesture that matched the frown on his face-the frown that was soon replaced by surprise when he spotted Marian balancing on a chair in her night clothes.
Marian wanted to kick herself. She might have tried if she weren’t so afraid of losing her balance and toppling on the floor with the snake and, now, her frequently irate former betrothed.
His eyes roved over her body, causing her body to stiffen. She wore her thickest nightgown and dressing robe, but the perusal made her uncomfortable enough to pull the flaps of the robe tighter over her chest.
“You are standing on a chair,” Guy said when his gaze finally returned to her eyes. He spoke as though this was something she did not know.
Marian’s toes curled in defiance. “I am,” she replied, hoping that her matter-of-fact tone would dissuade him from inquiring further.
No such luck.
“Why are you standing on a chair?” Guy asked, pressing the matter.
‘What is it that you wanted?” Marian said. She did not want Guy’s help-she was still angry at him for saying nothing to help her father, even though the action that caused his imprisonment was in defense of Guy’s own life.
Guy’s eyes narrowed when he heard the peevishness in her voice. “Nothing,” he growled, turning to go. “I will leave you.”
The jacket started to ripple just as Guy wrestled the door open. Marian’s insides went green.
“Wait!” she cried. “There is a snake.”
“A snake?”
“Yes.” She pointed to the floor. “Beneath that jacket.”
Guy shut the door and approached the mound with caution. The jangle of his boots and keys made the creature writhe more.
“Is it poisonous?” he asked.
Was he trying to increase her humiliation?
“I do not believe so. Just . . . slimy,” she finished lamely. On second thought, why must she increase her own humiliation?
Guy did not move, preferring instead to stare at her with an expression of dawning understanding. “You are afraid of snakes,” he said.
For God’s sake, it wasn’t alchemy. “Yes,” she said, working hard to smother her annoyance and keep her voice conciliatory. “I know that I do not have much right to beg favors of you, Sir Guy, but if you could remove it, I would be forever grateful.”
Instead of moving toward the jacket, Guy took several steps toward her, stopping next to the desk. Her fingers wrapped around the back of the chair; there was no room to retreat.
“I am surprised, Marian. I would not have thought you afraid of such things.”
She looked down at him, surprised to find his eyes lightened by what could only be humor. He was mocking her.
She snapped. “And I suppose you aren’t afraid of anything?”
“I do not fear reptiles,” he said dismissively. “But you are a woman. It is understandable.”
He said it as though he were pardoning her for a crime. Rage filled her breast, although she managed to keep her voice tight and controlled.
“Pray tell me-what do men fear?” she asked, looking down at him and wishing as she often did that they could be entirely frank with one another. For she knew what Guy feared even if he did not. Humiliation. Anonymity. Powerlessness.
A moment passed, and Marian realized that they were holding one another’s gazes for the longest time since . . . well, perhaps ever. She wondered if the surprise showed on her face, because for a brief second Guy’s expression of detached amusement cracked, softened.
Then he realized his error.
“Men fear nothing,” Guy sneered, his eyes shuttered and cold once again.
A brief flare of disappointment fluttered in her stomach, but she pushed it away. “Then you will not mind taking care of my snake,” she said. She needed to get them back on familiar ground; she needed to get Guy out of her chamber.
Marian turned to point at the jacket again, and then froze. The snake’s brown head was sticking out from the sleeve, moving slightly as it surveyed the terrain of the castle floor. And then it was moving, sliding, curving, essing-and headed toward her chair. She stepped higher onto the desk, hoping that the extra few hands of height would ease the panic that bumped beneath her breastbone. It did not.
From her lofty perch, she watched the tail disappear beneath the edge of the desk. It was coming for her, she thought wildly. It would slither up the chair legs, crawl on the desk, and attach itself to her leg like a vine. She could already feel the rasp of scales around her ankles. She had to get off the desk; it didn’t matter how.
Marian leapt toward Guy. He caught her at the last second, his gloved hands wrapping around her in a way that slowed the slide down his body but did not prevent it. His shock was apparent. He blinked down at her, his hands dancing about her waist, settling and releasing as though they did not quite know what was appropriate.
The position of her own body came to her in parts. Her arms were wrapped around his neck, and her toes barely touched the ground. His mouth was too close to hers, and the memory of their one aborted kiss shouldered its way into her mind unbidden. She had run from one enemy only to jump into the arms of another.
“Please,” she said, her voice cracking in the most alarming way. When his brow creased, Marian realized that she should have been more specific. “The snake,” she croaked. “Please.”
His eyes narrowed, and then he turned, releasing her so abruptly that she stumbled back into the stone wall. She watched him stride to the desk. The snake had curled its tail around the front leg, but its head and neck still searched for an exit. Guy lifted his heel.
“Don’t kill it!” Marian cried.
He paused, turning to look at her as though she were deranged. “I thought--,”
“It’s just . . . lost,” she said.
Guy lowered his foot; she did not know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. She licked her lips, her fingers digging into the jagged stone of her chamber walls. “Take it to the courtyard,” she ordered, but then an image of it creeping back up the stairs made her change her mind. “On second thought, take it to the forest. The deepest part. Or find some grass in a field that’s very far away. Just . . . don’t kill it,” she finished in full babble.
The look he gave her was indecipherable. “Marian, you are too sympathetic.”
Marian stared at the man in front of her. She knows that-oh, how she knows that. She made a show of pressing her lips together, emphasizing her silence.
After heaving a sigh, Guy leaned over and grabbed the snake by the neck without a single flinch, not even when it opened its mouth and bit the leather of his glove. It whipped and writhed in his hand.
Marian closed her eyes to keep from being sick. She heard the thud of his footsteps walking by her and the creak of the door opening. Guy barked for one of the guards to enter. By the time she had found enough bravery to peek, Guy was holding out the wriggling creature to a very confused looking man in castle livery.
“Take this to the forest,” he said.
The man looked toward Marian as though seeking confirmation that this was a joke.
“But Sir,” he said, his eyes sliding back to Guy when Marian said nothing, “the Sheriff said that he wanted us ready in case--,”
“Did I ask you what the Sheriff said?”
The guard shifted uneasily. “It’s just a snake.”
“I know it’s a snake,” Guy said. “And I want it taken to the forest.”
“Is it a special snake, Sir?”
Guy let out a growl of frustration and pushed the serpent into the man’s chest, violently enough that the guard stumbled backward. He took it, obviously realizing that he should save his breath. After muttering his assent, the guard exited the room. Marian was alone with Guy once again.
“Thank you,” she said. “Truly, I do not know what I would have done.” Now that the snake was gone, she felt much more at ease. She would feel entirely at ease once Guy was gone as well.
“I do not wish to keep you any longer,” she told him, crossing to pick up the jacket. “I fear I have wasted enough of your time already.”
She concentrated on dusting off the sleeves. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Guy still watched her.
“You do not waste my time,” Guy said, and Marian stiffened. She had not heard that tone-the one that was warm and pompous and tender and demanding reciprocation-since the failed wedding. She shot him a wary glance. He took it as a signal to step closer.
“I have been thinking about what you said,” Guy continued.
Oh Lord, she knew that night would come back to haunt her. She brought the hem of the jacket up to her nose and scratched at an invisible spot. “About what?”
Guy sniffed and looked away, as though uncomfortable at having to remind her. “About friendship,” he said darkly. “About your offer of friendship.”
Marian paused as words and phrases began to reappear in her memory. Not knowing how to respond, she studied him in silence.
Guy brought a fist to his mouth to cover a small cough. “I realize that I may not have expressed my gratitude for saving my life the other day in an appropriate manner.”
“You have more than repaid me with today’s act of bravery,” she said, offering him a tight smile in the hopes that it would bring the conversation to an end.
Encouraged, Guy stepped forward again. “It is not enough,” he said, his voice low and unnerving. He was too close. It confused her-it always confused her. She needed to make him retreat.
“You can convince the Sheriff to release my father from the dungeon,” she attacked. “He is there, after all, because of my defense of you.”
The accusation had the desired effect. Guy stopped and turned away. “That is out of my control.”
“Isn’t it convenient how many things are out of your control?” she snapped, not caring when he growled her name in warning. She jerked her head toward the jacket. “I need to finish this. Then perhaps I can pass it off to someone who is not so inconvenienced by my father’s comfort.” She showed him her back. “Good day, Sir Guy.”
Marian listened for the stomp of footsteps and the slam of a door, but they never came. Instead she heard a light jingle of keys and a creak of leather, neither of which faded to indicate that their bearer had moved away.
“That is for your father?” he asked from behind her.
“Yes,” she said, and then nodded toward the two others stacked by her basket. “And those. He needs warmer clothing. I have been unable to take it to him.”
The jingle moved closer. She whirled around to find him holding out a hand.
“I will take it,” he said with a small, almost private sigh.
“It is not done.”
“Then I will take the others.”
“What about the Sheriff?”
“I will deal with Vasey,” he said.
Her pride told her to refuse; she knew that all of Guy’s gifts came with strings, that there was an endless tally of things he had done for her that she would never be able to repay and never wanted to repay. She had already added one mark today. But this was for her father, and if she were being honest, the idea of letting him solve this second problem was so very tempting.
She crossed to pick up the pile of clothing, making sure to keep a good arm’s length between her and his shoulders, which seem to be growing wider every second that he is in the room. When she handed them over, his fingers brushed her wrist.
“I do not trust the jailer,” she said, quickly stepping back.
“Then I will deliver them directly,” he said and then, after a slight quirk of his lips, strode toward the door. His fingers had just wrapped around the knocker when he paused. “Marian, I hope-nay, I ask-that you will consider this the first act of our friendship.” He hesitated over the next few words. “And perhaps in time . . .,” he said, and then let them trail off.
If she had a response to that, it was stuck in her throat. With a final curt nod, he shut the door, leaving Marian to wonder why she let herself be drawn into deals with Guy of Gisborne over and over and over again.