Precious Things; Guy/Marian; NC-17
Allright. It's here. I owe a lot to my very wonderful beta arubyslipper, who shaped this and listened my whining. Also to lady_green_bat who poked and prodded me untill this was ready. I <3 you both.
Title: Precious Things
Warnings: NC-17, sex, violence, attempted rape and Guy/Marian, if any of these offend you, please don’t read.
Summary: This is Marian’s story about love, duty and marriage; here innocent maidens are rescued, only they have a hand in it too, and turn out not to be so innocent after all.
Author’s Notes: This is an AU. Basically I started writing it after 1.03 so the story runs parallel with the episodes after that. I’m ignoring certain events (most notably Guy’s baby) and using others. Also I assumed that Robin’s band of outlaws is far larger than portrayed in the show.
Precious Things
I bleed but I'm choosing you again
I'm done but I'm ready to begin
- Elisa, the Wave
Running after the rain
These precious things
Let them bleed
Let them wash away
These precious things let them break
Their hold over me
- Tori Amos, Precious Things
i.
The breath of the horse ghosted in the air, mingling with the thick mist. Marian’s hands pulled on the reins, forcing the beast’s head to the side. In her heart she knew she was lost, but her head still refused to face the truth. She searched for familiar sights between the trees and tried to listen. But the forest was still and the leaves shivered against one another. The horse was beginning to feel her panic and its hooves clattered against the hard ground.
She needed Robin now, needed someone to tell her that her father would be better. His return from war had let a faint hope into her heart. He had given them the backing of a real title and real royal blood. But now Robin had disappeared into the forest like a thief in the night and left her and her father to fend for themselves. She understood his reasons, even respected them, but right now she could do nothing but hate Robin of Locksley. Why could he not be here when her father was dying? The rattle of his breath still rang in her ears and made her fury so much greater. Harshly she pulled on the reins commanding the horse to move down valley.
The trees were huge, thick trunks obstructing the final thin rays of the sun. Suddenly the leaves shook violently and men rose from the undergrowth. Her stomach rolled with relief and she urged her horse towards them.
Since childhood Marian had been taught to expect the unknown, expect the impossible. Her safe and secure life had been pulled away from her so many times she thought herself impervious to surprises. But as the large man she did not know grasped a hold of her horse’s reins, and pulled her off with a sudden jerk, the unexpected happened again; once again leaving Marian unawares.
Their rough laughter rung in her ears, and the grubby hands travelling over her body soiled her dress. The edges of the hair pin pressed into her hand, creating little flower impressions on the inside of her palm. As a hand forced its way on her breast she struck out. The thin blade hit the face of man on her left, it sunk into his eye. Thick blood spilled over her fist and someone punched her in the face making her fall to the ground. The earth was loose and she could not breathe. A foot pressed down on her back and she could hear them calling her a bitch amidst the screams. The earth shook as the man she had stabbed fell down. She could see him convulsing on the ground, not too far away from her. The side of his face was covered in blood and puss. Then she felt a hand in her hair, pulling her backwards.
“Now, you little whore!”
She could feel the man’s spit on the back of her neck, and Marian fought like never before. Forgotten were the starving poor and the dead of last year’s winter as the muddy ground clogged in her throat like ash she screamed into the endless forest. She could see the row of their feet and badly crafted boots round her and portly hands squeezed her ankles until they were numb. She knew their faces in a distant sort of way. They were the brothers and sons of her countrymen, but none of them looked her in the face. The man pulled on her braided hair and forced her legs apart. She screamed and thought about the end. An arrow whizzed through the air, and the pull on her hair disappeared. Marian prayed upon the familiar sounds as she lay on the ground; on the drawing of a sword and clatter of hooves. She clawed on the ground, the earth loose and thick between her fingers. Then the men ran and screamed. She felt the horse gallop past her and heard the blade sinking into flesh, but she could not look.
And then she was alone with sound of her breathing, a harsh painful sound in the cold air. She looked up with his name on her lips, but the face of her rescuer was not familiar or dear. His horse threw its head about, clamouring for more battle. She could see the fine sheen of blood on the blade of his sword dripping in the sodden leaves on the ground. Slowly Guy of Gisborne dismounted. He let his sword drop on the ground and approached with halting steps. She could read the horror on his face, but her body was frozen, unable to cover her bleeding knees or bared shoulders. He kneeled by her, his hands reaching out, but never quite touching. He said nothing and she found the silence strangely comforting. Her hands stung fiercely and she stretched open her cramped fist. The knuckles were torn and bruised and she started to cry, thick wailing sobs filling the clearing.
His hands felt heavy and huge on her shoulders, and she flinched away as he placed his heavy coat over her. The leather felt awkward and she could not stop sobbing. Hastily he pulled his hands away, lifting his palms up in surrender.
ii.
She stumbled on the uneven ground in her haste to get to the body. It had rolled down the slope during the fight. The side of his face where her pin had struck him was bloated and blood covered. The healthy eye stared at her with the still gaze of the dead, but Marian could not feel any pity for this man. She knelt down and rummaged in the front of the man’s shirt. Gisborne stood behind her, hand on the hilt of his sword as if the dead man would rise and attempt to hurt her anew. Marian felt no such fear from the dead, now she only wanted certainty of the men who had disappeared into the forest. The tiny piece of wood was flimsy and light against her palm. She pulled the pendant from around the man’s neck and dangled it against the dying sunlight. It twirled in her hand like a little trinket.
“What is it?”
His voice was tense and Marian fought the tears that threatened to return.
“This mark is worn by all of Robin’s men; that is how they know one another. They knew me. They knew who I was.”
She squeezed the wood against her sore palm. Gisborne knelt next to her and tilted the man’s face towards him with a gloved hand and her voice was barely above a whisper right beside his face:
“I wonder if they watched me, if they thought and planned this. Or was it just chance that I came their way? Did they watch me and think to themselves: I shall take her. Is that not what you men think?”
He would not look at her, but she knew he had heard her question. He let go of the man’s face suddenly, as if it had burned his fingers through the leather.
“Some do My Lady.”
She nodded and threw the wooden plate into the woods.
“We need to leave. The sun will set soon and it will get very cold.”
He offered his hand to help her up, but still he would not touch her directly, not after she had flinched away from him.
“Go where? We cannot ride to Nottingham before the nightfall. There is nothing here.”
“There is a secluded hunting lodge not too far away from here. I was hunting deer, when I heard you.”
She reached out for his hand, gripping his fingers with her own.
“Thank you.”
He said nothing, but grasped her hand harder and helped her up.
The movement of the horse was fluid beneath them and every step jolted her sore legs. She had never been this close to Guy of Gisborne. Her body in his coat and face pressed against his shoulder. The trees passed her by, leaves and branches catching hold of the sleeves. The woods were darkening fast around them, and soon Marian could no longer see the trees surrounding her.
The cabin was well hidden underneath two huge oaks. The log walls were still rough under her hands as she ran her fingers over the wood, not yet worn by the winter rains. Gisborne took his horse into a small make-shift pen in the back and tied it up for the night. She watched his motions, his steady hands as he groomed the beast and she found she could breathe a little easier. Marian had never been the sort of maiden to be rescued, she had never admired the skills of the Knights or Lords in the tournament; she had never needed to. Now she could still hear Gisborne’s sword in her ears, forever burned in her mind.
The cabin was very small, with a small hearth and a berth against the back wall, with a thin mattress and a mountain of furs. He shoved a few new logs into the embers and slowly the fire lit up the small room. He stood stiff by the flames and the glow threw strange shadows over his face.
iii.
She let the water run down her legs. The little droplets caught in the scratches and cuts and then fell onto the wooden floor. After a while she could not distinguish between her tears and the water. The bowl rested on the floor by her feet and the water was already tinted red, but she did not see any of this.
“Marian.”
His voice was joined by the creak of the door. His body was strained towards her, as he could not hold himself away.
“Are you all right?”
She squeezed the rag once more and pressed the hard cloth against a cut by her knee.
“No. I am not.”
He walked closer with halting steps and kneeled yet again by her side. He took the rag from her lifeless fingers and ran it over the cut with gentleness she could never have imagined him capable of. But she felt hateful.
“What are you thinking, Sir Guy? Do you find this enticing?”
His jaw tightened and the softness of his eyes disappeared again behind his mask of indifference.
“Unlike some of my countrymen I do not find the sight of a woman in distress arousing.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, her lashes sticking together from the tears. She felt like her heart would burst out of her chest and leave her empty and vacant. Maybe it would be better. Anything would be better than this hopeless fear and loathing. He made a move to rise and desperately she grasped to his wrist.
“Don’t go. I need you to stay.”
He was frozen in place and Marian thought she would die. Her fingernails left deep grooves on his skin where she squeezed his wrist and slowly he settled back down on the floor. He would not look at her anymore, even when his hands slid over the cuts and bruises and Marian felt shaken. She had pushed blame where none was deserved. Guy of Gisborne was not an honourable man; he was not even a gentleman. But he was a gentle man, at least for now. For her. She was starting to understand the distinction. Much later she was finally ready to say the words to him.
“I am sorry for what I said. Before.”
He nodded; eyes still fixed to some far away point in the pitch black horizon. He had given her the one shirt he had carried with him on his hunting trip and it hung almost to her knees. Marian had managed to salvage most of her dress. With the rope from her belt she had tied the torn shoulders, but the hem was ruined. It hung in limp soiled strips around her feet.
“I know why you said what you said. And I do deserve it. We all do. All of us men.”
“You do not.”
She looked past him, into the darkness and tried to find with her eyes what he was seeing.
“How do you know?”
He nearly choked on the words and they hung between them for a long time. Marian thought she could feel the darkness beginning to creep into the little hut. She moved past him and pulled the door into its latch.
“Because I am not afraid of you.”
ix.
She woke up screaming to the feel of earth slowly filling her throat. The flames of the fire had died and the dark glow of the embers filler the small room again. He was already on his feet from the chair sword in hand. In the darkness his eyes seemed almost soft. Marian fought herself out from underneath the furs pushing her way outside. The early morning was still dark and the air biting cold. Soft petals of frost were visible in the shaft of light from the doorway. His form eclipsed their glow as he followed her outside.
“Marian, what do you fear so?”
She found the sound of her name from his lips soothing.
“I fear the earth. I feel it in my mouth; stopping my breath. I fear that the ground will shallow me whole and I will be forever lost. I dream that I will be buried alive.”
He stood right behind her, the warmth of his skin radiating through their clothing. He palmed her arm softly and she wanted to fall back against him and never rise.
“Come back inside. It’s so cold out here.”
“I like the cold. It numbs the pain.”
And then she allowed herself to fall. His chest was warm from sleep and his palm froze on her arm. For a moment she though he would pull away; leave her alone in the cold and her heart contracted at the thought. But then he pressed against her back, arms wrapping themselves around her middle. His nose was cold against the bare skin of her shoulder, but his lips were warm. He breathed her in as if he could not help himself and some of the rage in Marian died.
“I am no better than them. I cannot help myself but want to hold you.”
She felt his words travel over her skin, wrapping themselves in her flesh, becoming part of her as they stood together in the cold night.
“You are nothing like them.”
Her fingers found their way around his wrist, soothing over the raised nail marks of her own causing.
“There is nothing in me that you would take without my consent.”
She felt the words in her mouth, the familiar shape of them. She had said them to herself so many times, over and over in the silence of her own room. Now they came tumbling out in the night, with his breath in her ears.
“Even if you would never need consent. It is the only thing of value I own, my maidenhead, but it is also the one thing that holds me prisoner. Men will fight for me because of it. I can be sold and bough because of it. Without it I am worth nothing, but I would be free.”
He went rigid at her words, his hands freezing on her waist, but Marian would not let go of his wrists, holding him prisoner in their embrace.
“And I want to give it to you.”
His chin scratched her and in her mind Marian could imagine his closed eyes and drawn face.
“I cannot, Lady Marian. You do not want me and I will not take anything from you which you do not want to give.”
He shook his head, adamant in his words, but she captured his face in her hand and forced him to be still.
“Listen to me, Guy of Gisborne. I am asking you. No one has ever taught me how to want this. I do not know what I am supposed to feel. But I know I do not want what happened to me in that forest. So I am asking you to show me.”
Her hands travelled on his face, fingertips ghosting over the sharp stubble and soft and vulnerable skin around his eyes.
“Deny me in my request if you do not want me. Deny me if you feel that I will compromise your honour, but do not deny me because you fear for mine.”
x.
She sat on the edge of the thin mattress, hand smoothing the fabric of her torn dress over her knees. The furs and their suffocating warmth did not invite her, but she would go if he wanted her to. He latched the door and the light of the moon was locked out and the warm glow of the ashes was their only light. But he would not come to her, seating himself in the armchair beside the fire. His voice was barely above a whisper again and she had never heard it quite like that before.
“Come to the warmth, Marian.”
His fingers laced between her own and helped her climb over him, both of her knees sinking into the malleable leather. She slid down his legs until there was not even an inch between them. She felt him hard and insistent against her; pressing in places she would never even let her own hands travel. She fought the little breaths and the sighs her toes curling against the leather. His hands travelled on her back; long strokes and the rough linen made her skin feel on fire. He would not kiss her, his lips just barely out of reach. He chanted her name like it was the Lords prayer; reverently and silently. Marian Marian Marian.
Finally she let her knees clamp against his sides and pushed herself against his hardness. The linen was rough and hard against her and she closed her eyes, willing the pain and pleasure to pass. She could not help her movements and Marian feared she would rub herself raw. But slowly his hands slid over her thighs and around her hips; thumbs gently stroking the bone, fingers slowly sliding between her and the fabric. And oh God how she wanted this; it was as if someone had poured oil into her and it was now spilling over. Gently he pushed against her, fingers sliding in and she could not breathe.
His hands guided her then, up up, until her stomach was resting against his chest. Her knees ached from the pressure, but the pain was a mere sliver in her mind. The soft and unyielding rhythm of his fingers was consuming her mind and she could feel her legs starting to shake. And then they were gone and she wanted to cry in their absence.
His fingers travelled up her leg, slowly, and then spread her open like she had never felt before, stretched and vulnerable. His other hand guided her down, and she would not close her eyes. She wanted to see this, see his face. He was huge and like silk against her and Marian was so hungry for this. With fury, unknown to her before, she pushed down and was suddenly being torn open, cloven in two. Marian though there would never be anything more wonderful than this moment. She pushed her knees against the leather and whispered his name, and finally understood the revered tone she had heard in his voice.
His hands lost their gentleness against her back and moved her with a rage matching her own. She cried and shouted and bit his shoulder, and the pleasure in her would not stop. And then his fierce fingers were back between them and her entire body exploded, as if someone had sent the oil on fire. He pushed, short and sharp into her and shuddered. Whispering her name like Amen.
His fingers loosened their hold on her shoulder blade and travelled into her hair, brushing it away from her face. His mouth was soft and open beneath her own as he kissed her, and Marian felt like she had just entered into a holy agreement, consummated something sacred. Let no man put asunder.
She woke up next to him among the furs. He had carried her to bed after and she remembered pulling of her dress and throwing it to the floor. He was still beside her, his arms warm and tight around her. For a moment she wondered what it would be like to wake up like this every morning; would she be content or would his arms become stifling over time? She pushed the thoughts to the back of her head. Something like this could never happen again. It had been her one indulgence and her one trespass. Her morbid thoughts seemed awake him and the stubble of his jaw slid over her shoulder and made her shiver.
“Are you cold?”
His voice was rough and almost a whisper and she shook her head. She once more found his hands circling her waist with her fingers. It was the comfort of his touch, that made her rise, and detangle herself from his embrace. She could not afford to lose her heart to this; she could not live with the sorrow. He seemed to understand her need for distance and did not follow her. She dressed mechanically, ignoring the gaze she could feel burning into her back.
The air was still cold outside, but the morning sun was already warming the forest. Her horse stood docile by the pen, picking the short blades of grass with its lips. She could fee Guy behind her, his chest nearly touching her back.
“Horses are very smart. They can follow their master for miles and miles and they will know when you have stopped even if they cannot see you.”
She grasped his hand, squeezing the fingers tightly in her own. How she wanted to stay here, in this isolation and peace. Here where he did not feel like her enemy; where they did not have to speak as society demanded of them.
“I have to leave, I have to return to my father and see to his wellbeing.”
“I know. I will take you to the edge of the village. There is no need for the questions or gossip my presence would bring upon you.”
Then she prayed, silently in her mind, like she had not done since she was a little girl. Please, O Lord, let me not remember the parting. Let me only remember the time here, and how happy I have been for such a short time.
xi.
But Lord did not grant Marian her wish. At first the images of him had been so vivid in her mind that she would awaken in the middle of the night with his imagined fingers running over skin and she would cry in their absence. Then, slowly, it became more like a dream; something that had only transpired in her head. Her life moved on and no one saw the difference in her. Her father improved and was able to rise from his bed again, but a nagging worry was now imprinted in her heart and she worried about the coming winter. He wanted her not to worry and willed himself to stand strong in the council and in her eyes. But she could no longer pretend that he was well, and in her heart she knew he was dying. Sometimes at night she would stand outside his door and listen to the rattling of his breath and cry silently against the grains in the wood.
She had not been able to help herself when it came to Robin. She had consciously distanced herself from him and his men. Even though the Night Watchman went out almost every night and helped those in need, she could not help Robin anymore. She could see the faces of those men in Robin and John and Will, even if they had not been there. The face of the dead man still haunted her waking hours, his lifeless eyes following her around the house. She knew that no matter what had happened to her, Robin would never accept her as a killer. He had sought her out a few times, but had, after her harsh brush off, respected her need for solitude. And to her surprise he had not questioned her why.
Then the pestilence came. She had to speak out, even with Sir Guy shooting a warning glance at her across the room, even with her father’s shoulders tensing beneath her hands, she had to. A part of her expected the sheriff’s retribution, wanted it. She wanted something to happen, something to jolt the people around her. Robin was a fool. He flaunted himself before the sheriff and played games. He had not yet realized what was truly at stake here. He did not see the coming winter as a bitter enemy. So she placed herself on the line.
The sound of the shears was now etched in her mind, and Marian hoped that it would fade with time. Her father had retired early, complaining tiredness. She had given him herb tea to help him sleep through the coughs. Herself, she could not sleep; silently she listened to the night and was jolted by the quiet knock on the door.
Gently she slid the door open and in the flickering light of the torch stood Guy of Gisborne. She had searched for him with her eyes in the courtyard today, but he had refused to meet her gaze. Now he finally looked at her with the kind of soft gaze she had learned to know a little those few weeks past. She slid the door wider so he could pass into the silent and dark house. He paced in the front room and Marian sat by the table, watching his movements. He wanted to speak, she could see it in his eyes every time he turned towards her, but each time seemed to lose the nerve.
He held it on the palm of his had like it was some precious thing. The hair had been braided and bound with two thin leather straps. Her fingers skimmed over the soft surface, not quite believing that it had been cut from her mere hours ago.
“You went back for it?”
She could hear the disbelief in her own voice, and felt ashamed for it. Had he not always tried in his crooked way do what was best for her?
“I thought you might want it back…”
There was a kind of hesitation in his voice that she had never heard before and he began to pull his hand away. Harshly she grasped his wrist and was instantly transported to another place and time, which she had for a while though to be but a dream. Softly she picked up the braid and felt again the tears she had refused to let fall in the yard.
“Thank you.”
Marian had never though how big a part of herself her hair was, until she the braid was in her hands. It was such a little thing and would grow back within the year, but it had such great implications against the moral of her character. She had been flippant earlier to Robin, she had not wanted him to see her fear and her shame, but now she felt no such decorum. She let the tears fall, silently. It was more of a release than an act of sorrow. But Guy did not know that and he kneeled by her chair his hands softly cradling her own, saying nothing. Marian wondered why their every single meeting could not be like this. He was not an eloquent man, but when he let his body do the speaking she could understand him so well.
She smiled, wiping the tears away and offered him the seat opposite her own. The braid remained in her hands and she twined her fingers through it.
“He truly made his point. I am a woman of no honour now.”
Against her will she felt a small grin tug the corner of her mouth and gave him a look from beneath her brows.
“But then again; you already knew that.”
“What happened between us had nothing to do with your honour. To me you are as respectable as always.”
She could not help the gentle smile spreading on her face and Marian wondered how he could make her smile so many times on such a day.
“Thank you, but I do fear that you will be the only one willing to express that sentiment. He has ruined my chances of getting a husband now more surely than ever.”
He was silent for a long time, and she could see the question in his eyes before he even asked it. In a way she had invited him to.
“Why did you never marry?”
And she did want to tell him her story, wanted him to know the reasons that drove her.
“I was meant to. When I was eleven an accord was made with the third son of the Earl of Wessex. We were to be married on my eighteenth birthday. I had no dowry, so it was agreed that upon the death of my father the lands would pass to the family of my husband. Under those circumstances it seemed fair to my father. You see I have rank, but no fortune. It was very hard for my parents to find me a suitable husband.”
“When I was seventeen, my intended died in a tournament and the grief stricken Wessex’s refused to accept me for any of their other sons. Then my mother died.”
Her voice caught and his fingers slid between her own, and she carried on. Her voice remained strangely even in the otherwise silent room.
“You have to understand that my father was never one to push for my marriage, my mother was. In a way she understood my needs in society so much better than my father. After she died my father became even more reclusive. He denied any suitors that came and one day they just stopped coming.”
“You see time was much against me. Now that my father finally understands that I will be left with nothing if he dies it is too late. I am too old.”
He nodded, but he wanted more, needed to know more.
“What about Locksley? Were your families not closely connected?”
“It would have been possible, but he is the Earl of Huntington. His father wanted him to marry well; they were vying for a wife with royal blood, giving him a strong bid for the throne. We were friends as children and I was betrothed early on, so the thought never entered my father’s mind. Robin left to war right after my intended was killed. During that time finding a wife was the last thing on his mind.”
“Do you now see why I did what I did? For once I wanted to be the one making choices over my body. For you see, it does not truly belong to me. It belongs to the land. We are both landless, both fighting to retain what we believe to be ours.”
“I fear that the earth will shallow me whole. This is what you meant by that, is it not?”
She could not believe that he had remembered her words so closely.
“That is why I told you that it would not matter if you changed a name of a thing. And for me it does not. For women names are fallible and ever changing. You have to find something in the land that is your own, something that will stay with you no matter if they take it away or change its name. “
Suddenly she looked at him, as if jolted awake from her thoughts.
“I apologise, I am rambling.”
“No you are not. We do not ever think what you must go without, us men. How small things can bring you down, make you unworthy.”
She shook her head. He was the first man to ever even express regret like that to her, and now that he did it was suddenly meaningless.
“I know. But I cannot be angry with any of you. We are all bound by rules of our station. But they can be thwarted.”
She raised her eyes to meet his, smiling without humour.
“And in that way the sheriff has helped me. He has shamed me in front of all of Nottingham. If I choose to, I can now repel any suitor I wish. That is the greatest freedom a woman in my position could ever wish for.”
She slid her fingers between his, finding the gesture so incredibly intimate. I have done this before. They were familiar fingers, and again his question did not surprise her.
“Why did you choose me? Why not Locksley?”
“Because Robin could never truly understand the ties that bind me, the rules I have to follow. And he would never see it as my choice, merely an extension of his own charms. But I thought that you would. And by bringing this…”
Marian pulled her fingers away from his and ran her fingers over the severed braid.
“…you have proven me right.”
At that he looked away, as if uncomfortable with the idea that she had read him so well. That was alright. He had given her more tonight than she had ever expected to receive from any man in a lifetime. His terse voice did not come to her as a shock.
“I need to leave.”
She got up after him, walking after him to the door. He stood the immobile, looking once more like he wanted to say something, make their parting memorable. Marian did not give him the chance.
She pulled him to her, until their bodies were touching. His lips were still as soft as she remembered and Marian was comforted in the thought that she had not imagined everything. His hands found their way around her waist, but before she could once more get used to the feel of his hands, he pulled away.
“Marian, we cannot do this.”
His forehead rested against her own, and she wanted nothing more than to invite him back into her house and take him to her bed, but she knew the truth of his words. They could not and she let him go. She watched him as long as she could; until the sounds of the hooves disappeared into the night and he was once more gone from her life.
xii.
She watched the closed door and listened to the murmured words of the physician through the door. The sheriff had finally relented and his personal physician had become an almost permanent fixture in her house. Marian did not know if she should be thankful. Had Guy pressed the matter in the castle or was this another of the sheriff’s ploys to gain an upper hand over her father? But none of it mattered right now. Her father was dying; his lungs were slowly beginning to give up.
A sharp rap on the door made her turn around, but the visitor did not wait to be called in. The sheriff pushed into the hall, motioning for his guards to wait outside. Marian forced a smile on her lips at the sight of the man, but her voice remained cold.
“Forgive me, sheriff, but my father is not well enough right now to receive any visitors.”
He gave her a mocking bow, eyes searching the locked door behind her.
“Yes, so I have been informed, my dear.”
His voice was jolly as always. And today the sinister gleam of his eyes seemed even more pronounced to her. He moved around the room, as if already owning it, fingering the furniture and the looms hanging on the walls.
“It is a shame really; you unmarried and unable to inherit. The estate will pass onto the crown, of course.”
His voice was even, and Marian could not afford to show her rage.
“But I am sure there are men interested in the Knighton hall. After you father has passed there should be a competition for the land and for you, hmm?”
Then his face contorted into a nasty smile.
“But no, who would possibly take a shamed woman as a wife? It would have to be someone willing to live with your soiled past. I must say there are not many of those around.”
His eyes moved over her, and Marian suppressed a shiver. She would not give him the satisfaction, not when her father was dying a mere door away.
“Personally I would think the land is worth the shame of a spoiled wife.”
He moved closer to her then and Marian fought not to strike him as his breath ghosted over her lips.
“I think it is time you left Sheriff, my father is very tired.”
He grimaced at her, teeth visible between his cracked lips, but he pulled back. He wrenched the door nearly off from its hinges, but instead of rushing out he turned to her.
“I have all the time in the word, and you father have very little of it left. I will wait.”
The door was left slightly ajar in his wake, and the cold air pushed some of the dead leaves in from the porch. She stood still for a long while, listening to the silent tones of the physician and her father’s laboured coughing.
(continued)
Title: Precious Things
Warnings: NC-17, sex, violence, attempted rape and Guy/Marian, if any of these offend you, please don’t read.
Summary: This is Marian’s story about love, duty and marriage; here innocent maidens are rescued, only they have a hand in it too, and turn out not to be so innocent after all.
Author’s Notes: This is an AU. Basically I started writing it after 1.03 so the story runs parallel with the episodes after that. I’m ignoring certain events (most notably Guy’s baby) and using others. Also I assumed that Robin’s band of outlaws is far larger than portrayed in the show.
Precious Things
I bleed but I'm choosing you again
I'm done but I'm ready to begin
- Elisa, the Wave
Running after the rain
These precious things
Let them bleed
Let them wash away
These precious things let them break
Their hold over me
- Tori Amos, Precious Things
i.
The breath of the horse ghosted in the air, mingling with the thick mist. Marian’s hands pulled on the reins, forcing the beast’s head to the side. In her heart she knew she was lost, but her head still refused to face the truth. She searched for familiar sights between the trees and tried to listen. But the forest was still and the leaves shivered against one another. The horse was beginning to feel her panic and its hooves clattered against the hard ground.
She needed Robin now, needed someone to tell her that her father would be better. His return from war had let a faint hope into her heart. He had given them the backing of a real title and real royal blood. But now Robin had disappeared into the forest like a thief in the night and left her and her father to fend for themselves. She understood his reasons, even respected them, but right now she could do nothing but hate Robin of Locksley. Why could he not be here when her father was dying? The rattle of his breath still rang in her ears and made her fury so much greater. Harshly she pulled on the reins commanding the horse to move down valley.
The trees were huge, thick trunks obstructing the final thin rays of the sun. Suddenly the leaves shook violently and men rose from the undergrowth. Her stomach rolled with relief and she urged her horse towards them.
Since childhood Marian had been taught to expect the unknown, expect the impossible. Her safe and secure life had been pulled away from her so many times she thought herself impervious to surprises. But as the large man she did not know grasped a hold of her horse’s reins, and pulled her off with a sudden jerk, the unexpected happened again; once again leaving Marian unawares.
Their rough laughter rung in her ears, and the grubby hands travelling over her body soiled her dress. The edges of the hair pin pressed into her hand, creating little flower impressions on the inside of her palm. As a hand forced its way on her breast she struck out. The thin blade hit the face of man on her left, it sunk into his eye. Thick blood spilled over her fist and someone punched her in the face making her fall to the ground. The earth was loose and she could not breathe. A foot pressed down on her back and she could hear them calling her a bitch amidst the screams. The earth shook as the man she had stabbed fell down. She could see him convulsing on the ground, not too far away from her. The side of his face was covered in blood and puss. Then she felt a hand in her hair, pulling her backwards.
“Now, you little whore!”
She could feel the man’s spit on the back of her neck, and Marian fought like never before. Forgotten were the starving poor and the dead of last year’s winter as the muddy ground clogged in her throat like ash she screamed into the endless forest. She could see the row of their feet and badly crafted boots round her and portly hands squeezed her ankles until they were numb. She knew their faces in a distant sort of way. They were the brothers and sons of her countrymen, but none of them looked her in the face. The man pulled on her braided hair and forced her legs apart. She screamed and thought about the end. An arrow whizzed through the air, and the pull on her hair disappeared. Marian prayed upon the familiar sounds as she lay on the ground; on the drawing of a sword and clatter of hooves. She clawed on the ground, the earth loose and thick between her fingers. Then the men ran and screamed. She felt the horse gallop past her and heard the blade sinking into flesh, but she could not look.
And then she was alone with sound of her breathing, a harsh painful sound in the cold air. She looked up with his name on her lips, but the face of her rescuer was not familiar or dear. His horse threw its head about, clamouring for more battle. She could see the fine sheen of blood on the blade of his sword dripping in the sodden leaves on the ground. Slowly Guy of Gisborne dismounted. He let his sword drop on the ground and approached with halting steps. She could read the horror on his face, but her body was frozen, unable to cover her bleeding knees or bared shoulders. He kneeled by her, his hands reaching out, but never quite touching. He said nothing and she found the silence strangely comforting. Her hands stung fiercely and she stretched open her cramped fist. The knuckles were torn and bruised and she started to cry, thick wailing sobs filling the clearing.
His hands felt heavy and huge on her shoulders, and she flinched away as he placed his heavy coat over her. The leather felt awkward and she could not stop sobbing. Hastily he pulled his hands away, lifting his palms up in surrender.
ii.
She stumbled on the uneven ground in her haste to get to the body. It had rolled down the slope during the fight. The side of his face where her pin had struck him was bloated and blood covered. The healthy eye stared at her with the still gaze of the dead, but Marian could not feel any pity for this man. She knelt down and rummaged in the front of the man’s shirt. Gisborne stood behind her, hand on the hilt of his sword as if the dead man would rise and attempt to hurt her anew. Marian felt no such fear from the dead, now she only wanted certainty of the men who had disappeared into the forest. The tiny piece of wood was flimsy and light against her palm. She pulled the pendant from around the man’s neck and dangled it against the dying sunlight. It twirled in her hand like a little trinket.
“What is it?”
His voice was tense and Marian fought the tears that threatened to return.
“This mark is worn by all of Robin’s men; that is how they know one another. They knew me. They knew who I was.”
She squeezed the wood against her sore palm. Gisborne knelt next to her and tilted the man’s face towards him with a gloved hand and her voice was barely above a whisper right beside his face:
“I wonder if they watched me, if they thought and planned this. Or was it just chance that I came their way? Did they watch me and think to themselves: I shall take her. Is that not what you men think?”
He would not look at her, but she knew he had heard her question. He let go of the man’s face suddenly, as if it had burned his fingers through the leather.
“Some do My Lady.”
She nodded and threw the wooden plate into the woods.
“We need to leave. The sun will set soon and it will get very cold.”
He offered his hand to help her up, but still he would not touch her directly, not after she had flinched away from him.
“Go where? We cannot ride to Nottingham before the nightfall. There is nothing here.”
“There is a secluded hunting lodge not too far away from here. I was hunting deer, when I heard you.”
She reached out for his hand, gripping his fingers with her own.
“Thank you.”
He said nothing, but grasped her hand harder and helped her up.
The movement of the horse was fluid beneath them and every step jolted her sore legs. She had never been this close to Guy of Gisborne. Her body in his coat and face pressed against his shoulder. The trees passed her by, leaves and branches catching hold of the sleeves. The woods were darkening fast around them, and soon Marian could no longer see the trees surrounding her.
The cabin was well hidden underneath two huge oaks. The log walls were still rough under her hands as she ran her fingers over the wood, not yet worn by the winter rains. Gisborne took his horse into a small make-shift pen in the back and tied it up for the night. She watched his motions, his steady hands as he groomed the beast and she found she could breathe a little easier. Marian had never been the sort of maiden to be rescued, she had never admired the skills of the Knights or Lords in the tournament; she had never needed to. Now she could still hear Gisborne’s sword in her ears, forever burned in her mind.
The cabin was very small, with a small hearth and a berth against the back wall, with a thin mattress and a mountain of furs. He shoved a few new logs into the embers and slowly the fire lit up the small room. He stood stiff by the flames and the glow threw strange shadows over his face.
iii.
She let the water run down her legs. The little droplets caught in the scratches and cuts and then fell onto the wooden floor. After a while she could not distinguish between her tears and the water. The bowl rested on the floor by her feet and the water was already tinted red, but she did not see any of this.
“Marian.”
His voice was joined by the creak of the door. His body was strained towards her, as he could not hold himself away.
“Are you all right?”
She squeezed the rag once more and pressed the hard cloth against a cut by her knee.
“No. I am not.”
He walked closer with halting steps and kneeled yet again by her side. He took the rag from her lifeless fingers and ran it over the cut with gentleness she could never have imagined him capable of. But she felt hateful.
“What are you thinking, Sir Guy? Do you find this enticing?”
His jaw tightened and the softness of his eyes disappeared again behind his mask of indifference.
“Unlike some of my countrymen I do not find the sight of a woman in distress arousing.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, her lashes sticking together from the tears. She felt like her heart would burst out of her chest and leave her empty and vacant. Maybe it would be better. Anything would be better than this hopeless fear and loathing. He made a move to rise and desperately she grasped to his wrist.
“Don’t go. I need you to stay.”
He was frozen in place and Marian thought she would die. Her fingernails left deep grooves on his skin where she squeezed his wrist and slowly he settled back down on the floor. He would not look at her anymore, even when his hands slid over the cuts and bruises and Marian felt shaken. She had pushed blame where none was deserved. Guy of Gisborne was not an honourable man; he was not even a gentleman. But he was a gentle man, at least for now. For her. She was starting to understand the distinction. Much later she was finally ready to say the words to him.
“I am sorry for what I said. Before.”
He nodded; eyes still fixed to some far away point in the pitch black horizon. He had given her the one shirt he had carried with him on his hunting trip and it hung almost to her knees. Marian had managed to salvage most of her dress. With the rope from her belt she had tied the torn shoulders, but the hem was ruined. It hung in limp soiled strips around her feet.
“I know why you said what you said. And I do deserve it. We all do. All of us men.”
“You do not.”
She looked past him, into the darkness and tried to find with her eyes what he was seeing.
“How do you know?”
He nearly choked on the words and they hung between them for a long time. Marian thought she could feel the darkness beginning to creep into the little hut. She moved past him and pulled the door into its latch.
“Because I am not afraid of you.”
ix.
She woke up screaming to the feel of earth slowly filling her throat. The flames of the fire had died and the dark glow of the embers filler the small room again. He was already on his feet from the chair sword in hand. In the darkness his eyes seemed almost soft. Marian fought herself out from underneath the furs pushing her way outside. The early morning was still dark and the air biting cold. Soft petals of frost were visible in the shaft of light from the doorway. His form eclipsed their glow as he followed her outside.
“Marian, what do you fear so?”
She found the sound of her name from his lips soothing.
“I fear the earth. I feel it in my mouth; stopping my breath. I fear that the ground will shallow me whole and I will be forever lost. I dream that I will be buried alive.”
He stood right behind her, the warmth of his skin radiating through their clothing. He palmed her arm softly and she wanted to fall back against him and never rise.
“Come back inside. It’s so cold out here.”
“I like the cold. It numbs the pain.”
And then she allowed herself to fall. His chest was warm from sleep and his palm froze on her arm. For a moment she though he would pull away; leave her alone in the cold and her heart contracted at the thought. But then he pressed against her back, arms wrapping themselves around her middle. His nose was cold against the bare skin of her shoulder, but his lips were warm. He breathed her in as if he could not help himself and some of the rage in Marian died.
“I am no better than them. I cannot help myself but want to hold you.”
She felt his words travel over her skin, wrapping themselves in her flesh, becoming part of her as they stood together in the cold night.
“You are nothing like them.”
Her fingers found their way around his wrist, soothing over the raised nail marks of her own causing.
“There is nothing in me that you would take without my consent.”
She felt the words in her mouth, the familiar shape of them. She had said them to herself so many times, over and over in the silence of her own room. Now they came tumbling out in the night, with his breath in her ears.
“Even if you would never need consent. It is the only thing of value I own, my maidenhead, but it is also the one thing that holds me prisoner. Men will fight for me because of it. I can be sold and bough because of it. Without it I am worth nothing, but I would be free.”
He went rigid at her words, his hands freezing on her waist, but Marian would not let go of his wrists, holding him prisoner in their embrace.
“And I want to give it to you.”
His chin scratched her and in her mind Marian could imagine his closed eyes and drawn face.
“I cannot, Lady Marian. You do not want me and I will not take anything from you which you do not want to give.”
He shook his head, adamant in his words, but she captured his face in her hand and forced him to be still.
“Listen to me, Guy of Gisborne. I am asking you. No one has ever taught me how to want this. I do not know what I am supposed to feel. But I know I do not want what happened to me in that forest. So I am asking you to show me.”
Her hands travelled on his face, fingertips ghosting over the sharp stubble and soft and vulnerable skin around his eyes.
“Deny me in my request if you do not want me. Deny me if you feel that I will compromise your honour, but do not deny me because you fear for mine.”
x.
She sat on the edge of the thin mattress, hand smoothing the fabric of her torn dress over her knees. The furs and their suffocating warmth did not invite her, but she would go if he wanted her to. He latched the door and the light of the moon was locked out and the warm glow of the ashes was their only light. But he would not come to her, seating himself in the armchair beside the fire. His voice was barely above a whisper again and she had never heard it quite like that before.
“Come to the warmth, Marian.”
His fingers laced between her own and helped her climb over him, both of her knees sinking into the malleable leather. She slid down his legs until there was not even an inch between them. She felt him hard and insistent against her; pressing in places she would never even let her own hands travel. She fought the little breaths and the sighs her toes curling against the leather. His hands travelled on her back; long strokes and the rough linen made her skin feel on fire. He would not kiss her, his lips just barely out of reach. He chanted her name like it was the Lords prayer; reverently and silently. Marian Marian Marian.
Finally she let her knees clamp against his sides and pushed herself against his hardness. The linen was rough and hard against her and she closed her eyes, willing the pain and pleasure to pass. She could not help her movements and Marian feared she would rub herself raw. But slowly his hands slid over her thighs and around her hips; thumbs gently stroking the bone, fingers slowly sliding between her and the fabric. And oh God how she wanted this; it was as if someone had poured oil into her and it was now spilling over. Gently he pushed against her, fingers sliding in and she could not breathe.
His hands guided her then, up up, until her stomach was resting against his chest. Her knees ached from the pressure, but the pain was a mere sliver in her mind. The soft and unyielding rhythm of his fingers was consuming her mind and she could feel her legs starting to shake. And then they were gone and she wanted to cry in their absence.
His fingers travelled up her leg, slowly, and then spread her open like she had never felt before, stretched and vulnerable. His other hand guided her down, and she would not close her eyes. She wanted to see this, see his face. He was huge and like silk against her and Marian was so hungry for this. With fury, unknown to her before, she pushed down and was suddenly being torn open, cloven in two. Marian though there would never be anything more wonderful than this moment. She pushed her knees against the leather and whispered his name, and finally understood the revered tone she had heard in his voice.
His hands lost their gentleness against her back and moved her with a rage matching her own. She cried and shouted and bit his shoulder, and the pleasure in her would not stop. And then his fierce fingers were back between them and her entire body exploded, as if someone had sent the oil on fire. He pushed, short and sharp into her and shuddered. Whispering her name like Amen.
His fingers loosened their hold on her shoulder blade and travelled into her hair, brushing it away from her face. His mouth was soft and open beneath her own as he kissed her, and Marian felt like she had just entered into a holy agreement, consummated something sacred. Let no man put asunder.
She woke up next to him among the furs. He had carried her to bed after and she remembered pulling of her dress and throwing it to the floor. He was still beside her, his arms warm and tight around her. For a moment she wondered what it would be like to wake up like this every morning; would she be content or would his arms become stifling over time? She pushed the thoughts to the back of her head. Something like this could never happen again. It had been her one indulgence and her one trespass. Her morbid thoughts seemed awake him and the stubble of his jaw slid over her shoulder and made her shiver.
“Are you cold?”
His voice was rough and almost a whisper and she shook her head. She once more found his hands circling her waist with her fingers. It was the comfort of his touch, that made her rise, and detangle herself from his embrace. She could not afford to lose her heart to this; she could not live with the sorrow. He seemed to understand her need for distance and did not follow her. She dressed mechanically, ignoring the gaze she could feel burning into her back.
The air was still cold outside, but the morning sun was already warming the forest. Her horse stood docile by the pen, picking the short blades of grass with its lips. She could fee Guy behind her, his chest nearly touching her back.
“Horses are very smart. They can follow their master for miles and miles and they will know when you have stopped even if they cannot see you.”
She grasped his hand, squeezing the fingers tightly in her own. How she wanted to stay here, in this isolation and peace. Here where he did not feel like her enemy; where they did not have to speak as society demanded of them.
“I have to leave, I have to return to my father and see to his wellbeing.”
“I know. I will take you to the edge of the village. There is no need for the questions or gossip my presence would bring upon you.”
Then she prayed, silently in her mind, like she had not done since she was a little girl. Please, O Lord, let me not remember the parting. Let me only remember the time here, and how happy I have been for such a short time.
xi.
But Lord did not grant Marian her wish. At first the images of him had been so vivid in her mind that she would awaken in the middle of the night with his imagined fingers running over skin and she would cry in their absence. Then, slowly, it became more like a dream; something that had only transpired in her head. Her life moved on and no one saw the difference in her. Her father improved and was able to rise from his bed again, but a nagging worry was now imprinted in her heart and she worried about the coming winter. He wanted her not to worry and willed himself to stand strong in the council and in her eyes. But she could no longer pretend that he was well, and in her heart she knew he was dying. Sometimes at night she would stand outside his door and listen to the rattling of his breath and cry silently against the grains in the wood.
She had not been able to help herself when it came to Robin. She had consciously distanced herself from him and his men. Even though the Night Watchman went out almost every night and helped those in need, she could not help Robin anymore. She could see the faces of those men in Robin and John and Will, even if they had not been there. The face of the dead man still haunted her waking hours, his lifeless eyes following her around the house. She knew that no matter what had happened to her, Robin would never accept her as a killer. He had sought her out a few times, but had, after her harsh brush off, respected her need for solitude. And to her surprise he had not questioned her why.
Then the pestilence came. She had to speak out, even with Sir Guy shooting a warning glance at her across the room, even with her father’s shoulders tensing beneath her hands, she had to. A part of her expected the sheriff’s retribution, wanted it. She wanted something to happen, something to jolt the people around her. Robin was a fool. He flaunted himself before the sheriff and played games. He had not yet realized what was truly at stake here. He did not see the coming winter as a bitter enemy. So she placed herself on the line.
The sound of the shears was now etched in her mind, and Marian hoped that it would fade with time. Her father had retired early, complaining tiredness. She had given him herb tea to help him sleep through the coughs. Herself, she could not sleep; silently she listened to the night and was jolted by the quiet knock on the door.
Gently she slid the door open and in the flickering light of the torch stood Guy of Gisborne. She had searched for him with her eyes in the courtyard today, but he had refused to meet her gaze. Now he finally looked at her with the kind of soft gaze she had learned to know a little those few weeks past. She slid the door wider so he could pass into the silent and dark house. He paced in the front room and Marian sat by the table, watching his movements. He wanted to speak, she could see it in his eyes every time he turned towards her, but each time seemed to lose the nerve.
He held it on the palm of his had like it was some precious thing. The hair had been braided and bound with two thin leather straps. Her fingers skimmed over the soft surface, not quite believing that it had been cut from her mere hours ago.
“You went back for it?”
She could hear the disbelief in her own voice, and felt ashamed for it. Had he not always tried in his crooked way do what was best for her?
“I thought you might want it back…”
There was a kind of hesitation in his voice that she had never heard before and he began to pull his hand away. Harshly she grasped his wrist and was instantly transported to another place and time, which she had for a while though to be but a dream. Softly she picked up the braid and felt again the tears she had refused to let fall in the yard.
“Thank you.”
Marian had never though how big a part of herself her hair was, until she the braid was in her hands. It was such a little thing and would grow back within the year, but it had such great implications against the moral of her character. She had been flippant earlier to Robin, she had not wanted him to see her fear and her shame, but now she felt no such decorum. She let the tears fall, silently. It was more of a release than an act of sorrow. But Guy did not know that and he kneeled by her chair his hands softly cradling her own, saying nothing. Marian wondered why their every single meeting could not be like this. He was not an eloquent man, but when he let his body do the speaking she could understand him so well.
She smiled, wiping the tears away and offered him the seat opposite her own. The braid remained in her hands and she twined her fingers through it.
“He truly made his point. I am a woman of no honour now.”
Against her will she felt a small grin tug the corner of her mouth and gave him a look from beneath her brows.
“But then again; you already knew that.”
“What happened between us had nothing to do with your honour. To me you are as respectable as always.”
She could not help the gentle smile spreading on her face and Marian wondered how he could make her smile so many times on such a day.
“Thank you, but I do fear that you will be the only one willing to express that sentiment. He has ruined my chances of getting a husband now more surely than ever.”
He was silent for a long time, and she could see the question in his eyes before he even asked it. In a way she had invited him to.
“Why did you never marry?”
And she did want to tell him her story, wanted him to know the reasons that drove her.
“I was meant to. When I was eleven an accord was made with the third son of the Earl of Wessex. We were to be married on my eighteenth birthday. I had no dowry, so it was agreed that upon the death of my father the lands would pass to the family of my husband. Under those circumstances it seemed fair to my father. You see I have rank, but no fortune. It was very hard for my parents to find me a suitable husband.”
“When I was seventeen, my intended died in a tournament and the grief stricken Wessex’s refused to accept me for any of their other sons. Then my mother died.”
Her voice caught and his fingers slid between her own, and she carried on. Her voice remained strangely even in the otherwise silent room.
“You have to understand that my father was never one to push for my marriage, my mother was. In a way she understood my needs in society so much better than my father. After she died my father became even more reclusive. He denied any suitors that came and one day they just stopped coming.”
“You see time was much against me. Now that my father finally understands that I will be left with nothing if he dies it is too late. I am too old.”
He nodded, but he wanted more, needed to know more.
“What about Locksley? Were your families not closely connected?”
“It would have been possible, but he is the Earl of Huntington. His father wanted him to marry well; they were vying for a wife with royal blood, giving him a strong bid for the throne. We were friends as children and I was betrothed early on, so the thought never entered my father’s mind. Robin left to war right after my intended was killed. During that time finding a wife was the last thing on his mind.”
“Do you now see why I did what I did? For once I wanted to be the one making choices over my body. For you see, it does not truly belong to me. It belongs to the land. We are both landless, both fighting to retain what we believe to be ours.”
“I fear that the earth will shallow me whole. This is what you meant by that, is it not?”
She could not believe that he had remembered her words so closely.
“That is why I told you that it would not matter if you changed a name of a thing. And for me it does not. For women names are fallible and ever changing. You have to find something in the land that is your own, something that will stay with you no matter if they take it away or change its name. “
Suddenly she looked at him, as if jolted awake from her thoughts.
“I apologise, I am rambling.”
“No you are not. We do not ever think what you must go without, us men. How small things can bring you down, make you unworthy.”
She shook her head. He was the first man to ever even express regret like that to her, and now that he did it was suddenly meaningless.
“I know. But I cannot be angry with any of you. We are all bound by rules of our station. But they can be thwarted.”
She raised her eyes to meet his, smiling without humour.
“And in that way the sheriff has helped me. He has shamed me in front of all of Nottingham. If I choose to, I can now repel any suitor I wish. That is the greatest freedom a woman in my position could ever wish for.”
She slid her fingers between his, finding the gesture so incredibly intimate. I have done this before. They were familiar fingers, and again his question did not surprise her.
“Why did you choose me? Why not Locksley?”
“Because Robin could never truly understand the ties that bind me, the rules I have to follow. And he would never see it as my choice, merely an extension of his own charms. But I thought that you would. And by bringing this…”
Marian pulled her fingers away from his and ran her fingers over the severed braid.
“…you have proven me right.”
At that he looked away, as if uncomfortable with the idea that she had read him so well. That was alright. He had given her more tonight than she had ever expected to receive from any man in a lifetime. His terse voice did not come to her as a shock.
“I need to leave.”
She got up after him, walking after him to the door. He stood the immobile, looking once more like he wanted to say something, make their parting memorable. Marian did not give him the chance.
She pulled him to her, until their bodies were touching. His lips were still as soft as she remembered and Marian was comforted in the thought that she had not imagined everything. His hands found their way around her waist, but before she could once more get used to the feel of his hands, he pulled away.
“Marian, we cannot do this.”
His forehead rested against her own, and she wanted nothing more than to invite him back into her house and take him to her bed, but she knew the truth of his words. They could not and she let him go. She watched him as long as she could; until the sounds of the hooves disappeared into the night and he was once more gone from her life.
xii.
She watched the closed door and listened to the murmured words of the physician through the door. The sheriff had finally relented and his personal physician had become an almost permanent fixture in her house. Marian did not know if she should be thankful. Had Guy pressed the matter in the castle or was this another of the sheriff’s ploys to gain an upper hand over her father? But none of it mattered right now. Her father was dying; his lungs were slowly beginning to give up.
A sharp rap on the door made her turn around, but the visitor did not wait to be called in. The sheriff pushed into the hall, motioning for his guards to wait outside. Marian forced a smile on her lips at the sight of the man, but her voice remained cold.
“Forgive me, sheriff, but my father is not well enough right now to receive any visitors.”
He gave her a mocking bow, eyes searching the locked door behind her.
“Yes, so I have been informed, my dear.”
His voice was jolly as always. And today the sinister gleam of his eyes seemed even more pronounced to her. He moved around the room, as if already owning it, fingering the furniture and the looms hanging on the walls.
“It is a shame really; you unmarried and unable to inherit. The estate will pass onto the crown, of course.”
His voice was even, and Marian could not afford to show her rage.
“But I am sure there are men interested in the Knighton hall. After you father has passed there should be a competition for the land and for you, hmm?”
Then his face contorted into a nasty smile.
“But no, who would possibly take a shamed woman as a wife? It would have to be someone willing to live with your soiled past. I must say there are not many of those around.”
His eyes moved over her, and Marian suppressed a shiver. She would not give him the satisfaction, not when her father was dying a mere door away.
“Personally I would think the land is worth the shame of a spoiled wife.”
He moved closer to her then and Marian fought not to strike him as his breath ghosted over her lips.
“I think it is time you left Sheriff, my father is very tired.”
He grimaced at her, teeth visible between his cracked lips, but he pulled back. He wrenched the door nearly off from its hinges, but instead of rushing out he turned to her.
“I have all the time in the word, and you father have very little of it left. I will wait.”
The door was left slightly ajar in his wake, and the cold air pushed some of the dead leaves in from the porch. She stood still for a long while, listening to the silent tones of the physician and her father’s laboured coughing.
(continued)