The Force of Destiny, Chapter 11
Original Post
Rating: PG
Pairings/characters: Guy, Lady Margaret of Leicester (Meg)
Word count: 2862
Spoilers: While this alters the end of S2, there are still minor spoilers for the whole run of the show, including S3.
Summary: Guy's days as a drunkard are numbered.
Disclaimer: I may not own the rights or make profits from this, but it sure is fun to do anyway. :)
previous chapter
-11-
Guy fell into the castle wall as he weaved his way down the corridor, wine from the bottle that was clenched in his fist sloshing over his glove and onto his boot. A nearby guard snorted, but Guy could not find the energy to care that much, merely snarling at the man as he staggered away from the rough stone. Six months ago, he would have beaten the guard to within an inch of his life, and probably an inch more than that. Now, who cared?
Queen Eleanor was studiously collecting tax money for her son’s ransom, and while word had reached Nottingham Castle that Prince John and King Philip were trying to bribe the Holy Roman Emperor to keep Richard imprisoned, Guy was certain that wouldn not last. Soon, England's king would return, and he would see to it that all traitors paid. And, you could not be much more of a traitor than trying to kill a monarch with your own hands.
Twice.
He halted, taking a deep swig of the expensive burgundy without even tasting it. Its flavor had been forever lost to him somewhere within his tenth cask, or thereabouts. The rich liquid dribbled out the side of his mouth, and he swiped at it with his sleeve, but the leather did not do much to sop it up.
There was a flight of stairs ahead, which would take him down to the outer corridor along the castle courtyard. It was a steep flight; perhaps he would fall and break his neck. He was likely facing a broken neck, anyway, or at least a throttled one; it only remained to be seen if Vaizey did the deed before the king had it taken care of.
As he somehow reached the bottom of the steps unscathed, he looked back up in disgust. He could not even properly kill himself by accident. Bloody hell.
He could, however, trip over absolutely nothing, sprawling on his face in front of one of the unused chambers along the path, the bottle flying out of his hand and shattering on the slate floor ahead of him. The door to the room was cracked open, and when he lifted his head, he realized he was looking at the very spot where Marian had kissed him, the day Hood made his escape with Vaizey’s lauded assassin, Carter.
Dear God, she had been helping them, hadn’t she? Creating a diversion. She could not have picked a better one, but how was it that he had never before figured this out?
He waited for the anger to rise, the hurt, but all that was left was humiliation. And not even at being fooled by her, but that it had never crossed his mind to wonder. All that time, he thought that she was merely reluctant, playing the coy maiden... but the whole while, it was Robin Hood who possessed her heart.
It was Robin Hood who had saved her life, who had stopped Guy from running her through.
The wound from the outlaw’s arrow had long ago healed, and Guy actually cherished the scar it left behind. It was a reminder that his life was over, even if he was still breathing for now. He had nothing left; not the woman he loved, not security in his position... nothing. It was also a reminder that he owed Hood a debt, for preventing him from killing her. That knowledge was nearly as painful as the memory of the tip of his sword cutting into her belly, in the second before his arm was jerked back; it almost hurt as badly as the sight of her stepping away from him, shock and betrayal on her face.
Betrayal. What a joke, from a woman who had done nothing but jerk him about with empty promises and false embraces.
He thought about getting up, but there was no one about, so it did not really matter if he laid here another minute. Everything was spinning again, anyway, including his stomach. But, he could control that.
He was still swallowing against the bile in his throat when a coach rolled into the courtyard. Pulling himself to his hands and knees, he crawled over to the stairway that led to the edge of the courtyard, dragging himself up along the wall at the top of the stairs. When the vehicle stopped, a lovely woman in her mid-thirties, with hair somewhere between brown and flame-hued, stepped down. Guy blinked blearily at her, trying to figure out where he had seen her before. She was obviously a noble, but he still could not quite place her.
A guard hurried down from the castle entrance to assist her, and she said, “Please inform the sheriff that Lady Margaret of Leicester has arrived, and needs to speak with him.”
Margaret of Leicester... Margaret... Marg--
Oh, damn. Marian’s cousin. Only, she had gone by Meg when she spent that summer with Marian and Edward, shortly after Guy had begun seriously pursuing Marian, and just before Hood got back from the Holy Land and ruined everything.
But, wait. There was something bad here... what was it, again?
Right-- the sheriff would throw her in the dungeons if he got a hold of her, as a weapon against Marian. And, Marian might have lied to Guy, manipulated him, and basically made a complete ass of him, but he still found that he wanted to help her. Old habits, and all that.
“Wait!” he called to the guard. “Don’t bother the sheriff; I’ll see to her.” He pushed off from the wall with the intention of making his way down the corridor, but lost his footing and felt himself falling sideways.
He barely felt his tumble down the stairs; one moment he was tipping, and the next he was crumpled at the bottom, disoriented and with nearly every part of his body throbbing. The bile was back, and he barely had time to roll over before his stomach heaved out its meager contents.
The first few times this had happened since they left Acre, he had been even more pained than he normally would be, by the fire of primarily alcoholic contents ripping their way up through his system. Now, he had forgotten what a throat not burnt raw felt like. His voice, normally smooth as velvet, had become what could only be described as gravelly. That suited him fine, since it did even more to intimidate or repulse than he was able to accomplish before.
Suddenly, gentle hands were on his shoulders, barely discernable through his sturdy doublet, and a feminine voice asked, “Are you injured?” She must have only then noticed why he was crouched over, because she yelled toward the entrance, “This man needs help; he’s taken ill!”
The sounds of snickering hit his ears, and a soon-to-be-unemployed guard hollered back, “Nah, that’s just Sir Guy. He’ll be fine after he has a doze, or another bottle.”
By this time, the spasms had ceased, and he spit a few times to clear his mouth. Lady Margaret gave him room as he forced himself to his feet, turning to face her.
“Sir Guy of Gisborne,” she murmured. “The dark man on his dark horse. What has happened to you?”
“Lady Margaret. What brings you to Nottingham?” That sounded vaguely coherent. He would have patted himself on the back, if he was not likely to fall over upon doing so.
She eyed him warily, as if distrusting that he had his feet, or concerned that he might vomit on her gown. “I am looking for my uncle and cousin. I went to call on them, and found Knighton Hall in ashes, with nobody willing to tell me what happened.”
At the reminder of one of the greater wrongs he had done Marian, Guy’s stomach threatened to empty itself again, but he was able to fight down the wave of nausea. Distracted by that and still far from sober, he did not think to soften his words. “Edward is dead. Marian is outlawed, married to Robin Hood.”
She gasped. “What? What happened to Uncle Edward?”
“Stabbed.” Good God, there was nothing left to come up, so why was his stomach bothering to try?
Staring at him until she realized he was not going to elaborate, she finally demanded, “By whom? When?”
His legs were starting to feel wobbly. He had told her what she came to learn; why would the infernal woman not leave him be? And what was the question again? “Dunno. Last year. Some canon... Berkeley.”
“Are you going to be unwell?” she asked suspiciously.
He burped, causing her nose to wrinkle when the stench reached her. “Maybe.” His muscles decided that they needed to rest immediately, and he collapsed into a sitting position. “Have ‘em ta'e me t’Lo'sley,” he slurred, before slipping into slumber.
Guy was vaguely conscious of being hauled up and set somewhere that shook him around; the next thing he knew, he was blinking through eyes that felt like sandpaper, peering against the evening sunlight which burnished his bedchamber in amber light.
His tongue felt like it was stuck to the roof of his mouth, his head was pounding, and the taste in his mouth was better left without description. He automatically reached for the bottle that was always beside the bed, only to find it missing.
Easing up onto his elbows, he turned in confusion to look at the small table, but it was, indeed, empty. What the devil was this, then? Thornton knew to always have a full bottle at his bedside.
He made a growling sound in the back of his throat, which was met by a voice from the corner of the room. “Awake, are you?”
With a glare in the general direction of the voice, he grumbled, “Who’s there?”
Rather than answer, a woman stood up. “What if I were an assassin? Someone sent to kill you? You would be in no position to defend yourself.”
He smirked. “Who says I would want to defend myself?”
She walked over to the bed and leant down, nearly nose-to-nose with him. “I do.”
Her face was so familiar... and yet different from what his memory said it should be. Older, nearly his own age. “Why do I know you?”
“My name is Meg, and once, I thought you were the handsomest man alive. I hoped you would save me from a betrothal I did not want. But it looks like I’m going to be saving you, instead.”
His head dropped back to the pillow. “Oh, God help me.”
"God will have nothing to do with you, if what I have been hearing today is true,” she commented evenly, moving to perch on the end of the bed.
She was likely right about his being forsaken, but he did not like hearing it. As to the gossip... he would deal with that later. Maybe. “You’re Marian’s cousin. You arrived at the castle...” He realized he had no idea how much time had passed. He had stopped paying attention to that long ago.
“So, you haven’t completely destroyed your memory; good. I arrived this afternoon,” she supplied. “It’s past supper.”
“People still eat that?”
Meg was not amused. “Yes, people still eat supper. People eat. It’s what we do to live.” She eyed him. “You, however, look to be near death.”
Finally, some good news. He flung his arm across his eyes, blocking out the light. “Why are you even here? I haven’t seen you in, what, five years?”
“Closer to six. And I’m here because I apparently haven’t grown any wiser over that time.”
He moved his arm to peer at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She sighed, looking away. “Never mind.”
Having no use for dramatics, he said meanly, "A little old to be saved from a betrothal, were you not?"
She stiffened, perhaps unconsciously twisting even further away from him. "I kept my independence as long as I could. By the time I could not sustain it any further, my options were limited."
Something occurred to him. “You said you were from Leicester, when you got to the castle.”
Cautiously turning back to him, she said, “I did. What of it?”
“You weren’t from Leicester. You were from some godforsaken little village like this.”
A half-smile quirked her lips. “You remember that?”
Well, if she was going to be difficult about it... “I remember things about important people.” Or, at least, he used to. He could have met the bloody pope recently and had no recollection of it an hour later.
“And flattery, too?” But she did not tease him further. “My husband was from Leicester.”
“You say ‘was’.”
With a small nod, she explained, “He died two weeks ago. I came to see if I could stay with Uncle Edward until I get things sorted out.”
She did not appear devastated by the loss, which was no surprise after what she had just said, but her eyes were sad. Guy did not know why he cared, but found himself saying, “I’m sorry.” Even more surprising, he found he meant it.
Meg gave a little shrug, picking at a loose thread in the coverlet. “He treated me well enough, but there was no great affection between us.”
“What was his name?”
There was that half-smile again, dancing over her lips. “Lester.”
She had to be kidding. “Lester of Leicester?”
A giggle escaped her, and she clapped a hand over her mouth, mortified. Glancing at him in chagrin, she seemed to realize that he, of all people, was not about to judge her. Leaning toward him slightly, she said quietly, “Isn’t that an awful name? His whole family has no concept of what is appropriate, and are greatly lacking in intelligence.”
The discussion of her in-laws reminded him of something. “What did you mean, you wished I would save you from your betrothal? And for the love of God, get me something to drink.”
She had blushed at his question, but the color receded from her face as she raised an eyebrow at his command. “I beg your pardon?”
“I take it you removed my wine bottle.”
“I did. You’ve apparently had enough wine to last a dozen lifetimes.”
“Wrong. This lifetime is still dragging on, which means I have not even had enough to last one. Since you took it upon yourself to remove it, you can find its replacement for me.”
With a huff, she got to her feet. He heard her pouring liquid into a cup, and then she marched back, sticking it practically in his face. Glaring at her, he grabbed it and slugged back several gulps before he noticed it was not what he expected. “This is-- this is water!” he exclaimed, outraged.
“Congratulations, you’ve identified it,” she replied dryly.
He flung the cup on the floor, scattering the contents across the boards. Even as he did, the action struck him as petulant-- and her reaction mirrored the thought,-- but Locksley was still his for the time being, and he was not going to be reduced to drinking water while he was master. “Devil woman, are you trying to poison me?” he spat.
“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” she shot back.
“If you’re going to do it, at least, do it right,” he grumbled. “I’m sure there’s arsenic in the kitchens or outbuildings somewhere.”
She stared at him, and he stared back, daring her to deny that he was serious. “Why are you like this?” she finally whispered.
Instead of giving her a direct reply, he muttered, “Run, Meg. Run, before the king hears you have associated with me, or before you say something I do not wish to hear.”
"Melodramatic one, aren't you?" Clearly, she had no idea what he was talking about, but merely lifted her chin and said, “And leave you to your drinking, you mean. Well, Sir Guy, no such luck. You see, I am currently without a place to live, thanks to you (yes, I did discover that it was you who burnt Knighton Hall); and you have nobody to look after you. So, until you can think of a better solution-- one which will satisfy me,-- you are stuck with me.”
Guy narrowed his eyes. “I could have you thrown out, or tossed in the castle dungeons.”
Her answering smirk was almost on a level with his own such expression. “Frankly, I think the guards would be more likely to listen to me than to you at the moment.”
She was probably right. “Infernal woman,” he growled.
“Stinking sot.”
He gave her a sneer. Let’s see her match that.
A triumphant grin was her response, instead.
“I’ll see that a plate is brought up for you,” she said, as if it had been his idea, and flounced out before he could argue.
He wondered if tripping and falling out the window not-so-accidentally would count as suicide. Damn it, it probably would.
With a sigh of resignation, he closed his eyes.
next chapter
*
Rating: PG
Pairings/characters: Guy, Lady Margaret of Leicester (Meg)
Word count: 2862
Spoilers: While this alters the end of S2, there are still minor spoilers for the whole run of the show, including S3.
Summary: Guy's days as a drunkard are numbered.
Disclaimer: I may not own the rights or make profits from this, but it sure is fun to do anyway. :)
previous chapter
-11-
Guy fell into the castle wall as he weaved his way down the corridor, wine from the bottle that was clenched in his fist sloshing over his glove and onto his boot. A nearby guard snorted, but Guy could not find the energy to care that much, merely snarling at the man as he staggered away from the rough stone. Six months ago, he would have beaten the guard to within an inch of his life, and probably an inch more than that. Now, who cared?
Queen Eleanor was studiously collecting tax money for her son’s ransom, and while word had reached Nottingham Castle that Prince John and King Philip were trying to bribe the Holy Roman Emperor to keep Richard imprisoned, Guy was certain that wouldn not last. Soon, England's king would return, and he would see to it that all traitors paid. And, you could not be much more of a traitor than trying to kill a monarch with your own hands.
Twice.
He halted, taking a deep swig of the expensive burgundy without even tasting it. Its flavor had been forever lost to him somewhere within his tenth cask, or thereabouts. The rich liquid dribbled out the side of his mouth, and he swiped at it with his sleeve, but the leather did not do much to sop it up.
There was a flight of stairs ahead, which would take him down to the outer corridor along the castle courtyard. It was a steep flight; perhaps he would fall and break his neck. He was likely facing a broken neck, anyway, or at least a throttled one; it only remained to be seen if Vaizey did the deed before the king had it taken care of.
As he somehow reached the bottom of the steps unscathed, he looked back up in disgust. He could not even properly kill himself by accident. Bloody hell.
He could, however, trip over absolutely nothing, sprawling on his face in front of one of the unused chambers along the path, the bottle flying out of his hand and shattering on the slate floor ahead of him. The door to the room was cracked open, and when he lifted his head, he realized he was looking at the very spot where Marian had kissed him, the day Hood made his escape with Vaizey’s lauded assassin, Carter.
Dear God, she had been helping them, hadn’t she? Creating a diversion. She could not have picked a better one, but how was it that he had never before figured this out?
He waited for the anger to rise, the hurt, but all that was left was humiliation. And not even at being fooled by her, but that it had never crossed his mind to wonder. All that time, he thought that she was merely reluctant, playing the coy maiden... but the whole while, it was Robin Hood who possessed her heart.
It was Robin Hood who had saved her life, who had stopped Guy from running her through.
The wound from the outlaw’s arrow had long ago healed, and Guy actually cherished the scar it left behind. It was a reminder that his life was over, even if he was still breathing for now. He had nothing left; not the woman he loved, not security in his position... nothing. It was also a reminder that he owed Hood a debt, for preventing him from killing her. That knowledge was nearly as painful as the memory of the tip of his sword cutting into her belly, in the second before his arm was jerked back; it almost hurt as badly as the sight of her stepping away from him, shock and betrayal on her face.
Betrayal. What a joke, from a woman who had done nothing but jerk him about with empty promises and false embraces.
He thought about getting up, but there was no one about, so it did not really matter if he laid here another minute. Everything was spinning again, anyway, including his stomach. But, he could control that.
He was still swallowing against the bile in his throat when a coach rolled into the courtyard. Pulling himself to his hands and knees, he crawled over to the stairway that led to the edge of the courtyard, dragging himself up along the wall at the top of the stairs. When the vehicle stopped, a lovely woman in her mid-thirties, with hair somewhere between brown and flame-hued, stepped down. Guy blinked blearily at her, trying to figure out where he had seen her before. She was obviously a noble, but he still could not quite place her.
A guard hurried down from the castle entrance to assist her, and she said, “Please inform the sheriff that Lady Margaret of Leicester has arrived, and needs to speak with him.”
Margaret of Leicester... Margaret... Marg--
Oh, damn. Marian’s cousin. Only, she had gone by Meg when she spent that summer with Marian and Edward, shortly after Guy had begun seriously pursuing Marian, and just before Hood got back from the Holy Land and ruined everything.
But, wait. There was something bad here... what was it, again?
Right-- the sheriff would throw her in the dungeons if he got a hold of her, as a weapon against Marian. And, Marian might have lied to Guy, manipulated him, and basically made a complete ass of him, but he still found that he wanted to help her. Old habits, and all that.
“Wait!” he called to the guard. “Don’t bother the sheriff; I’ll see to her.” He pushed off from the wall with the intention of making his way down the corridor, but lost his footing and felt himself falling sideways.
He barely felt his tumble down the stairs; one moment he was tipping, and the next he was crumpled at the bottom, disoriented and with nearly every part of his body throbbing. The bile was back, and he barely had time to roll over before his stomach heaved out its meager contents.
The first few times this had happened since they left Acre, he had been even more pained than he normally would be, by the fire of primarily alcoholic contents ripping their way up through his system. Now, he had forgotten what a throat not burnt raw felt like. His voice, normally smooth as velvet, had become what could only be described as gravelly. That suited him fine, since it did even more to intimidate or repulse than he was able to accomplish before.
Suddenly, gentle hands were on his shoulders, barely discernable through his sturdy doublet, and a feminine voice asked, “Are you injured?” She must have only then noticed why he was crouched over, because she yelled toward the entrance, “This man needs help; he’s taken ill!”
The sounds of snickering hit his ears, and a soon-to-be-unemployed guard hollered back, “Nah, that’s just Sir Guy. He’ll be fine after he has a doze, or another bottle.”
By this time, the spasms had ceased, and he spit a few times to clear his mouth. Lady Margaret gave him room as he forced himself to his feet, turning to face her.
“Sir Guy of Gisborne,” she murmured. “The dark man on his dark horse. What has happened to you?”
“Lady Margaret. What brings you to Nottingham?” That sounded vaguely coherent. He would have patted himself on the back, if he was not likely to fall over upon doing so.
She eyed him warily, as if distrusting that he had his feet, or concerned that he might vomit on her gown. “I am looking for my uncle and cousin. I went to call on them, and found Knighton Hall in ashes, with nobody willing to tell me what happened.”
At the reminder of one of the greater wrongs he had done Marian, Guy’s stomach threatened to empty itself again, but he was able to fight down the wave of nausea. Distracted by that and still far from sober, he did not think to soften his words. “Edward is dead. Marian is outlawed, married to Robin Hood.”
She gasped. “What? What happened to Uncle Edward?”
“Stabbed.” Good God, there was nothing left to come up, so why was his stomach bothering to try?
Staring at him until she realized he was not going to elaborate, she finally demanded, “By whom? When?”
His legs were starting to feel wobbly. He had told her what she came to learn; why would the infernal woman not leave him be? And what was the question again? “Dunno. Last year. Some canon... Berkeley.”
“Are you going to be unwell?” she asked suspiciously.
He burped, causing her nose to wrinkle when the stench reached her. “Maybe.” His muscles decided that they needed to rest immediately, and he collapsed into a sitting position. “Have ‘em ta'e me t’Lo'sley,” he slurred, before slipping into slumber.
Guy was vaguely conscious of being hauled up and set somewhere that shook him around; the next thing he knew, he was blinking through eyes that felt like sandpaper, peering against the evening sunlight which burnished his bedchamber in amber light.
His tongue felt like it was stuck to the roof of his mouth, his head was pounding, and the taste in his mouth was better left without description. He automatically reached for the bottle that was always beside the bed, only to find it missing.
Easing up onto his elbows, he turned in confusion to look at the small table, but it was, indeed, empty. What the devil was this, then? Thornton knew to always have a full bottle at his bedside.
He made a growling sound in the back of his throat, which was met by a voice from the corner of the room. “Awake, are you?”
With a glare in the general direction of the voice, he grumbled, “Who’s there?”
Rather than answer, a woman stood up. “What if I were an assassin? Someone sent to kill you? You would be in no position to defend yourself.”
He smirked. “Who says I would want to defend myself?”
She walked over to the bed and leant down, nearly nose-to-nose with him. “I do.”
Her face was so familiar... and yet different from what his memory said it should be. Older, nearly his own age. “Why do I know you?”
“My name is Meg, and once, I thought you were the handsomest man alive. I hoped you would save me from a betrothal I did not want. But it looks like I’m going to be saving you, instead.”
His head dropped back to the pillow. “Oh, God help me.”
"God will have nothing to do with you, if what I have been hearing today is true,” she commented evenly, moving to perch on the end of the bed.
She was likely right about his being forsaken, but he did not like hearing it. As to the gossip... he would deal with that later. Maybe. “You’re Marian’s cousin. You arrived at the castle...” He realized he had no idea how much time had passed. He had stopped paying attention to that long ago.
“So, you haven’t completely destroyed your memory; good. I arrived this afternoon,” she supplied. “It’s past supper.”
“People still eat that?”
Meg was not amused. “Yes, people still eat supper. People eat. It’s what we do to live.” She eyed him. “You, however, look to be near death.”
Finally, some good news. He flung his arm across his eyes, blocking out the light. “Why are you even here? I haven’t seen you in, what, five years?”
“Closer to six. And I’m here because I apparently haven’t grown any wiser over that time.”
He moved his arm to peer at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She sighed, looking away. “Never mind.”
Having no use for dramatics, he said meanly, "A little old to be saved from a betrothal, were you not?"
She stiffened, perhaps unconsciously twisting even further away from him. "I kept my independence as long as I could. By the time I could not sustain it any further, my options were limited."
Something occurred to him. “You said you were from Leicester, when you got to the castle.”
Cautiously turning back to him, she said, “I did. What of it?”
“You weren’t from Leicester. You were from some godforsaken little village like this.”
A half-smile quirked her lips. “You remember that?”
Well, if she was going to be difficult about it... “I remember things about important people.” Or, at least, he used to. He could have met the bloody pope recently and had no recollection of it an hour later.
“And flattery, too?” But she did not tease him further. “My husband was from Leicester.”
“You say ‘was’.”
With a small nod, she explained, “He died two weeks ago. I came to see if I could stay with Uncle Edward until I get things sorted out.”
She did not appear devastated by the loss, which was no surprise after what she had just said, but her eyes were sad. Guy did not know why he cared, but found himself saying, “I’m sorry.” Even more surprising, he found he meant it.
Meg gave a little shrug, picking at a loose thread in the coverlet. “He treated me well enough, but there was no great affection between us.”
“What was his name?”
There was that half-smile again, dancing over her lips. “Lester.”
She had to be kidding. “Lester of Leicester?”
A giggle escaped her, and she clapped a hand over her mouth, mortified. Glancing at him in chagrin, she seemed to realize that he, of all people, was not about to judge her. Leaning toward him slightly, she said quietly, “Isn’t that an awful name? His whole family has no concept of what is appropriate, and are greatly lacking in intelligence.”
The discussion of her in-laws reminded him of something. “What did you mean, you wished I would save you from your betrothal? And for the love of God, get me something to drink.”
She had blushed at his question, but the color receded from her face as she raised an eyebrow at his command. “I beg your pardon?”
“I take it you removed my wine bottle.”
“I did. You’ve apparently had enough wine to last a dozen lifetimes.”
“Wrong. This lifetime is still dragging on, which means I have not even had enough to last one. Since you took it upon yourself to remove it, you can find its replacement for me.”
With a huff, she got to her feet. He heard her pouring liquid into a cup, and then she marched back, sticking it practically in his face. Glaring at her, he grabbed it and slugged back several gulps before he noticed it was not what he expected. “This is-- this is water!” he exclaimed, outraged.
“Congratulations, you’ve identified it,” she replied dryly.
He flung the cup on the floor, scattering the contents across the boards. Even as he did, the action struck him as petulant-- and her reaction mirrored the thought,-- but Locksley was still his for the time being, and he was not going to be reduced to drinking water while he was master. “Devil woman, are you trying to poison me?” he spat.
“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” she shot back.
“If you’re going to do it, at least, do it right,” he grumbled. “I’m sure there’s arsenic in the kitchens or outbuildings somewhere.”
She stared at him, and he stared back, daring her to deny that he was serious. “Why are you like this?” she finally whispered.
Instead of giving her a direct reply, he muttered, “Run, Meg. Run, before the king hears you have associated with me, or before you say something I do not wish to hear.”
"Melodramatic one, aren't you?" Clearly, she had no idea what he was talking about, but merely lifted her chin and said, “And leave you to your drinking, you mean. Well, Sir Guy, no such luck. You see, I am currently without a place to live, thanks to you (yes, I did discover that it was you who burnt Knighton Hall); and you have nobody to look after you. So, until you can think of a better solution-- one which will satisfy me,-- you are stuck with me.”
Guy narrowed his eyes. “I could have you thrown out, or tossed in the castle dungeons.”
Her answering smirk was almost on a level with his own such expression. “Frankly, I think the guards would be more likely to listen to me than to you at the moment.”
She was probably right. “Infernal woman,” he growled.
“Stinking sot.”
He gave her a sneer. Let’s see her match that.
A triumphant grin was her response, instead.
“I’ll see that a plate is brought up for you,” she said, as if it had been his idea, and flounced out before he could argue.
He wondered if tripping and falling out the window not-so-accidentally would count as suicide. Damn it, it probably would.
With a sigh of resignation, he closed his eyes.
next chapter
*