A Place to Call Home Chapter One
Title: A Place to Call Home (2/?)
Rating: This chapter: PG
Characters: Guy/Marian
Summary: “I do not love you,” she cried in frustration. “Why do you want me?”
Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of the BBC. All rights reserved. No copyright infringement intended and no profit is made by the author.
A/N: I’ve set this story immediately after the events of the first season finale. However, I have included information derived from subsequent episodes, in particular from season three’s “Bad Blood” used here for my purposes as source material and plot motives for the characters.
As a further note, I personally found the character of Isabella to be a tired and terrible plot contrivance, so for my purposes, she never existed. Guy was raised an only child.
Chapter One
It was late when they arrived at Locksley Manor. Before leaving Knighton, Guy had instructed that a small bag of Marian’s belongings be packed so that they could be on their way. He had told Edward that he would send for the rest of her things in the coming days.
Marian had barely followed the proceedings, watching in a daze as her horse was re-saddled and led back into the courtyard. She was dimly aware of Guy helping her into the saddle and she held the reins loosely in her hand, allowing her horse to follow Guy’s as a dull despair settled over her.
Upon reaching Locksley, she followed a servant up the stairs and now stared stupidly at the fire dancing merrily in the hearth and tried desperately to ignore the bed with its covers turned invitingly back. How was it, she wondered, that her fate had turned so quickly. Was it possible that just hours ago she and Robin had danced around the outlaws’ campfire? That they had spun and twirled in a giddy display of relief and joy at her narrow escape? Only to now find that she was here anyway? The day’s whipsaw events had left her exhausted and she longed for the peaceful oblivion of sleep. Perhaps, she thought sluggishly, she would awaken in the morning to find this nothing but a bad dream.
Fear penetrated the haze fogging her senses and she was jolted back to reality when Guy entered the room and dismissed the servant with a quick gesture. Marian’s eyes widened and she took an instinctive step towards the door when he strode across the room to sit on the edge of the bed.
Guy kept his gaze down as he wrestled first one boot and then the other from his feet. The emotional upheaval of the day had left him fatigued as well.
“Marian.”
She took another step in retreat and his shoulders sagged in reaction. Her anxiety was palpable - a living, breathing thing that swirled around them and seemed to suck the very air from the room.
He dropped a boot to the floor and looked up to find her standing near the hearth, her arms wrapped protectively around her torso.
“I am not… I beg of you, Sir Guy. I am not ready,” she whispered nervously.
Guy closed his eyes, overwhelmed by this display of timidity which was so at odds with her usually fiery disposition.
“I know you are not.” Disappointment made is voice rough. “I will not press you tonight, Marian. Nor even tomorrow.” He cleared his throat once before continuing. “Despite what you may think, I am not an ogre. I will give you some time to make your peace with our marriage.”
He paused and looked at her with a reassuring nod. She blinked rapidly and lowered her head to stare at the floor.
“But Marian,” he continued in a low, warning tone. “I will not wait forever.”
Her hair had swung forward to shield her face so that he could not read her expression but he knew by the stiffening of her shoulders and the tremor that wracked her frame that his words were not welcomed.
His silence seemed to demand a response and she gave a terse jerk of her head in acknowledgement of his words before she moved toward the door. She fumbled with the handle, the lure of freedom from his penetrating gaze making her clumsy and she stiffened as he called her name again.
“Marian.” His voice was a low rumble of sound. “Where are you going?”
“To my… to another…” She drew in a deep breath and forced a steady note into her voice as she tried to project a calmness she did not feel. “To find my chamber and get some sleep, my lord.”
“This is your chamber.”
She whirled around to face him and her eyes darted about the room. Though sparsely furnished and devoid of much in the way of decoration, she knew the manor well enough to know that this was the lord’s chamber. And with the exception of the white chemise and the silver handled hairbrush which the servant had laid out when unpacking the few belongings Marian had brought, if the few pieces of his personal property scattered about were not ample enough evidence that this was Guy’s room, she also knew him well enough to be certain that he would not have taken a lesser room than the master’s chamber.
“No!” she protested. “This is obviously your chamber.”
“It was.” He stood and casually pulled the hem of his shirt from the waistband of his breeches. “Now it is ours.”
Marian’s breasts heaved beneath the bodice of her gown and high spots of color bloomed on her cheeks. “You said that you would not… that we would not…” she stuttered frantically.
“I said that I would not press you tonight to fulfill your wifely duty. But, Marian… you are my wife and you will share my bed.” He stripped the shirt over his head and laid it neatly over the back of a chair. He forced himself to keep his movements steady so as not to convey his own unease with the situation.
He heard her gasp as his fingers moved to the laces of his leather breeches. From the corner of his eye, he was aware that she was pressed against the door and he saw her hand convulse around the knob. He prayed that she would not flee and force him to drag her back into the room, kicking and screaming. He did not want to manhandle her into submission.
He was making everything up as he went now. Improvising and terrified in his own right of destroying everything he had hoped to gain. But he was determined that he would be the master of this home and that they would share a bed beginning tonight. And, he hoped that small intimacy would help them to find a measure of ease and familiarity with one another.
He moved hurriedly now, tearing the laces free and skimmed the leather down his legs until he stood before her clad only in his short braies. He laid the breeches over his shirt and slid under the covers, blowing out the candle on the table next to the bed as he did so and plunging the room into relative darkness.
“It is late, Marian.” He injected a note of sleepiness into his voice and then fell silent, hoping the quietness would ease some of the tension from her frame.
Long moments passed and still she stood, frozen with indecision and fear, unable to make a choice as to whether she should stay or make a dash for freedom. Her fingers were still clamped around the door handle and she held onto it as if it were her only tether to the world.
A whisper of movement had her fearfully peering across the room and in the faint light of the banked fire in the hearth she could see his silhouette as he sat up in the bed.
“For God’s sake, Marian,” he snarled, his patience strained to the brink. “Though you may believe otherwise, I am not in a habit of raping women. Your virtue is quite safe with me.” She saw him scrape his fingers through his hair in a familiar gesture she recognized as one of mounting frustration.
“Now, get into your nightclothes and get into bed.” He lifted his head and even in the darkness she knew his eyes were trained on her. “Or do you require my assistance?”
His implication was all the impetus she needed to get moving.
“Close your eyes,” she demanded as she clenched the chemise protectively against her breasts.
There was a bite of defiance in her tone which he found oddly soothing as he once again settled himself in the bed. He was hard-pressed to obey her order as the rustling sound of fabric drew his gaze back to her. He watched through half-closed eyes as she moved into a dark corner and turned her back in an effort to protect her modesty. She lifted one arm and opened the laces that ran along the side of her gown stripping out of it and into the chemise as quickly as possible. Bending, she gathered up her clothing, unaware that as she crossed in front of the hearth to place the bundle on the chair that she was backlit by the light of the fire.
Guy stifled a groan as every curve of her sweet, young body was revealed through the flimsy fabric of her chemise and he fought the urge to drag her into his arms when she finally drew near the bed.
Marian perched nervously on the mattress for a moment before toeing off her shoes. She drew in a resolute breath and slipped under the blankets, hugging the edge of the bed and keeping as much distance between them as possible. Long, terrifying moments passed but eventually exhaustion caught up with her and she slid into a deep sleep.
Guy was not so fortunate. Lying next to her was sheer torture. His lips curved in a self-mocking smile. For weeks he had imagined this night so differently than it had turned out. When he had left the manor house that morning - was it just that morning? It seemed a lifetime ago now that he had made his way to the church with all the eager expectations of any groom; anticipating a modest but willing bride. He did not understand how he had gotten it all so wrong, how he had misread her so badly.
He could admit to himself now, here in the darkness, that he was base enough that part of him took pleasure in unnerving her tonight. That same part of him wanted to rage at her for the lies he now understood she had told him. For making him believe that she cared for him and that his advances and proposal were welcomed by her. The sight of her riding off on horseback with his nemesis - with the outlaw she had professed to despise - and the sound of her laughter floating on the same breeze that caught her bridal veil as she flung it joyfully into the air as she escaped… all of that was burned into his memory. Etched onto his soul. He could not deny the burst of satisfaction he felt upon seeing the expression on her face when she found him awaiting her in her father’s study, or that the flare of triumph he experienced in bringing her back here as his wife was a salve to his wounded pride.
His thoughts were a jumble of emotions for her. Hatred warred with love and the desire for revenge slammed up hard against his need to protect her and provide for her. He wanted to own her. Possess her. Mark her with his hands, his mouth, his body, until there was no doubt to anyone who saw her that she belonged to him and only to him.
He knew that his love should be pure and not steeped in desperation. That he should love her enough to let her go; to annul the marriage and set her free. But he needed her in a way he did not understand. That need defined him and enslaved him. He believed she could be his salvation… and yet he knew that in doing so she would consume him and be the instrument of destruction of all of his carefully laid plans and of everything he had worked and suffered for in his life.
Guy turned away from her and stared toward the fireplace until the hypnotic flickers of the dying embers lulled him into a troubled sleep.
TBC