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Lye Soap & Lavender Fields

Summary: Sir Guy of Gisborne has been absent from Locksley for several months; you have only recently joined his household and are yet to meet him. Upon his return, you form a fragile bond, one that only becomes stronger day by day. He returns from Nottingham one night, wounded, and you fulfil your urge to dote on him.

Relationship: Guy of Gisborne/Fem!Reader

Tags: Alternate Universe-Canon Divergence, One Shot, Reader-Insert, Strangers to Lovers, Getting to Know Each Other, Hurt/Comfort, Tending to Wounds, Bathing/Washing, Hair Washing, First Kiss.

Word Count: 7.4k.

Dedicated to: @puggledy-huggledy-is-not-a-pig, @loupsgarou and @emmyspov <3

This fic was also posted on AO3, which you can read here.

Despite being employed at Sir Guy’s estate in Locksley, you had never met him. You’d heard of him, of course, but had not laid eyes on him. He’s in the Holy Land, you were told months ago when you had arrived in Nottinghamshire from London. A woman of your standing would have turned her nose up at being sent to Nottingham, classing it as a demotion from working in the bustling capital.

Not you, however. You enjoyed the countryside, with its golden wheat fields at the turning of autumn and drooping snowdrops in spring. It would be different, of course, but a welcome change. There were enough ghosts in London for a lifetime.

You had arrived in Locksley at the approach of Christmas and the air was bitterly cold when you stepped down from your carriage. Your family wasn’t rich by any means, but your father had been adamant that he would not send his eldest daughter over one-hundred miles, alone, to a household that may not have needed her by the time you arrived there. You had conceded, eventually.

Locksley Manor, in Sir Guy’s absence, was presided over by the housekeeper, James, an elderly gentleman of welcoming disposition. Yes, the manor needed a maid but, he admitted sheepishly, that he was also lacking a personal attendant to the Lord of the Manor. Sir Guy had made an enemy of the women when he’d been living here, and they had fled service when they realised he would not return from his journey to the Holy Land for several months. That made no difference to you. Work was work, regardless of what you were doing or who you served.

And so, the days rolled into weeks and weeks into months. You were in good company at the manor, and the townsfolk of Locksley were endearing enough. You soon learned that the Sheriff, too, was in the Holy Land, as well Marian of Knighton and the legendary Robin Hood. News of the Sheriff’s absurd taxation rates had travelled to London by the time you’d left, as well as Robin Hood’s efforts to give it back to the poor, and you imagined that the town’s good mood had aligned with the absence of their governor. Their lives were far from easy, but they were relaxed and, thus, were you.

It was an unnaturally warm day in February when the news of Sir Guy’s return arrived. You were sweeping the Lord’s bedchambers when James appeared at the doorway, clearing his throat to make his presence known.

“His lordship has sent a notice of his arrival this afternoon.” The man’s hands were trembling, the note in his clasped hands fluttering like a panicked bird. “Could you finish up here and then sweep the hall?”

You nodded in assent, returning to cleaning when the man had disappeared. Although the house was alarmed by this news, you felt calm and collected. You were to meet your employer after two months of unsupervised service, that’s all this was to be. No self-deprecating questions rose unbidden in your head, no fear as to whether Sir Guy would like you or not. Those were girlish questions, for the childish and insecure.

Sweeping Sir Guy’s chambers did not take long for most of the floorspace was taken up by the four-postered bed and then a table with two wooden chairs. It seemed as though he had left in a hurry all those months ago; his papers and clothes had been strewn about the room. Since then, you had organised his manuscripts, folded his shirts and breeches, changed the sheets, and made the bed. It was the least you could do. Satisfied, you left the bedroom and descended the stairs to sweep the manor’s main hall.

The setting sun stretched the shadows long and still Sir Guy made no appearance. The hall was as clean as you could make it with the knowledge that an entourage would soon be traipsing through the manor. You had just set your broom side when a horse’s high-pitched squeal was heard. It was as if the whole town were holding its breath for what came next. Thundering hooves began to shake the ground; the townsfolk let out a shaky exhale and prepared for the worst.

“Come, young lady.” James stretched out his hand, as if she were a cat that needed coaxing from the corner, "Sir Guy shall want to see you.”

The horses came into view as soon as you stepped over the threshold to stand beside your fellow servants. Your hands smoothed over your dress, trying to swipe the dust from it. You would have to do.

A sharp jerk of the lead horse’s reins pulled the creature to a stop; its mouth foamed around the bit after a too-hard ride. The man atop wore a tattered leather coat and matching trousers, but its shine had long been lost. His hair was a tangled mess, shoulder-length black curls strangled around themselves. His nose was strong, as were his jaw and cheekbones. His pale gaze swept over the small crowd, but they didn’t reflect the happiness of homecoming. Instead, they were dull and lifeless. This was a man who, also, had seen too many ghosts in his time.

He swung his leg over his mount, dropping to the ground with a grunt. His features momentarily tightened into a grimace before falling back into passivity. He thrust the reins out to the stableboy, who took them with a shaking hand, before striding forward to push his way through the gathered servants and into the manor.

“Sir Guy,” James called after him, voice wavering, “There’s someone I want to introduce you to. You have a new woman in your employ.”

Guy stopped abruptly, hands curling into fists as he glanced over his shoulder, hair screening his face from view.

“Who is she, then?”

James beckoned you forward, and you dipped into a curtsy on instinct. Guy scoffed through his teeth, and he turned his body to face you completely.

“Do you have a name?”

You nodded and told him. His face did not change, and you were unsure if you had spoken out of turn. You met his gaze and held it. A crease deepened between his eyebrows and his lips pulled back in a snarl.

“She’ll do.”

He turned on his heel and pushed his way into the manor. Your eyebrows were raised in surprise before you could school your face into indifference. No one had claimed Sir Guy was charming, but it did not dampen your shock at learning he far from it.

It was as if Sir Guy had not returned, for he stayed in his bedchamber for the remainder of the afternoon. The manor crackled with tension as if too many logs had been thrown on the hearth. Afternoon bled into dusk. The table was set for dinner, but still the master of the house did not show. You stood to the left of Sir Guy’s chair, wine jug in hand in preparation to pour, until the chilled liquid had turned warm from the warmth of your palms. No one dared clear the table until the evening had darkened completely into night.

“Would you take a plate up for him?” James asked when you, alongside the other servants, had taken the uneaten food to the kitchens.

“Of course,” you said obligingly, “But only if you promise me that it the remaining goose won’t have been eaten without me.”

The housekeeper chuckled and consented, offering you a plate of sliced meats, roast potatoes, carrots, and turnips to take upstairs. Your mouth watered at the sight of such a full platter. With that in one hand and a fresh cup of wine in the other, you exited the kitchen and ascended the stairs.

You paused before the master’s door, taking a breath before intending to make your presence known.

“Sir Guy, I have a plate for you.”

A moment of hesitation, and then you pushed open the thick wooden door. You stopped short just beyond the threshold.

Guy sat hunched over on his bed, shirtless, face in his hands. Newly stitched wounds littered his shoulders and back alongside aged, silver scars. The muscles in those shoulders were tense with the sobs that wracked through him, muffled by the palms of his hands. You stood there for one moment more before finding your voice again.

“Sir Guy, I brought—”

The man’s head snapped up, fixing you to your spot with reddened eyes. His tangled hair hung limp in front of his face, and his lip curled back in that same grimace he first fixed you with that afternoon.

“Get out.”

“But, sir, are you not—”

“Did you not hear? I said leave me be!” His voice, made rough by crying, cracked halfway through.

“I apologise. I shall leave these—”

You caught the instant Guy moved, jerking forward to grab a pottered mug. You only had the sense to duck and cover your head before the mug was dashed against the wall above you. The plate and chalice fell from your hands, clattering to the ground.

You glanced up at Guy from your crouched position, and saw that instead of remorse, his face was painted with enjoyment, a harsh smirk slashed across his features. Now, you saw him as he truly was, a man who lived for retaliation, who lived for a fight, and for glory.

You would not give it to him.

Without speaking, you picked up the ruined food and the now-empty chalice. The wood would stain, but there was little to be done about that now. The ruined pot you would leave, but out of the corner of your eye you spotted Guy’s discarded leather coat. You hoisted that over your shoulder and turned to leave.

“I shall launder this for the morning, my lord.”

Only then did you meet his gaze; the smirk had disappeared, replaced by irritation, confusion, wonderment. You spoke in a tone that invited no criticism.

“You will not do that to me again.”

The next morning was different from any before it. You awoke before dawn, this time after a particularly late night of cleaning and polishing Guy’s leather overcoat, and then set the table for the lord’s breakfast. Once again, you stood to the left side of his chair, ready to be called upon to pour his drink.

Guy was not subtle in his own home. He must have just pulled his boots on because he could be heard through the floorboards. He carried his sword and scabbard in hand as he descended the stairs, passing you by with no more than a glance. The spurs on his boots chimed with each step he took, silencing only he took his seat at the head of the table. He did not look as though he’d slept well. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his hair remained tousled and dull. You approached his side, ready to pour ale into his chalice, when he held up his hand to ward you off.

“I don’t drink ale in the mornings.”

You dipped your head, keeping this in mind for the next morning, and found yourself speaking before you could help yourself.

“Can I get you anything else, Sir Guy?”

“No,” and as if it were an afterthought, “Thank you.”

You dropped back, handing off the ale jug to another servant to await Guy’s next order. He ate quickly, and then announced his departure to Nottingham. Your eyebrows furrowed at this. Could the Sheriff not give Guy more than a night’s rest before returning to service? It seemed absurd to you, to return back from the Holy Land and only be rewarded with one night’s inadequate respite to recover.

“—coat. Where is it?”

You blinked rapidly, returning to the present. Guy was standing before you, looking expectant, yet he did not appear angry at your inattentiveness. With a jolt of panic, you remembered that the overcoat was still folded on the stool at the end of your bed.

“I shall get it for you, just give me one moment.”

“I’ll come with you. Save you the trip back.”

You forewent an answer and led Guy to the servants’ quarters. They were small, admittedly, but most of the staff lived in the village proper. But you, without property or a wealthy family name, had to make do at Locksley Manor. It was fine, more than fine, albeit a little lonely.

Guy’s coat was exactly where you left it. You lifted it by the shoulders, letting it fall to its full length but careful not to let it touch the floor, holding it for the man to shrug into. He stood admiring the leather’s revitalised shine before he put it on, a smirk quirking at the corner of his lips. This one was the opposite of the cruel smile he provided the previous night, and you were, strangely, happy to see it.

“I wanted to speak with you, lady, about last—”

It was your turn to hold up your hands, shaking your head softly.

“A lady I am not,” you scoffed, but the sound of it was not unkind, “And you do not need to explain yourself to me, Sir Guy, but I shall reiterate that you shall not throw pottery at me again.”

The firmness in your voice halted Guy’s next words. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, before closing it again and leaving the way he’d come.

Sir Guy’s good mood soured more and more with each passing day he returned from Nottingham. At first it was excusable; flippant comments were often made after a long day when one had not slept well the night before. But as the days dragged on into weeks, he was becoming unbearable. He did not speak to his servants, but rather shouted at them, causing them to flinch away from him which only provoked him further. At mealtimes, it was much the same. He snapped his fingers at the servants’ and was angered by their so-called incompetency, at the inadequate food, at the too warm wine. Despite it all, he held true to your command, and never aimed his anger at you.

One evening proved to be the spark that provoked wildfire. Guy’s mood was so dour when he returned from Nottingham that you thought it best to avoid him as much as possible. Over the past few weeks, you had formed a fragile bond with the master of Locksley and did not want to compromise it.

When one of the younger servants set Guy’s plate before him, his elbow toppled his goblet of wine. Guy was a blur of movement, on his feet with his fist raised to crack against the boy’s cheekbone. Without thought, you stepped forward and grasped his wrist, your thumb pressing hard against his thundering pulse. His gaze softened, only for a breath, before he yanked his wrist from your grasp and pushed away from the dinner table. You moved to clear away the ruined tablecloth when a deep voice murmured close to your ear. Guy was so close to you that you noticed that he smelled faintly of lavender.

“Not you.”

You turned and followed him up the stairs silently, awaiting his wrath as he shut the bedroom door behind them. You would have been ready if he’d shouted, but instead his voice was a quiet husk.

“Do not embarrass me in front of the servants again.”

“So, I should have let you hit that poor boy?” You shot back, your temper flaring for the first time in your employ, “He did not mean it.”

“He was a fool! I should have taught him a lesson.”

“He learned it the moment the cup fell. You do not need to use violence to earn half-hearted respect.”

“Well, it certainly worked for you, didn’t it?”

At this, you stalled, turning your head to look out of the open window. You crossed your arms over your chest, defensive, your hands clutching the sleeves of your dress.

“I respect you because I care for you, not because I’m afraid of you.” The words came haltingly, your tongue tripping over itself. “I have come to care for you because I see you when you return from Nottingham, and I realise that the Sheriff works you like a dog. I care because I know a man who rode home from the Holy Land and cried the night he returned. I care because I recognise a man who has nowhere to put his anger, who has been beaten and scarred, who picks for any fight he might have a chance of winning. You may not treat us excellently, but that does not mean I cannot care for and respect you.”

Guy openly stared at you, his silence deafening. His eyes wandered over your face, awe capturing his features in reverence.

“You can tell all that?” His words were barely above a whisper.

“Am I incorrect?”

In the silence, you heard Guy’s throat click when he swallowed. You turned your head to see him staring to the middle-distance. His answer was hoarse when it came.

“No.”

“Well, I am neither blind nor stupid, Sir Guy.”

“I did not say—!” Only then did his temper flare, a frustrated sound leaving him before he could finish his sentence. “I did not say that. I only meant… that no one has put my circumstances into words as easily as you.”

You could not deny yourself a small smile at this. Guy saw and matched it. A smile suited him well. His hair was tangled as ever, but his blue eyes were gentle, and his shoulders were relaxed. You could get used to this, you decided.

Spring made way to summer, to crickets playing fiddle in the fields of wild grass, to tall sunflowers shielding you from the sun when you took an evening stroll. Guy’s mood mellowed, the longer hours easing his temper. As the months melted away into March, April, May, you found sprigs of wildflowers on your pillow more days than not. You would wear them in your hair, earning a satisfied smile from Guy when he thought you weren’t looking. He was pleasant enough at mealtimes, if a little begrudging to give compliments to the other servants and although they were wary of Guy’s changed disposition, your fellow servants were happy enough to accept it.

The first time Guy asked for your company, you had been fearful that he had misjudged your affections. You made your way to his chambers after dinner, knocking gently before entering. Guy was removing his new leather doublet, his fingers deftly unhooking the multiple belts across his chest before shrugging the garment off. His black shirt underneath was only loosely tied, exposing more collarbone than you should have thought reasonable. The Sheriff’s return from the Holy Land had obviously lined his coffers well and he had commissioned Guy a new wardrobe. You liked this doublet; it suited him well, accentuating his broad shoulders and trim waist. The leather long-coat you had so lovingly polished a month ago now hung abandoned in his wardrobe.

“Good evening, Sir Guy.” You dipped into a curtsy, earning a soft tut from him.

“Enough of that.” Guy waved his hand to dismiss your action before settling himself at one of two chairs before the low-burning hearth. “Guy is more than fine.”

“If you wish.”

“I do.” He motioned to the chair beside him. “And I also wish for you to join me.”

You could not deny him nor help yourself and, so, took your place by his side. You fiddled with the fabric of your skirt before you found your voice.

“Did you want us to make conversation, or for you to bask in a woman’s presence?”

Guy’s eyebrows pinched, the tendon in his jaw flickering as he stopped himself from spitting out a retort. Instead, he turned his body towards you.

“I wish for us to get to know one another better.”

“And why is that?” You needled him, “I am merely your servant.”

“Because I want to. Is that not enough?”

It was more than enough.

That evening, the words began stiff and unsure of themselves. He asked of your family, your upbringing and was pleasantly surprised to learn that you had roots in York before your father’s move to London.

“The Gisborne name is from Yorkshire,” he said wistfully, “On my father’s side.” Ghosts were flitting across his irises, his mouth pulling downward into a frown. You resisted the urge to place your hand on his forearm.

“What about your mother?”

That was the wrong question to ask, you quickly realised. The persistent crease returned to the space between his eyebrows, and his voice was sombre. “She died when I was sixteen.”

“Guy, I—”

“Do not say you’re sorry.” The hard had edge returned to Guy’s voice. “It was a long time ago.”

Your words died, but one question still prickled in the back of your throat.

“Did your mother have lavender fields?”

Guy’s face went slack, the crease disappearing. His lips were parted in awe and reverent eyes roamed your face. “How did you know that?”

You couldn’t stop the bashful smile that tugged at your lips, and you dropped your head to hide it. You could feel heat creep up your neck and blossom on your cheeks the longer he looked at you.

“It was a guess.” The memory of Guy’s closeness returned to you, and you clasped your hands together to stop yourself from fidgeting with your skirt. “Tell me about your home in France.”

Guy was happy to oblige and reached forward to put another log in the hearth before he started. He told you that he was from central France, the ‘Val de Loire’, where his mother’s garden had been filled with rows of lavender, bordered by manicured, verdant hedges. Different parts of the garden changed with the seasons, hellebores replaced the lavender in the winter to replenish the soil, and wisteria curled up the sides of his family’s châteaux in springtime. He recounted the summers he spent there, of the antics that he and his sister, Isabella, got up to in their youth.

You raised your eyebrows at the mention of her; he had never mentioned that he had siblings.

“Where’s Isabella now?” You asked quietly. The fire had burned low in the time Guy had been speaking. It was your turn to place a log to revive the embers.

“I have not seen her in nearly twenty years,” he admitted, swallowing thickly before continuing, “I sold her to her husband for a fair price. It was either both of us die of hunger, or secure both our futures with one simple transaction. She hated it, detested the husband more so, but I was barely the beginnings of a man, and I did what I thought was best.”

You remained quiet at this revelation. You felt for Isabella, for a young woman forced into a loveless marriage. You felt for Guy, a young man who did not have a better option available to him.

“Do you regret it?” You asked, voice quiet in the space between you.

“Yes,” Guy murmured, “But I would do it again if it meant she’d survive.”

That was all you could ask for, to find that he showed remorse. He was redeemable.

The conversation between you continued long after the sun had set, until the last log had been eaten by the flames and the embers glowed an unenthusiastic amber.

Summer nights belonged to you and Guy. He continued to ask for your company until he no longer had to. You went to him as eagerly as a butterfly to nectar. He would make you smile until your jaw ached, until your cheeks coloured, until laughter drew tears to your eyes.

Smiles came easier to him, too. He lashed out at the other servants less and less, until he hardly did so at all. James drew you aside one afternoon, asking what you had done to change Guy’s attitude. You could not answer him, as you did not know. You could only simply say, “He’s changing.”

The one constant was Nottingham. He would bid farewell to you in the mornings before he rode away, his smile morphing itself into something intensely private, a fondness that had not been there before.

Every evening, Guy would return a little more worn. He would dismount unsteadily, leaning heavily against his horse for a moment. He would hand off the reins to the stableboy, entering the manor with a stiff gait, retreating to his chambers without a word.

One evening, he returned late, and you found him sat on the end of his bed, elbows on his knees, head dropped between his shoulders. Silently, you laid a hand on his shoulder, urging him to shrug out of his doublet. He did so, body weary, fingers clumsily undoing the straps at his chest. His black cotton shirt was stuck to his sweaty back, betraying a day of overexertion by the Sheriff’s command.

“Would you like me to pour you a bath?” Your voice felt loud in the quiet room.

Guy shook his head, bedraggled curls obscuring his face. You contemplated pushing the matter for his sake, but you knew he was as stubborn as a donkey. Instead, you retrieved another from the wardrobe and handed it to him.

“Change,” you said firmly, “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Guy looked up at you, blue eyes pleading. His hands twitched, as if he were about to reach for you. You mouthed ‘I promise’ from the door and retreated. You collected a water-filled bucket, a half-used bar of lye soap and a cloth before returning upstairs. Guy had swapped shirts by the time you’d returned, leaving the old one discarded on his bed. He eyed the supplies you’d brought back but still did not speak.

You settled yourself in one of the two chairs, the one you’d both silently agreed as yours, picking up his shirt on the way. You lathered the soap between your hands before dunking it. Guy watched you with barely concealed interest. He shifted, choosing to lay on his back with his head hanging off the end, and closed his eyes. You paid him little mind, focused on the task at hand.

You had just hung the shirt out to dry when Guy, finally, moved to sit in the opposite chair. You picked up his doublet, the leather warm in your hands. You did not dunk it like the shirt as that would crumple and ruin the garment but dipped the cloth and began to clean it that way, concentrating your attention to the clasps and stitches to spy for anything amiss. Guy’s voice cut through your focus.

“Someday, I won’t be under the thumb of any man.”

You dismissed it as tired rambling. Guy often said overindulgent thing when he was tired, daydreaming of his return to France or of his settling down with a wife. This was no different, you thought. The two of you remained in companionable silence for the rest of the evening.

A week passed and Guy went to and returned from Nottingham as usual.

Until he didn’t.

The evening was pleasantly humid, promising rain in a day or two. You had finished washing linens, your arms tired from using the scrubbing board, and was awaiting the tell-tale gallop of Guy’s horse to announce his return. The sun continued its journey towards the horizon, but he did not show. The kitchen staff had prepared one of his favourites, wild duck pie with currants, to celebrate the nearing of summer’s end. They had been so proud of their creation and had purchased the perfect wine to pair it with. Their disappointment was easy to pinpoint when another hour passed without Sir Guy’s return.

Night fell. You lit tapers in Guy’s bedchamber, and it took great effort not to stay and wait for him. No, you told yourself, it would not be right. It was different when Guy was there to invite you or if he were already at home, but you would not allow yourself to indulge, no matter how much you yearned for it.

You returned to your room in the servants’ quarters, a place you were spending less and less time, and readied for bed. It was not late by any means, but you reasoned that an early night would do you good. You lit a taper before undressing, swapping your day clothes for an embroidered, cotton shift, the neckline and hem decorated with autumn leaves. It had been a gift from your mother before your departure to Nottinghamshire. It was these lonely evenings without Guy’s presence that you missed her most.

You settled into bed. The room was quiet, your bed was warm, and it did not take long for you to slip into a fitful sleep.

A hand on your shoulder shook you from sleep. You were awake in an instant, pulled from instantly forgotten dreams, but your body was sluggish. Your name was being said as fervently as one would a prayer. You reached up to your shoulder, grasping the person’s wrist to let them know that you’d heard, when cold fingers clasped your own. The gesture shocked you into complete consciousness. You turned your head to see Guy, light eyes reflecting the low candlelight, his hair brushing your shoulder. Your heart was suddenly pounding. He moved back when you sat up, grimacing.

“What’s wrong?” You asked in the semi-darkness.

“Do you have a needle and thread?” Guy’s voice was low and thick with pain.

“Yes. Are you hurt?”

He stood and began to turn away. You grabbed his hand before he could, imploring him to answer with a look of concern.

He sighed. “Come upstairs.”

You didn’t need further convincing. You flung the covers back, forgetting your state of undress, and rifled around through your belongings. Guy withdrew, his gaze lingering on you before he left. With your sewing box and a cloth in hand, you went to the kitchen to pick up a bucket of water and a block of lye soap before moving to the stairs. Guy had just reached the top, leaning heavily against the banister. You followed.

You pushed the door of his bedchamber open with your shoulder, leading him inside. The tapers you’d lit had burned low and the edges of the room were shrouded in semi-darkness.

“Sit.” You commanded, waving a hand vaguely to suggest he sit in whichever chair he preferred. You readied the fire, arranging the kindling so that it would both catch fast and burn bright. When you held a candle to it, it did just that, flames eagerly licking up the logs. Only then did you turn to Guy, who had settled himself into your chair before the fire, eyes heavy-lidded.

You took the time to look over him in the growing light of the fire. His hair was tangled, and a purple bruise was beginning to bloom on his cheek. His doublet was scuffed and, in some parts, torn. His finely stitched trousers had a wet gash at the thigh. Your eyes widened at this discovery. You returned your gaze to his face and realised he’d been watching you.

“Who did this to do?” Your words were barely audible over the fire’s crackle.

“The Sheriff,” Guy answered lowly. He watched your expression change from shock to anger, your lips curling back from your teeth. He held up a hand to placate you. “He’s dead.”

Your mouth dropped open. “What would drive you to kill him?”

Guy’s jaw tightened. “He threatened Locksley. He threatened you.” You opened your mouth to argue that you were not worth being fought over, but he silenced you with another gesture. “He called you my little leper friend, the leech of Locksley sucking me dry.”

The lewd allusion was not lost on you, making you grimace. You wrung your hands, fidgety with nervous energy. You were glad the Sheriff was dead; if not, you would have ridden to Nottingham yourself to drive a poker through his eye.

“I don’t know how he came to know of my affection for you,” Guy continued, “But he kept trying to turn me against you. I could not, I cannot, and I will not.”

Your breath caught in your chest. Guy lowered his gaze, the fire setting his pale eyes alight. You took two steps to him and took your face in his hands. Immediately, his hands came up to encircle your wrists, holding you to him. His face was cold despite the warmth of the fire.

You leaned forward and pressed the gentlest of kisses between his brows. He melted, an exhale leaving him in a rush.

“You have affection for me?” You asked, lips moving against his skin.

“Yes,” he whispered, reverent, “Yes, yes. How could I not?”

You could not answer him that. You felt immeasurably happy, more so than you had felt in a long time. You could only, in that moment, show it through your actions.

“Let me tend to your leg and pour you a bath.”

Guy nodded, pulling back so that he could roam his eyes over your face again, his lips pulling up into a smirk. There was no contempt in it as there once had been, only adoration.

You helped him undress, taking his doublet from him and hanging it on the back of the other chair. He handed over his armguards before his scabbarded sword; he had never trusted it to you before, and you propped it against the bed gingerly. He stepped from his trousers, wincing when he put all his weight on his wounded leg. He slumped back into the chair in just his shirt and undergarments, and in any other situation you would have revelled in the intimacy of it.

You picked up the soap, scrubbing your hands and dunking them into the pail of water. Satisfied that they were clean enough, you took up your sewing box. You knelt at Guy’s side, adjusting yourself so your shadow didn’t obscure your view of his leg. The stab wound had stopped bleeding, was now only oozing, yet it would not heal on its own without intervention. It was long and deep, made with obvious intent to hurt, or even maim. You exhaled heavily, rifling through your sewing box for a new needle and thread.

“You’re lucky the Sheriff didn’t stab you somewhere more important.”

Guy began to chuckle, but the sound was cut off by a grunt of pain as you sunk the needle into his skin. His hand flew to your shoulder, his thumb pressing harshly against your collarbone. You winced but didn’t move out of his grasp. Sharing a little pain with him was the least you could do. You worked quickly, your free hand grasping his thigh to limit his movement, fearful that his leg would jolt and tear the fragile skin even more.

By the time you’d finished, his face was sheened with sweat, hand shaking where it had released your shoulder. You tied off the thread, your fingertips bloody, before flinging the needle into the fire. You remained knelt beside him, taking his hand from your shoulder, and interlacing your fingers with his.

“Are you alright?” You whispered, reaching up to brush a dark curl from his face.

“Better now,” He murmured, squeezing your hand in response, “Thank you.”

You pressed kisses to his knuckles. You were insatiable, hungry for the warmth of his skin against your own. Only when a log popped from the heat of the fire did you snap from your desire.

“Come,” You said, gently pulling him to his feet, “I’ll ready your bath.”

It took multiple trips to the kitchens to fill the wooden bathtub; by the time you had filled it to your satisfaction, your arms were aching. You had brought in the chair from Guy’s bedroom, upon which he sat as you filled the tub. You waved away his offerings to help, warning him against tearing his stitches. You found, also, that you wanted to do this for him.

“It’s ready for you,” you said, turning your body away so that he could undress fully.

Guy shucked off his shirt and undergarments, stepping into the bath. As he lowered himself into the water, a soft groan pushed past his lips. His eyelids slipped closed, mouth parting in sudden serenity. You watched his body unwind, shoulders dropping, hands unfurling from fists. He was, in that moment, tranquillity incarnate.

He took a breath and sunk below the water. He remained there for several moments, air escaping his lips in a steady stream. You settled the chair beside the bathtub, sitting back just as Guy surfaced. He tugged a hand through his waterlogged curls, hissing with pain when his fingers tangled between the strands. You couldn’t help but snort, earning you a look of mocking contempt from him.

“Is it my nakedness that makes you laugh?” Guy asked, his eyes alight with amusement.

“No,” you replied, “It’s that your hair has been a tangled mess since the day I met you. I’ve always wondered why you never cropped it short.”

“It used to be shorter,” Guy conceded, “It grew out while I was in the Holy Land, and I never found the time to cut it.”

“I like it.” The words were loose before you could rein them in. In a quieter voice, you admitted, “It suits you.”

Guy grinned, then, his teeth bright in the dim room. You returned it without thought; how could you deny him? You allowed yourself to indulge in an urge that had gnawing away at you the longer you’d stayed at Locksley.

“Let me wash your hair.”

His smile fell away and you feared that you had upset him. You gave up ground by averting your gaze. He surprised you, his voice the softest you’d ever heard it.

“Please.”

You swallowed, throat dry. You nodded and told him you’d return in a moment before fleeing to the servant’s quarters to grab a wide-toothed comb. The house was cool, raising goosebumps on your arms; you were happy to return to the warm steam of the bathroom.

“You’ll have to come to the other end of the bath where I can reach you.” Guy was happy to oblige you, manoeuvring himself slowly so that the water didn’t slosh over the edge. He sat with his back to you, arms resting on the tub’s rim.

You’d brought the lye soap in from the bedroom, and now you gathered suds in your hands. You took a steadying breath before you tangled your fingers in Guy’s wet hair. You lathered his scalp, alternating between scrubbing with your fingernails and massaging with your fingertips. His tense muscles relaxed under your hands, his head beginning to tip back in ecstasy.

It pleased you immensely to see him to utterly at ease. There had been so many nights when his temper would spark as easily as dry kindling, when he would not speak a word to you, when he was so tired that he would fall asleep fully clothed. Now, his skin was hot against your hands, and he would occasionally reward you with a hum of satisfaction. You would not have it any other way.

You dipped your hands into the water by Guy’s shoulder, cupping enough to tip over his head to wash the suds out. The action was welcoming repetitive and warmed your hands in the process; it was then that you wished you’d brought a shawl from downstairs.

Once Guy’s hair had been rinsed, you began to tackle it with your comb. You worked from ends to root, taking care not to tug. After every lock that you untangled, you curled it around your finger before letting it fall into place. When he could, Guy watched your hands in his periphery. He was enthralled by your actions, his heart beating hard beneath his sternum. It had been so long since he’d felt loved by another that he had almost forgotten the sensation.

The longer the silence settled between you, questions began to rise up within you like the tide, slow yet inevitable. You allowed yourself to ask one.

“What happened in the Holy Land?”

Guy went still under your hands, and he resisted the urge to tug his head away. In all the months that he’d returned from the Holy Land, no one had asked him about his time there. He’d buried those memories in the sand alongside the woman he’d loved.

“A lot of things.” The answer was begrudging and equally unsatisfactory.

“Tell me, Guy. You returned from that place with too many ghosts in your eyes.”

He took a shaking breath and clasped his hands together beneath the water. He suddenly looked impossibly small.

“I destroyed her. I destroyed everything.”

“Her?”

“Her.”

You pulled the comb through the final lock and set it aside, heart pounding. You waited for Guy to explain further, but he was staring into the shadows of the room, teeth chattering despite the warm water. The woman’s ghost had come to visit him, it seemed.

“What was her name?” You spoke into the unsettled quiet.

He seemed to choke, his tongue working against him. “Marian.”

The puzzle, finally, slotted itself together. Knighton had been quiet for the past few months; you’d been too absorbed in Guy to see it.

“Why did you kill her, Guy?”

The harshness in your tone made him flinch as if you’d struck him.

“I loved her and—”

“And she did not?” The words were rose thorns. “Should I worry for my life, that you may run me through if I don’t love you?”

“No,” Guy whispered, turning himself in the water to face you, “No, I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“What makes me different to her? That I can give you affection you crave?” Your fingernails were carving red crescents into your palms.

“You never plucked my heart like a harp. You never kissed me so that another man could escape from Nottingham. You never said you would marry me when your heart was with another. You have never betrayed me.” Guy had pushed himself to his feet, dripping water, body carved in shadow as he loomed over you.

You were livid with him; you could not deny that you loved him. You could not deny that the thought of Marian using Guy for her own gain made your blood boil, made you glad she was dead that she could no longer hurt him. You and Guy were as good and as bad as each another.

“You are different to her,” Guy murmured, his hands reaching up to cradling your face, “And I could not more thankful for it.”

You pushed up on your toes and pressed your lips to his. A groan hummed at the back of his throat, his lips parting to chase your mouth with his own. Your hands came to rest on his hips, stuttering his breath before he found your lips again. He was a man parched, and you were ravenous.

You pulled back, and his head followed without thought. You brought your fingers to his lips, now reddened and swollen, to bring him back to the present. His eyes were pools of ebony when he opened them.

“Stay with me tonight,” he murmured, voice rasping.

“Yes.”

His lopsided smile returned. He stepped from the bath and took your hand in his. The manor had not stirred the entire night, and that did not change now despite the soft laughter between you. The candles in Guy’s bedroom had almost gone out in the time he’d spent in the bath. Now, tiredness seeped into your bones, willing you to get into bed.

Guy had dropped your hand to pull on a loose nightshirt, before pulling back the covers for you. His damp hair would dry at odd angles if he slept on it now, but you did not mind; you would fix it for him if he asked.

You climbed into bed, the sheets finer than any you’d slept on before. Guy was behind you, his warm body pressing against your back. His arm hovered above you, indecision making him hesitate.

“May I?” He asked, his voice so close to your ear that you had to suppress a shudder.

“Please.”

Guy’s arm curled around you, pulling you ever closer; you interlaced your fingers with his.

You watched the candles burn themselves to smoke. As you drifted towards sleep, you remembered that you’d once told yourself you could get used to a life like this. If it were anything like this night, you’d be happy until the end of days.