Disclaimer: I don't own Robin Hood. Sigh.

She watched as Guy mounted his horse, whirled twice as his dark eyes flashed up to her window, as if he knew that she was seated there, knew her eyes followed him as he moved towards the gate.

“Like a bird in a cage.” She murmured, envy choking her as he spurred his horse into a gallop and shot past the stone walls.

She had a sudden memory of the sheriff’s private quarters, all those birds, perched in cages, staring out at the world through narrow bars. She remembered their despondent twittering, as they fluttered fruitlessly towards the window, only to come up against bars.

If Guy had his way, that will be her life. Her future is suddenly laid out for her, and she can see it all. Guy will go to the Holy Land and he and Robin will fight. In her mind’s eye, she saw Robin crumpling to the dirt, a helpless cry escaping his lips, Much rushing to his side, too late to be of any help, only to meet the same fate as his master, Guy’s blade plunging into his back. Together, even in death.

And Guy will return, she knew, radiant in his triumph and newfound power, and he will wed her, regardless of her wishes. And he will take her to Locksley, and her life there will not be as she had imagined in her youth. She will be bored, forever captured inside the house, lady of the manor, demure and silent, moving at her husband’s side like a shadow, the light extinguished from her eyes, calluses on her fingers faded, vanished like her dreams of a future with Robin.

That is all she has to look forward to, if Robin fails, if Robin dies.

With a frustrated cry, she slammed down her embroidery, and felt the needle snap. A strangled yelp of pain escaped her lips as she drew back her hand to find a shard of the needle embedded deep in her palm.

As she stared at the droplets of blood sliding smoothly down her skin, hysterical laugher built in her throat.

This will be her life, she realized. If Robin did not succeed, then she would spin out her days like this, behind the castle walls, sitting in her room, sewing, mindlessly chattering with the other women, with the serving women. Tip-toeing around Guy and his questions, trying to avoid her traps, and keep the man she loved from harm. Destined forever to protect him, never to be able to live with him, to kiss him, hold him in her arms, never to lay in marriage bed with him, see his skin warm in the firelight, brush her lips over every scar, every bruise. Destined to spend her time at the side of man she could never love, a man who saw her as nothing more than a bauble, a trophy.

Desperation and anguish overwhelmed her, and the laughter turned to tears. Leaning her head on her good hand, she cradled her wounded palm in her lap and let the sobs slip from her lips, not caring who heard her, not even noticing the door opening, and Allan poking his head in.

“Marian?”

She barely heard him. Her misery consumed everything, and she gave herself to it entirely, she saw nothing but her imagined future, and the shattered dreams she’d cherished for so long. Robin’s body, slumped in the dust. Much’s face, contorted in grief. Guy drawing near to her beneath a priest’s watchful eye, as he slipped a wedding band on her finger.

“Marian.” Allan’s voice is like a lifeline, and she grasped it, shocked out of her reverie by the feel of his hands on her injured one.

“Allan.” Her voice is a sob, and she laughed again through her tears as she contemplated the irony of the situation. Of all the people to be offering her comfort, it is Allan A’Dale who comes to her.

Allan A’Dale, rogue and schemer, tricking his living from drunkards in taverns.

Allan A’Dale, outlaw, and friend of Robin, risking his life to save England.

Allan A’Dale, traitor.

Allan A’Dale, who had kissed her drunkenly in the hall several weeks ago, pushed her up against the wall and devoured her mouth as his hands gripped her breasts before Guy had yanked him away from her, and promptly sent a fist sailing into Allan’s face.

Allan A’Dale, who she hadn’t seen since aforementioned incident, knelt before her, his fingers brushing lightly over her palm as he sought to remove what he thought was the cause of pain. It is the first time he has touched her since that night, and her sobs quiet as she looked into his eyes. She’d never noticed they were blue, not in all the time she’d known him.

“I always told Guy that sewing was quite a dangerous sport. ‘Not trying to be funny’, I said to him, ‘But you should keep proper eye on her, when she’s got that needle in hand. Could get injured,’ and look. I was right. Do remind me to tell him, I don’t get enough chance to say ‘I told you so’ around here.” His voice is light and his comments are meant to distract her as he ripped the shard from her palm.

She gasped at the pain, and then felt exceedingly foolish for doing so. He must have thought she’d gone soft, that she’s been spoilt by all this time in the castle. He was there that day, so long ago, when Djaq ripped open her side, and the pain was far greater than a simple needle shard in her palm. He’d held her right hand, while Robin had held her left, and Djaq had hovered above her like a Saracen angel.

Allan had squeezed her hand so tightly that night, she remembered, as if he were afraid she’d slip away if he’d let her go.

As she turned her eyes to the former outlaw, she watched as he flicks the shard out the window, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He knotted it around her hand after he’d dipped it into the cool water left from her morning wash.

“There. Good as new, or like to be.” He assured her, blue eyes watching her anxiously.

“Thank you.” She whispered, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Not trying to be funny, Marian, but the last time I saw you sobbing like that, you had a gaping hole in your side and near to death. Common sense tells me you’re not dying, and a needle shard in the palm doesn’t quite compare to a gaping flesh wound, so logically, there must be something else wrong, eh?”

She sighed, and clenched her hand around his handkerchief. She noticed his initials stitched in blue thread at the corner, AAD. Simple, no lace or finery like she knew Guy’s entailed. But then, that’s how Allan is, she supposed. Simple, handsome.

Handsome?, she wonders, When did I start applying that term to Allan?

If she was honest with herself, she knew that she’d first attached the word ‘handsome’ to Allan after that night in the hallway. His touch had thrilled her in ways she’d never felt before, in ways that Robin’s stolen kisses had never managed to do. And there was a part of her that wished to explore the matter further.

But he still knelt before her, hand on her knee, and the heat of it scorched through her dress in a way that Robin’s touch had never done, as he awaited an answer.

“Allan, I’m afraid.” She confessed, and felt shame heat her cheeks further.

“Marian, you’re safe here. You know that Guy’s mad for you, he’s dead set on protecting you.” And then, in a lower voice, he added, “And you know I’d die before letting anything happen to you.”

She smiled, and he watched her face intently, licking his lips nervously.

“You’ve nothing to fear. I’ll take care of you.” He seemed to catch himself, as he hastily added, “Guy and I will take care of you, I mean.”

“I’m not afraid of attack, or death. Allan, I’m afraid of living out my life in this cage.” She looked around again, taking in the finery, and shuddered. “A jeweled cage. To play at being Guy’s wife, never able to truly be myself, for it would destroy him if he knew the real me. He can barely handle knowing I was the Night Watchmen, how will he cope with knowing that I still intend to help the poor? How will he ever understand my love for you, for the other outlaws?”

Allan looked away, and Marian’s voice is trembling as she finished, “I am trapped, and the only escape I have is the king’s return. And even that seems impossible now…now that Guy has gone to the Holy Land to kill him.”

“Marian…” Allan, the man with a silver tongue, who could talk his way out of any tight corner, was rendered speechless by her grief, and the seriousness of her predicament.

He remembered the way Robin regarded her, and how, unwilling though he had been for her to put herself in danger, that he had been pleased at the information she brought, and the way she had manipulated Gisbourne to Robin’s advantage. He somehow doubted that Robin had considered that every manipulation, every whispered promise, every brush of her lips against Gisbourne’s cheek, bore consequences for Marian. He doubted that Robin could understand that Marian was like a woman in quicksand, and every moment she made to protect Robin pulled her deeper and deeper into the mud. Marian was binding herself to a man she loathed to protect Robin, stringing Gisbourne along with honeyed words, while she prayed desperately for escape, for release.

Sometimes he wondered if Robin truly appreciated what he had with Marian, and the thought sent another stab of jealousy through Allan’s heart.

There are no words of comfort he can speak that aren’t lies, so Allan settled for gently wiping the tears from her cheeks with the very tips of his fingers. He handled her as if she were made of china.

“Allan…please help me.” She whispered, pleading. “Help Robin.”

He turned his face away, looking down at her injured hand. His fingers rested against the skin of her cheeks, and she felt them trembling. The heat of his touch scorched her, burnt icy cold against her skin.

“Well, it’s not my call, is it? I’m just the whipping boy around here, the packing boy.” His voice was low and tortured.

“Allan, this is treason. If you go along with this, then you are committing treason.”

“Rubbish.” His voice turned scornful, the denial meant more for himself than for her.

“There’s still time for you. You can still go back to Robin, you can still save them. You don’t need to stay here!” Her voice rose with passion that he must have mistaken for anger, because he jerked his hands away from her.

“Yeah, well, neither do you!” He whirled away, moving to his feet smoothly. She caught the muscles in his thighs flexing powerfully, and looks away as a blush heats her face. The part of her that is choked and desperate wants those thighs pressed against hers. Sex with Allan would be a satisfying amusement, if nothing more.

“You could leave, Marian, just as easily as I could!” His accusation pulled her back to present moment, away from the pleasant distractions of his body.

“Allan, I’ve chosen to be here! I’m here to—”

“Protect Robin.” He spat the words at her as if they left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Yes!”

“Do you ever think that maybe he doesn’t need so much protecting? That maybe he should learn to fend for himself, instead of letting you and Much both sacrifice yourselves repeatedly to keep him safe.”

“He never asks anything of us that we don’t offer—”

“He lets you stay here, binding yourself to Gisbourne, risking your own safety! He lets Much run himself ragged, taking care of him. Have you ever seen Much’s scars? Each and every one of them, Much got from throwing himself in front of a blade meant for Robin.”

He was angry, glaring at her with such emotion behind his eyes that it left Marian breathless. His eyes wandered briefly to her breasts before he looked away, and it occurred to Marian that he wanted her as badly as she wanted him. But his statement begged a reply, and it took her a moment to wrench her mind away from Allan’s lips and formulate one.

“But Robin didn’t ask him to do that, Allan! Much wouldn’t ever let Robin come to harm, he took made that decision himself.”

Allan slammed his fist onto the table, and shook his head.

“You don’t see it, do you?”

She was silent, frozen in her seat, the cut on her palm throbbing. She had never seen Allan so serious.

“He uses people he loves as weapons, as tools. And he might love you, he might love Much, and he might have loved me, but we were only as good as our talents, as long as he could use us.”

“Robin isn’t like that, and you know it. He has to make sacrifices…we all make sacrifices…to fight for what we believe in.”

“Or what he believes in.” Allan retorted, hands on his hips as he moved to stare out the window.

There is silence, and Marian noted the tenseness of Allan’s back. He faced out the window, away from her, trying to contain himself. She rose from her chair, moving towards him. He spun around before she could slip her arms about him, rest her head on his shoulder, try to comfort him

“The night I left them…we argued.” Allan said slowly. “He has everything, you see. The fame, the love….the girl.”

The last words were whispered, so low that she could barely hear them, and when she did make them out, her breath caught in her throat.

“What?” She gasped, shocked in spite of herself.

“Marian, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Ever since the day I first saw you…at that hanging, so long ago…I didn’t even care about dying when they put that hood over my head, all I cared about was that I couldn’t see your face, see the look in your eyes…”

“Allan…” She whispered.

They were close, too close. His breath ghosted across her cheek, and she could smell him, the scent of pine trees and forests and fresh air, so like Robin, yet different somehow. Robin’s face appeared in her mind, flickered, and she shoved it away. Robin wasn’t here now. He wouldn’t be here for a long time, and Marian needed someone, something, to distract her. And Allan was here, and Allan had apparently adored her for a long time.

It was wicked, and it was cruel, but at that moment, all Marian wanted was Allan’s hands on her.

“And when I found out that you were for him…it gutted me, Marian. He’s so ungrateful that it chokes me. If you were mine, I’d have married you the moment I had the chance, and taken you from this damned castle…and I’d have made you happy, Marian. I swear it, I would have made you the happiest woman in England, in the entire damned world…”

“You shouldn’t be saying this to me.” She murmured, but there is nothing in her voice that told him to stop. He pulled her close, growing bold in his desperation. His eyes were so blue, it was as if she were looking into the sun. He saw her desperation, and her fears, and her desires, and he understands.

“We’re suited for each other, Marian. Cut from the same cloth. You’ve been playing the same game I have, only you’re better at it than I am. Or perhaps you’re just not as desperate as I, not as hungry for everything you cannot have.”

She smiled, and it was an invitation.

“Oh, Allan, you don’t know me half as well as you think, if you truly believe that I am not hungry.”

And her hands slid up his shoulders, feeling their strength and liking it. They traveled up over his neck, grazed the hair on his chin before brushing across his lips. He kissed them, and she laughed, before she moved her fingers gently over his cheeks, and then tangled them through his hair.

As she looked into his eyes, she felt the weight of what she was about to do. And she didn’t care. She was possessed with the recklessness that comes from the knowledge that everything one has worked for, hoped for, dreamed of, was gone. Marian wanted Robin, but as he was unavailable, she reached out for the next best thing, and that was Allan.

Allan had lived in forest, he had been an outlaw. And, despite the fact that he was not Robin, Marian wanted to feel him inside of her, and she refused to acknowledge the gravity of that decision. She was drowning, and if she couldn’t clutch Allan and feel his hands on her, then she knew she would lose her mind completely, and possibly do something stupid as attempt to kill the sheriff.

She pulled his face close, and she kissed him. Lady Marian kissed Allan A’Dale, and the world stopped as they moved together. Allan pressed her back against the wall, as his hands sought the seams of her dress, desperate for skin. She had not been kissed this way since the last time Allan’s lips were on her, and even then, the kiss was nothing like this one. Marian had never felt a man’s lips move against hers with such passion, such hunger, and she liked it.

And then his hands were on her breasts, teasing her nipples, and she arched her back, gasping in pleasure as his lips moved to her neck, to her collarbone, to the soft skin of her shoulder. His murmurs of love sounded like prayer. He laid her onto her bed with care, then swept the skirt of her dress upwards, soothing her with his lips while his fingers traveled up her thigh, sending shiver after shiver down her back.

She clutched him to her, clutched him like a dying woman clutches her savior, and Allan had never had a woman look at him the way Marian looked at him now, with lust-glazed eyes and desperate need as she undid the clasp on her corset and the dress fell away. She was perfect, creamy skin unmarred save for the scar on her hip, and that was the first thing he pressed his lips to, while his fingers teased her clitoris.

Her hands were in his hair, pulling him upwards to her mouth while her hands deftly worked the clasp of his belt and tossed it aside. He groaned as she wrapped her fingers around his length, caressing him tentatively.

“Marian…” He groaned. “I thought you were a virgin.”

“I’ve never touched a man like this…” She whispered, and her eyes sparkled mischievously. “I’ve never...Allan, I’ve never done this before.”

He froze, staring into her eyes. He made a valiant attempt to sit up, and she knew what that cost him. He was lost the moment their lips met, and, while he cared about her maidenhood, she most certainly did not.

“Marian, I’ll stop, I never should have—”

Her hand moved suddenly, and he forgot what he was saying, as his eyes fell shut, and Marian’s whisper of, ‘Don’t ever stop,’ is the most erotic thing he’s heard in his entire life.

“I do a lot of riding, Allan.” She whispers, and his fingers gain a new intensity, and she moans in pleasure. “Strenuous activities like that take their toll on a woman’s maidenhead.”

He began kissing her again, long, slow kisses, stroked her lips with his, capturing each sigh of ecstasy that escape them.

And he moved over her slowly, and eased into her very gently, before beginning a slow thrusting that had her writhing underneath him in bliss as she moaned his name. Her hands trailed over each of his scars, the scars Gisbourne had left, the scars life as a trickster had bought him, and he had never felt such pleasure. It was right, and perfect, and she fit him, as if she’d been made for him.

They come at the same moment, and she cried out his name, and he whispered, “Marian, Marian, Marian,” as if she were something holy, when they both knew she was anything but, and they clung to each other, a film of sweat on their naked bodies, and she laughed softly.

“You were right, Allan A’Dale, we suit each other.”

And he laughed, and kissed her hard once more, thinking that if this venture in the Holy Land does go awry, then he will die a happy man. This one moment erased all his sins, and he clutches her to him, like a talisman, like an angel, like his missing piece, and he didn’t care that she only allowed him this indiscretion because Robin was unavailable. All that mattered was that Marian was beneath him, gasping his name, and for once, Allan felt like he was where he was supposed to be.