Page 25 of An Earl for the Archeress

“No. Your suggestion is fine. I’m also starving.”

Robert nodded and also dismounted, pulling out a loaf of bread and cheese. Mariel went about removing the bridles, hanging the bits on a branch that had broken off and formed a nub, and turned the horses into the grass so they could graze.

She joined Robert, realizing he was watching her.

“What?” she questioned, sitting on the ground beside him.

“Nothing,” he replied. “’Tis just nice to see a woman so comfortable around horses. Normally, it’s a task I would have done.”

“You should be well aware by now that I don’t expect to be coddled.”

“No, you certainly don’t.” He tore off a piece of bread and held it toward her.

“On second thought. I need a moment of privacy after so long in the saddle,” she said.

She stood, uncomfortable under his scrutiny, and strode across the clearing into the trees, past a rock covered in lichen, and behind a fallen log out of sight. Dropping her trousers around her ankles and adjusting her infernal corset, she took care of business quickly and then stood, securing her fastenings at her waist, when she thought she heard the faint sound of horses on the high road. Instead of turning back to camp, she listened. There were voices rising, and though they were inaudible, the hair on her arms stood up.

Chapter Eight

“Ho there!” Robert said, hearing the party of horsemen come around the bend before he could see them.

“Good day!” came the call of a guard. “Make way for His Lairdship Harold Crawford, the Sheriff of Ayrshire!”

Robert tensed. Mariel. What on earth had brought Crawford here? A visit from this ever-traveling Scot had only been a matter of time. Yet today of all days?

Protecting Mariel was his only concern. He dashed into the trees where he had seen her disappear and saw her frozen by a fallen log. Her eyes shot to his, his haste causing obvious alarm. The look of mortification on her face tore at his resolve. Unabashed, unbridled fear. She was covered in so much fear he could smell it, feel it wafting off of her in waves. Placing his finger over his lips, he beckoned her. She began to follow him with a look on her face like that of a lamb being led to the slaughter, and watched as he bent next to the lichen-covered rock and pulled up a pile of underbrush.

Her eyes widened, shocked, as if she witnessed a trick of the eye, a blanket woven from nature, concealing a chest of supplies and a stack of firewood. He motioned more forcefully. There was no time to explain the stashes of supplies he kept concealed throughout his forests, and thankfully, she had the good sense to run. Motioning her under the tarp into a depression dug into the ground, Robert let the cover fall on her.

Crouching down, he whispered, “Remain still. Trust that I’ll not hand you over to him.”

There was no response.

He stood and marched back into the clearing, noting that Mariel’s horse had wandered into the trees and was concealed by branches, and saw the party trotting down the road into view. Good. Because if Crawford was as astute as his reputation made him out to be, he would remember one of his horses just by looking at it, regardless of eight months passing since its disappearance.

Despite the sweat breaking out on his brow, Robert actually smiled. The sheriff traveled on Huntington land and therefore he, not the sheriff, made the rules. He made a point to step into the very middle of the road.

“Step aside, I say,” said the guard, though Robert was not looking at him as much as he was assessing Harold Crawford in the saddle behind him, flanked by two more guards, and trailed by a contingent. “The Sheriff of Ayrshire is passing through.”

“Then I must insist on stopping His Lordship,” Robert replied, folding his arms.

“I have business to conduct with the Earl of Huntington,” stated Crawford for himself, his voice low and gravelly. He was a hardened man, thick of stature and burly with muscle. Despite his age, he was formidable, with the same mossy eyes he had passed on to his daughter as well as the barley hair, but much, much colder. So this was the man who had terrorized Mariel and turned her into the guarded woman she was. He had disliked him before, but now he hated him. “Move, man, or you’ll be trampled.”

Robert held out his ring. “I am the earl, and this is my forest you traverse. I kindly request you stop.”

His eyes locked with Crawford and the man ordered his guards to halt.

“You say you have business with me,” Robert said, folding his arms again. “What might that be?”

Crawford, still locked in his gaze, adjusted his reins with a creak of leather. After a moment of calculation, he finally spoke. “I see it now. You’ve grown up in these months since your faither’s death, Robert. What are you about out here in the woods alone?”

“I’m always vigilant of my landholdings. I make it my business to know who trespasses.”

Crawford’s jaw hardened at the remark, trying to determine if he had been slighted. “I request hospitality at Huntington Castle. Or more directly, I shall be partaking of your hospitality.”

“You were actually right in requesting, sire,” Robert replied, nothing hidden in his meaning. Crawford had no jurisdiction in England. “I shall be returning later this day and will meet you by supper. But I’m certain my staff will make you feel welcome in the meantime.” He stepped aside. “Your party may proceed.”

He gestured for them to move onward and offered a nod, but there was no mistaking the strain it took to produce his smile. Mariel. How in the hell would he protect her? As soon as the party was gone, he turned back to the clearing, making a straight line for his hidden supplies. He pulled back the tarp.