Page 27 of An Earl for the Archeress

“Nay,” she interrupted. “You can’t make me go there knowing he sits in your hall.”

“I could hide you. Keep you in the village. He’d never know you were there.”

“Nay, Robert.”

He stepped forth, pulling her fingers into his, and for some reason felt his hand tremble as he searched for the right words. Emotion overtook him and he squeezed her hands, squinting up at the sun, then the water, then the trees, anywhere but her face. How could he feel so drawn to this woman he had barely met? He tugged her to him, torn inside as to what to do. Yes, he would break the law by not handing her over, for she would surely suffer harshly for undermining such a father. Any man who could lock away his young daughter for days at a time to be feasted on by rats had probably already demonstrated his lack of compassion in many ways. Her simple act of flinching told him so.

And sadly, if braving the world penniless with its highwaymen, roadside thieves, disguising one’s self as the stronger sex, living in a constant state of fear rather than getting caught was the safer option, her life in Ayrshire must have been hell. Yet the law was the law, whether or not some men ought to be entrusted with their rights over their wives and children, Robert reasoned. He had to help Mariel, in spite of the law. Hiding her from Crawford was the logical first step. The next logical step, well, he didn’t want to think of eloping. He didn’t want to marry anyone, he reminded himself. It might give her legal protection as his property, but he would then be bonded to her.

He thought back to the night before as he had pondered marriage by their campfire. Did he want that union with her? The fact he was even entertaining the idea told him there was merit in it. But when King Richard returned, he might be sanctioned for not awaiting his royal blessing and find himself penniless. He needed his king’s approval to wed if he was to comport himself in good taste. Oh, to be a common man who could marry whom he wished.

Unable to get any words out to express the cacophony of thoughts raging through his mind, he did the only other thing he could think. He leaned down and kissed her again. Except this kiss was in earnest, not gentle. His tongue pushed through her lips moist with tears, danced with her tongue, offered her a taste of his full passion. His hands dropped hers and wove through her hair at the base of her neck, his palms cradling her jaw. And to his surprise, she returned the fervor, arching into him, her hands sliding beneath his cloak and settling upon his back as he leaned over her.

He felt her grip his tunic, her nails scoring him through the fabric, and a groan worked its way up his throat. She whimpered in return and it threatened his resolve. He groaned again, taking a breath, basking in the favor she was pouring upon him.

“Mari, my beauty,” he whispered, delving in for a second helping.

He couldn’t think, couldn’t see, couldn’t feel anything except her. She was thin, to say the least, and yet by some miracle of attraction, she felt soft and pliant in his arms. Her hands were kneading his back now, running up and down as his fingers, too, began a wild grope upon her back, her rear, and he could feel her pressing her breasts against him. Taking a step, then another, he walked her backward and soon had her braced against a tree. She didn’t fight him as he took charge over her. In fact, she seemed to acquiesce to his tactic. It emboldened him and he growled his pleasure.

And then she moaned.

God, but her desire for him was enough to undo him. He swallowed her moan, bearing down harder. Kissing her wildly, his hands couldn’t hold still, cupping her cheek one moment, rubbing her waist the next, and then his hands roved over her breasts of their own accord. She sucked in at the intimacy, as he nudged his pelvis against her. Her hands ran madly up and down his arms, over his shoulders, unfastening the buckle of his cloak so she could push the disruptive garment to the forest floor.

“Lord in heaven,” he murmured eagerly against her lips, practically thrusting against her, lifting her thighs and hoisting her legs apart so he could settle his codpiece protecting his more intimate parts against hers, where he knew he needed to take root.

“Rob.” She breathed on a hitch, cinching her legs about him to hold herself aloft.

His common sense pushed through the haze of his lust. She would be a willing partner right now and he would not regret taking her down to the forest floor and swiving her to oblivion, but something about the fragility in the way she said his name, a nickname, slowed him. He gentled his kiss, softening the force of his hands practically tearing at her tunic, feeling her arms clinging around his neck. Nicknames were intimate, like you calling her Mari, his conscience niggled at him, and they had hardly known each other long enough to learn each other’s favorite foods, or hell, favorite anything.

“I like hearing you say ‘Rob,’” he murmured against his better judgment, nuzzling her neck. “And I hope I never see you kissing Sir Naylor again. God above, woman, don’t ever.”

Breathing heavily, she nodded.

Rob, he repeated, hearing her lips speak it again in his mind, not Robbie, like Charlotte would have said. But although the intimacy excited him, it also stayed him. It had the potential to lead to something deep. With her, he could feel it. He softened his kisses further until he was leaving gentle pecks across her lips, cheek, and then forehead. Holding her aloft with her back to the tree, he rested his chin atop her head and swallowed, unable to decipher the swirl of emotions pummeling his heart like tempest gales on a ship. How could he feel so protective, so lustful, yet so confused about his feelings? These were primal urges, to claim, to covet, and he was feeling them intensely.

…

Mariel lost herself in the tenderness of Robert’s embrace, his muscles and the firmness of his chest such a solid thing to grasp in a world where there was no telling the next moment she would have to flee and hide. His smell of mint, and leather, and soap was strong and comforting, and his heartbeat in her ear was rapid, hard, as if he had been running, yet steady.

She needed his steadiness.

But he had stopped kissing her. She felt his throat bob against her forehead as he rested his chin atop her, and sensed his withdrawal. Mariel lifted her head. He gazed down at her, his expression impassive. Unable to decipher the blank look. Self-doubt set in. Why did he stop kissing me? She let go, suddenly pushing against his chest.

“Oh God, let me down,” she said. “Let me down!” She shoved harder, until he stepped back and put her on her feet. “I’m an eejit…such an eejit…”

“Mari, no. You’ve done nothing wrong―”

“Stop, please,” she demanded, holding her hand up to him. She shook, her mind manifesting all sorts of reasons why his lust had waned, and she marched to her horse. “I’m leaving. I need my bridle―”

“Come to my village,” he said.

Her mouth dropped to the ground. “You have got to be out of your mind. That man is there―”

“Come to my village and I’ll protect you. On this I swear. Just…just come. Say you’ll come.” He strode to her and took her hand again. “I don’t know what this is, Mariel, this, betwixt us.” He gestured, pointing back and forth between them. “But my gut isn’t sitting well with the prospect of you at large.”

Dammit! She chided herself, wishing above all she could be back in the security of his arms. She could feel herself caving to his dictate already. Reaching out to take her other hand, he squeezed her.

“Don’t leave,” he whispered. “Promise me this. At the very least, don’t leave yet. I swear protection to you. On this, I won’t fail you.”