Page 29 of An Earl for the Archeress

“It feels that way.” She shrugged once again and looked away. “Better for only me to bear his punishment than for me, you, and your whole estate to feel his wrath―”

“It won’t come to that.” He chuckled. “You dramatize this overmuch.”

She furrowed her brow in offense. “I guarantee you that if something suits my faither, he finds a way to get his way.”

“Mariel, you’re right. I have no legal claim on you, but I ask you to have faith that I’ll keep you safe. He would expect you to flee, not sit right under his nose. I know not what he wants, but he will leave when his current pursuit is satisfied.”

“What if he pursues you to fulfill your faither’s place in a marriage contract to me?”

Robert swallowed. He had been thinking plenty about marriage, as of late, but that didn’t mean he wanted to talk about it. Like a coward, he deflected the question instead.

“’Tis doubtful he seeks a betrothal when he knows not where his daughter even is.”

Why did marriage make him nervous? He had no idea. But it scared him to know how strongly he felt about Mariel in such a short time. What if he did marry her and was then unfaithful? What if he should take her to wife and to the marriage bed, only to find months later another pretty face that piqued his interest more? One could always back out of a lovers’ arrangement, but after bedding a bride, he would never be able to back out of vows made before a priest.

With her trust already so fragile, infidelity would break her heart. No, he could never be unfaithful. He already knew he wanted to look at her beautiful face each morn while she gazed up at him from his chest, just like she had earlier in the day. He wanted her to remain with him and help him withstand men like Nottingham who abused their position, men like her father. She was the most skilled archer he had ever known. And somehow, this callused little survivor had pierced his heart.

He did his best now to ignore the look of what seemed to be disappointment on her brow and lifted himself up on his knees, taking her hands, pulling her close to him and finding once again he was attempting to wedge himself between her thighs. Leaning in, he placed a gentle kiss on her lips. Despite her stated misgivings, she welcomed him.

His unshaven face raked prickles across her skin. Already, he felt so comfortable with his skin upon hers.

Don’t leave, he yearned, wishing he could convey his words through the earnestness of his affection, knowing that he couldn’t. Because the moment he walked out the door, he knew there would be nothing to anchor her impulses.

…

Harold Crawford, the Sheriff of Ayr, leaned back in his chair in the great hall, drinking a tankard of Huntington hospitality while his head guardsmen stood slouched aside the hearth. A fire roared in the massive fireplace, heat radiating outward and making sweat roll down his temples into his beard. A perusal of the room as he took another swig of ale told him that Huntington Castle was still every bit as rich as he remembered it to be.

Shame Robert’s father had taken ill. He could have unloaded his uppity daughter onto the man and been done with her whilst strengthening his English ties. But now, he only wished to find the wench. He had not been to Huntington since his daughter’s betrothal had been contracted. And because he understood Robert Huntington to be some sort of a benevolent lord, mayhap, just mayhap, Mariel lurked here. A woman as fetching as his daughter didn’t simply disappear into oblivion. He would overturn every stone in Europe before he accepted defeat. He’d already turned over every other stone in all of England and Scotland.

“When can I expect the earl?” he barked at Bridget, the serving girl, who brought him a tray containing another full tankard.

“We know not what his business is, my lord,” she replied, bobbing a curtsy.

“Did he not leave instructions with his staff this morn? ’Tis nearly suppertime,” Harold persisted.

“He departed yester eve, my lord,” she replied, her arms lurching as he slammed his empty tankard back onto her tray, taking the fresh one. “But if he told you he’ll see you by suppertime, then he will be good on his word.”

Harold grabbed her wrist and jerked her forward, and the tray and empty tankard toppled to the floor. She cried out. “I’ll have no lip from a servant or a woman.” He growled.

“You’re the earl’s guest,” stated a tall, broad man, so broad he might be likened to an ox. Jonathan, the Earl of Huntington’s right-hand man, he remembered, having met him at the gates upon his arrival. The man seemed to have emerged from the stone masonry, surprising him. “And I’ll thank thee to refrain from handling the wench and let her return to the kitchens.”

Harold squinted up at him, contemplating his words and his size. “The lass was saucy.”

“She was honest,” Jonathan replied. “If His Lordship says he will meet you here, he’ll do so and you needn’t fret over his whereabouts. Drink up, sir. Supper will be soon.”

The maid pulled her wrist free as Crawford slackened his grip, then bobbed a brief curtsy to John before scurrying back to the kitchens. Serving children were trooping into the great hall with baskets of linens and pewter ware. The trestle tables were dragged from the walls into rows down the center of the three-story hall with a vaulted ceiling. Savory smells were wafting in from the kitchens when the main doors were thrown wide by guardsmen. Robert Huntington strode in, his cloak billowing behind him, his quiver slouching upon one hip, and his carefree hair flopping with each footfall.

Their eyes met. Their gazes locked.

…

Robert unclasped the leather buckle at his neck and handed the garment to his steward, his scrutiny of the Scottish sheriff never wavering, and noticed the man had not even the decency to rise to greet a peer when a guest in his home.

“Robert.” Jonathan intercepted him, striding from his post where he had elected to stand watch over Crawford.

“What, man?” Robert replied.

“You should know the man handled Bridget roughly,” Jonathan whispered, for words had a way of traveling through the echo of the room, despite the commotion.