Page 33 of An Earl for the Archeress

“Ah, my good man. I am soft unless I needs be firm.” That much was true. “I guarantee you, she would need commit only one poor behavior with me to learn her place.” That much was a massive lie. He could never bring himself to hit her. “Still. I’m generous to my people, but make no mistake, I take no guff. Over there, those two guardsmen who just entered, for example”—he pointed, guiding Crawford’s eyes to the wide double doors—“they can attest to my heavy hand when they broke my rules. Tonight is their first chance to dine in the great hall after the labor I imposed upon them.”

He was pointing, of course, to the guards who had imprisoned Mariel without his knowledge, and they had, of course, only been given squire duties for several days. As foul as their tasks had been, they had not been cruel. And despite the implication, his guardsmen hadn’t been deprived of food, either. The kitchen had sent one nooning meal with them each day of bread, salted meat, and an apple. He wasn’t technically lying. But Crawford didn’t need to know that.

The Sheriff of Ayr finally sat back, rubbing his paunch. “Nay. At least nay, now. I get my chance to exact punishment before she’s given to another man. And you may believe that I have the right to see her executed for the humiliation she’s imposed on me. She’s pushed me too far, and I can nay guarantee her fate.”

She’s never leaving here. Robert decided then and there, refraining from the aghast expression that threatened to overtake his face as he conceded a half-hearted shrug. Never never never. Even if I have to tie her down. Even if I have to die that torturous death Crawford just prescribed to prevent hers. This bastard can rot in hell before he is ever allowed to touch Mariel again.

“However, make no mistake,” Crawford said, turning to level a gaze at Robert. “If any man has taken her to wife without my consent, he’s as good as dead.”

I have to marry her. The thought charged through his head with more conviction than he had ever felt. Neither William de Wendenal nor his own men at Huntington would allow Crawford to kill him. And should Crawford try, well, there was a reason Robert was a skilled fighter and archer. Robert had inherited too powerful an earldom, and Nottingham would prevent his death on the grounds that Robert’s death would invite the king’s scrutiny, for he was a favored young earl and Nottingham knew it. Lord, he didn’t want to tie the proverbial knot. But for some strange reason, it was the only idea that soothed the fear burgeoning in his heart for Mariel’s safety.

Chapter Ten

The morning air was crisp. Robert had slept like hell. Why, he could not pinpoint. It wasn’t as if Mariel was unsafe. No one suspected she hid in his village. Everyone thought she’d departed. He knew Jonathan had ordered a detail to watch over Crawford, his men, and their every move. But he tossed and turned, rose and poured himself a spot of wine, visited the chamber pot, and envisioned Harold Crawford’s meaty hands strangling the life out of Mariel’s eyes, until he came to the realization that in order to give himself time to work up the courage to ask for her hand, he could still employ her to keep her under his supervision. His people were loyal. If he asked them to keep her a secret, they would. Even Wesley, for the pompous arse enjoyed the prestige of his position too damned much.

Robert would keep her name secret, and soon she would realize she could relax in his castle during the day, and perhaps, relax in his arms at night. He wouldn’t mind more mornings waking up with her nestled to his chest. And she was the perfect fit for the final spot on his secret council. She was the perfect fit for him entirely. She would remain with him, and he would convince her to give him the benefit of her archery skills and make room for him in her protected heart.

And after that poor night’s sleep filled with urgency to see her again, his fears worsened as he led Crawford and his contingent through the village, out through the pastures, and toward Huntington’s forest. There she was. In the middle of the field. He knew it was her, despite the crofter’s dress she wore, despite the fact that she wore the broad brimmed hat of an outdoor laborer with a wimple beneath to conceal her honey hair, despite that she stooped with a hoe, tilling up the dead remains of the harvested crops. He could tell by her posture and by the look she flashed at him before turning away.

His heart lurched into his throat.

The damned girl was bent on inviting danger! He stayed the desperate urge to ride to her and draw more attention than she was already inviting. And yet Harold rode, facing forward, not even sparing a glance at the young woman in the field with the old shepherd and his wife. For all the sheriff was concerned, she was their daughter, if he’d even thought about her at all.

As soon as Robert saw Crawford and his contingent to the edge of the forest, ensuring that Huntington guards continued to escort him northwesterly toward Nottingham Castle, he turned back up the road leading to the castle, kicking Goliath into a gallop. Aiming for the villager’s cottage where Mariel now stood watching him, he barreled to her, kicking up grass.

He pulled back on his reins, jumping from the saddle before the beast had fully stopped.

“Are you mad?” he demanded. “Have you lost all good sense?”

She scoffed and threw down the hoe. “Well good morn to you, too, my laird,” she gushed, dipping into a completely insincere curtsy.

He grabbed her arms and squared her in front of him. “What on earth possessed you to be out where Crawford might see you?”

She threw his arms off and pinched her face into a scowl. “In sooth, I assumed The Beast would stay longer than one day, and therefore wished to be helpful to my hosts by taking up some labor. Since I knew his men might be milling about, I was certain to dress like a peasant lass and conceal my hair. And in sooth,” she said, “I thought my disguise quite brilliant, I thank you. Crawford did not even notice me, and whilst we’re at it, you’re lucky I’m still here.” She pointed. “I had my mind made up to leave yester eve despite your sweet nothings, for I tossed about all night and slept like hell.”

Robert softened his position but not his posture. Taking her arms again, more gently, he pulled her to him. “I barely slept last night, either, woman, for fear of what could happen. I’m holding a private council after the noon meal today,” he continued, encircling his arms around her and finally sensing her relaxing against him. “I once asked you to let me employ you, and I still believe the idea has merit. I bid you join me at my meeting.”

“Your men will discover who I am if I join a council,” she replied, pulling back instantly.

“Jonathan already knows, woman,” he replied, pulling her back to him. “It didn’t take much for him to figure it out. You’re Scottish, Crawford is Scottish, and he searches for his fetching daughter with blonde hair and green eyes and an archer’s skill, and believe me, Crawford might be ugly as a cur and you lovely to behold, but you are most definitely your father’s daughter in both looks and temperament.”

“Temperament?” she snapped, pushing him off again. “I’m nothing like him!”

Robert laughed at the irony of her outburst. “You, my dear little apple, did nay fall far from your family tree,” he said. “You’re stubborn, single-minded, determined, and not afraid to say what you think, even when it’s rude.” Her jaw dropped, but he continued. “You’re strong, and you attempt to impress your strength on others to further your gains. You, Mari, are most certainly like your father—”

“Why you hateful, arrogant man.” She rolled her eyes. “Do nay spew such shite at me and expect a kind reaction—”

“And yet, impatient one,” he said, grinning as he brushed his thumb across her chin, “you’re courageous, braver than most men I know. Skilled. Sharp of aim and wit. Persistent, and no doubt harbor compassion to thy fellow man like no other. You’re one of the most fascinating women I’ve met. And beneath your armor, I’ve tasted a sweet, sweet rose. I’d venture to say you have all the good qualities of your father and none of the poor ones.”

“And woman,” she grumbled.

“What?” he asked, his line of thought severed.

“You said compassion to my fellow man. I said, ‘and woman.’ In fact, I might be more compassionate toward women based on my extensive experience of being one.”

“That’s how you thank me for my heartfelt compliment?” he asked. “By ignoring my very sentiment over a trifle?”

She scoffed. “Rob, if you only wanted thanks, then you should have never paid the compliment in the first place. I can give compliments with no demand for reciprocation.”