An Earl for an Archeress

by E. Elizabeth Watson

  “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.”

  Won’t fail you. His words hung in her mind. Was it even possible for a man to live up to such a declaration when none had ever done so before? Did she dare place her trust in him?

  Chapter Nine

  Robert saw Mariel’s horse stabled in a shepherd’s byre. Returning to the cottage, he tapped on the door and awaited an answer. The shepherd’s wife ushered him over the threshold. Mariel sat tucked in a corner on a stool, her bow and quiver propped beside her, her cloak unfastened. On her lap she held a wooden bowl of pottage, though she looked too ill to eat it. He came to her side, then turned to the couple and handed them a couple coins.

  “For your trouble. I thank thee for taking her in. Would you mind if we have a moment of privacy to talk before I depart to the castle?”

  “Take all the time you need, m’lord,” replied the shepherd, nodding graciously at the money and guiding his wife outside.

  Their cottage, on the outskirts of the village, was idyllic with a thatched roof, plastered walls, secure shutters, and a large vegetable croft now mostly harvested. The byre was large enough for several head of sheep, and their reaped field was rolling and lined with stone walls to ensure the sheep stayed out.

  “I haven’t a good feeling about this,” Mariel said the moment the door closed.

  Robert dropped to one knee and cupped her cheeks. “Remain here, Mariel. All will be well, if you don’t try to flee. You took a great risk before, and you’re lucky your father didn’t spy you. When he and his men depart, I’ll come back for you. I promise.”

  “I’m not used to sitting like a deer waiting to take a hunter’s arrow, Robert. I don’t like depending on you for safety.”

  “Hush, love. All will be well if you just let me help you—”

  “I don’t take charity.”

  “’Tis charitable, but not charity. I want to do it.”

  “Why?” she replied. “One has to trust the other first. I’ve never been able to trust anyone.”

  “Then put your trust in me,” Robert stated.

  She laughed wryly, mixing the pottage pointlessly.

  “What?” he asked.

  She shook her head, fixing her eyes on the menial task.

  “You don’t trust me?” He sat back on his heels. She bit her lip but could say nothing.

  He softened his voice and lifted her chin, dipping his head to look up into hers. “You would trust me with your body? With your affection? You would have trusted me to make love to you right there on the forest floor this morn? But you won’t entrust your safety to me?”

  He wanted to wipe away the look of shame that sprang to her face, but instead he waited for her reply. She looked back down at her bowl.

  “Loving doesn’t mean a commitment of any sort, but trust does. Does it surprise you that I might be wary when it comes to my safety?”

  “Of me? Of my intentions?” He tried not to sound affronted. “I only want the best for you.”

  “And what right do you have to claim such a responsibility over me?” she asked, her eyes shooting to his.

  He smarted inwardly but erased the hurt her remark inflicted off his brow. She dropped her eyes. He ran a hand through his hair, looking away. Mariel set aside the bowl and took both his hands in hers. Rubbed her thumbs over his knuckles. Odd, though they had practically had intercourse in the woods, the simple feeling of holding hands sent tingles across his skin. He looked at their fingers, then at her.

  “My words were barbed and it was unfair.” She apologized.

  He shook his head. “No, you make a legitimate point. I don’t have a right to assert responsibility for you.”

  “I’m terrified of being so close to Laird Crawford, but I came back here because you asked it. You’re the only man I’ve given a chance to, but that doesn’t change the fact that I feel uneasy. I wish to be as far from him as possible.”

  “I know you don’t know me well yet, but what happened back there…by the stream…” He exhaled, withdrawing his hands, his voice tempered to mask his emotions. “I had hoped it meant something.”

  Mariel looked down and folded her hands in her lap. “It did,” she whispered. “I
came here with you, did I not? But what will happen if my faither finds me? My point is that you have no right to make decisions on my behalf, and doing so could cause you harm. I’m fearful for myself and for you. With Laird Crawford attempting to assert himself as English royal kin and with your Sheriff of Nottingham and the Duke of Brittany tipping the balance in his favor, I worry that you could be punished and your people could suffer because of me. ’Tis not a curse I wish on anyone.”

  “You’re not a curse, Mari.”

  “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.

  Robert’s pulse jumped, peering at Crawford over John’s shoulder. “What are you saying? Did he attempt to force himself upon―”

  “No, nothing like that. Grabbed her and accused her of smarting off to him,” his guardsman replied, shaking his head. “But I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

  “Bridget’s a sweet maid. She’d never be rude to a lord,” Robert said.

  “And she wasn’t. She tried to reassure him you would return. He just doesn’t like a woman who speaks freely, ’tis all.”

  “I’m aware.” Robert nodded, slapping his arm. “My thanks for the briefing.”

  He continued forward, his eyes leveled on Mariel’s father, sitting with his legs splayed in the chair, a boot propped upon a stool as an ottoman. Arriving in front of him, Robert placed his hands behind his back and stood still, leveling a gaze at him, not uttering a single word until finally, Crawford huffed, dropped his boot to the floor with a thud, and heaved himself up. Robert smiled and offered his greeting, though his smile was insincere. Stiffly, they clasped wrists.

  “Good eve, Lord Crawford,” he said. “What brings you all the way south to Huntington?”

  Harold Crawford gave a brief shake and dropped his wrist, though Robert felt the man’s grip upon the dagger up his sleeve. He smiled. He had felt Crawford’s dag
ger, too.

  “I was visiting my cousin’s former wife and her new husband—”

  By this, Robert deduced that he spoke of Geoffrey, the Duke of Brittany and Earl of Richmond who was recently deceased. No doubt, he thought the casual reference to the new Duke, Ranulf de Blondeville, would make him sound more important. Robert resisting a smirk.

  “—and I decided to inspect Huntington.”

  Robert sighed, folding his arms. He had only met Crawford once before, but already he knew he didn’t like him. Presumptuous and power hungry, just like his friend, our dear Sheriff of Nottingham. “Inspect my home? And under what authority, pray tell?”

  “My own.” Crawford grunted, looking about. “Ranulf suggested I come here again, seeing as it’s been several months.”

  “Then I must kindly advise you that this is not Lord Ranulf’s estate, and unless my king authorizes it, no one searches my home without my permission first. Mayhap you aught commence your visit with a kind salutation and share with me what troubles you. Does Huntington offend you all the way in Scotland?”

  He bit back further sarcasm as he flagged down Bridget and took another tankard from her, offering it to Mariel’s father. Harold, however, had taken note of his sharp words and clenched his jaw.

  “Of course. Nay, Huntington has always been powerful and prosperous. I search for a woman.”

  “A woman?” Robert feigned confusion. “What woman, sire?”

  He watched as Crawford chewed on the distaste in his mouth over the inevitable next words. “My daughter. She ran away December last.”

  “Your daughter? Which one? Do you not have two of them?”

  “Two legitimate, five bastards,” he replied, adjusting his belts. “Mayhap more, but I have nay the time to verify. Mariel is my oldest. She’s the one I educated when I realized my wife would nay give me a lad. I’ve always assumed I might have to use her to secure my bloodline.”

  Robert watched Jonathan’s reaction to Crawford’s words. If it wasn’t obvious the Scottish archeress with matching green eyes was Crawford’s seed, and if Robert’s mock surprise didn’t indicate he knew who the woman was, then the man was daft. But Jonathan’s pulse in his corded neck was jumping. Robert suspected that his guardsmen understood all too well and already hated Crawford.