Page 17 of An Earl for the Archeress

“Don’t be. You have nothing to apologize for,” Mariel replied, haughtily flipping her braid over her shoulder. “I was quite enjoying myself, if truth be told,” she added, and flashed a glare back at Robert as if to challenge him.

Robert bit back the ready retort on his lips. Lord, but he wanted to accept her challenge. Instead, he composed himself, placed his hands behind his back, and turned his gaze to Jonathan. “Don’t make me say it again.”

John backed away, his face stern with irritation, and walked down the roof walk, jogging down the stairs. His head disappeared into the keep. Mariel watched him go, then she rounded on Robert in disbelief.

“What unfortunate wasp climbed up your arse and stung you?” she asked.

If he wasn’t so angry, he would have laughed. This woman held nothing back. She was nothing like the tittering maidens vying for a ticket to marriage.

“Do you always fornicate so willingly with the male folk?” Robert bit out, no longer able to control his irritation.

“Does that bother you?” she snapped back. “That I like men? That I’m not afraid to like men? Oh Laird in heaven m’ reputation!” she dramatized, acting faint. “Because if you consider me some vestal virgin to seduce, you’ve barked up the wrong tree. Mayhap you should just bury your head in your mistress’s bosom and let the one woman who cares not to pursue you, me, enjoy whom she pleases.”

“Are you saying I don’t please you?”

“Must you actually ask that?” She folded her arms and popped a hip.

“You wish to enjoy my hospitality and still treat me thus?”

She laughed, though he detected nothing kind in her tone. “Treat you how? Did I capture and imprison you in a tower, starving, and then flaunt my lover in front of you after kissing you and inviting you to supper? Such hospitality! Jonathan, little as he is,” she jested in her finest English accent, “was the only one to welcome me, whilst everyone else gossiped and stared. He was kind, and I like him. I’m sorry I did not interrupt your meal with your mistress to ask your permission to consort with him, but last I checked you have no claim on me.”

Oh the sarcasm, he noted. Mariel could dish it out in spades.

“Did you know that my faither used to lock me in his tower?” she seethed, barely stopping for breath. Robert noticed her voice shaking. “Once, he locked me in for days because I was young and had cried when my mither left me alone during a thunderstorm. He thought by forcing me to be alone, it would cure my fear. ’Twas of humor, too, because fear was the only thing that intensified as I sat in the dark, screaming at the rats that bit my toes and legs! So, I thank you for the hospitality, for reminding me of such a cherished moment betwixt faither and daughter!”

He smarted.

“I’m grateful that you brought me back from the brink of starvation, but clearly your ‘hospitality’ is one kindness in which I can’t partake.”

…

She shoved past him, following the path Jonathan had taken moments before, and ran down the stairs, uncaring of whether or not he followed. She wound around the gallery overlooking the great hall, arriving at her chamber, and threw on her cloak. Sweeping up her saddle packs, she pulled free the coin purse from her pocket and gave it a disgusted toss upon the bed, snatched up her bow and quiver, and burst out of the room again, colliding with Charlotte.

“Goodness!” the lady exclaimed.

“Bloody—” Mariel bit back a curse. This woman had some nerve coming to her.

“I’m sorry, I had not a chance to announce myself,” Charlotte confessed, swallowing at the anger bubbling in Mariel’s eyes. “Are you leaving?”

“Yes,” Mariel snapped. “I should have done so already. That arrogant…pompous…shite of a scoundrel,” she said, pushing by the other woman.

Charlotte gasped amidst her flurry of curse words. “He said you were unconventional, but…”

“But what?”

“Why, you’re just as ill-mannered as a foot soldier.”

“I’ve spent much time living like a foot soldier.”

“It shows,” said Charlotte.

For some reason Mariel was rendered wordless and worried her hurt showed on her face. She liked being a woman. She had once loved pretty gowns and makeup and wildflowers. But her father had cared little for that sort of thing. Aside from giving her a few fine gowns and possessions befitting her high-born status, he had taken his sword to any desire she had for appreciating her femininity. She’d had to be tough to survive his wrath, and flowers hadn’t helped her.

Her father had once given her a ribbon. When she’d fled Scotland, she had taken it with her, though only heaven knew why. She had lost it at Robert’s tourney. It was the only gift her sire had ever given her. Once a powdery pink, over the years, she had kept it close as it grew dingy. And when he had punished her, she’d clung to the ribbon as she’d cried alone. Surely her father loved her beneath his thorns and anger. Fathers who loved their daughters gave them gifts. She had relied on the thought to see her through the worst of his treatment and had devoured a book given to her by her tutor, the writing of Evagrius and Gregory of Tours, particularly the story of the boy who had been thrown into a fire by his father, to be saved by the Virgin Mary. She coveted that book, just like the ribbon, to keep hope alive that someday things would get better and mayhap, just mayhap, a miracle would happen to her.

Until the day she had accepted it for the fantasy it had been.

Harold loved power, control, secrets, politics, and rutting. But he would never love a woman, least of all his own daughters, especially his “uppity” older daughter who never knew when to keep her mouth shut or her eyes downcast. So she had hardened her edges as sharply as his and threw her all into the priest’s lessons. By doing so, she could protect her pride and intellect from the Beast of Ayrshire’s dictates and disciplines. She could remain defiant, even if she did so in secrecy.