Page 38 of An Earl for the Archeress

With that, he swept to the door and wrenched it back, striding out as once again, the men chuckled at his expense, unaware of John’s curious mood change. But Mariel could tell. He wanted her. And now he knew that Robert wanted her, too. Robert then turned to Mariel as the other men filed out, the ceaseless twinkle in his eye that seemed to hint at a scheme or a jest.

“Now, to keep my flighty Scottish lass tethered long enough,” he murmured cryptically.

“What on earth does that mean?” Mariel demanded.

“You’ll see,” he said, dipping his head to hers once more and placing a quick peck upon her lips.

“Tethered?” Unease sank in her gut and she bristled. Use of such a word was frightening, and she didn’t kiss him back. He pulled away and scrutinized her. “What game do you play at?”

…

So tethered wasn’t the word to use with a woman fleeing a father who had tethered her many a time. But it was what he intended, even if it involved no ropes or bondage. But he needed time to work up the courage to invite a marriage between them, and with Crawford lurking about East Anglia, time wasn’t a luxury he had. And until any union was struck, Mariel would remain a flight risk. He softened his teasing and caressed her face, his thumb lingering on her chin. But it was clear she didn’t trust him. Why should she? He had confessed to leading the bandits thieving in the forests.

Confusion had captured her eyes. He trailed his hands down to hers and took them. A dull ache entered his chest. He had already resolved himself to marry her, so the ache wasn’t because of that. But he was most definitely…nervous? Indeed. Just thinking about something so serious as a marriage offer was enough to make his pulse increase and his hands threaten to tremble.

“I only meant I wish to keep you here long enough to see the benevolent work that we do. Nothing more,” he lied. There was so much more.

Chapter Twelve

Harold Crawford continued to canter his horse northward toward Nottingham Castle with his contingent taking up his flanks. The afternoon sun beat down on them and, despite the crispness in the autumn air, they sweat. Glancing back, he could still see the Earl of Huntington’s escort remaining at the tree line demarcating his extensive property.

It was obvious, no, palpable, Robert Huntington’s wariness of him. The fact that the young earl was so wary caused his neck to prickle with both unease and curiosity. And what noble was fool enough to travel on his own, alone, without protection in the woods? A lord always had enemies, and thieves most certainly would have no qualms about stealing, especially from a noble, if they thought they could get away with it.

According to the Sheriff of Nottingham, there were thieves who used the East Anglian forests to conceal their moves and plan their next attacks. Nottingham himself had been confronted more than once…and bested, Crawford suspected, though Nottingham had not admitted it. Judging from where Crawford encountered Robert the morning before, the young earl must have traveled overnight for a few hours after swiving his peasant woman to make it as far as he had when they’d encountered each other. Dead fish were known to stink. And there was a dead fish somewhere in the tale Robert had woven for him.

He faced forward, glancing over the rolling fields cleared and separated by stone walls to keep the mutton within their enclosures. One thing was certain. Huntington had inherited power, along with vast sums of wealth and property. And despite being young, he was bold and sure-footed when standing toe-to-toe with a powerful man such as himself. If he thought the young earl an easy puppet, or a pushover, he would be sorely mistaken.

Yet the idea of betrothing Mariel to him held merit. Still. He wanted to drag her back to Castle Ayr by her blonde braid and beat some obedience into the lass once and for all. Each day that passed, leaving her unfound, was an added humiliation. And quite frankly, he really didn’t care if he sent the little wench to her grave at this point.

Yes, he did, he stopped himself. Bringing her within an inch of her life was one thing, but killing her would leave him with no one competent to inherit Castle Ayr should he be unable to marry her to a son-in-law worth his salt. He hadn’t educated Madeline, his younger legitimate daughter. The waif was as a woman should be. Quiet, obedient, ignorant, innocent. She didn’t have any qualities of a leader. And Mariel shouldn’t have those qualities, but it chafed him to know that she did. She was bold, surefooted, questioned things she shouldn’t, and despite having taught her the lesson time and again, could not be forced into submission. Time and again, she had stood tall and walked away from him with her chin lifted in defiant pride even when he knew her body felt broken. If she was no match for his physical strength, she was indeed a match for his fortitude.

His daughter Madeline could be married off to whomever he chose. But Castle Ayr needed to stay in his succession, and Mariel had just the guts for the job. Except, she had abandoned home. For a woman, Mariel was bloody smart and resourceful. Ah, the damned lass. As useful as she would be in a marriage alliance, one slap across her face would never suffice for the months of embarrassment she had caused him to endure. And too many slaps would kill her.

As the land rolled, hiding all signs of a forest behind them below the horizon, he held up his fist.

“Halt, men.” He growled.

The group pulled back on the reins, and Crawford turned to his lead guardsman who had accompanied him inside the Huntington keep.

“You, Teàrlach, will go back, whilst we continue onward to William of Nottingham’s castle.”

“Back, m’laird?” asked the quiet guardsman with rich amber eyes.

“’Tis nay a secret you’re skilled at blending in. Robert hardly noticed you in his keep, and he’s no dimwit.”

“Aye, but he still noticed me, Laird. He would recognize me.”

“Only if he sees your face. Which he nay will.”

“What did you have in mind?” Teàrlach asked, his dark curling hair ruffling in the wind as he eased a finger underneath the neck of his gambeson to readjust it.

“I want you to sleuth for me. Pick up clues. I was nay satisfied with Robert’s explanations about Mariel.”

“Do you think he harbors her?”

Harold thought for a moment, giving voice to the thoughts in his mind. “I can nay tell if he does so consciously or without any knowing. Mayhap she’s there or mayhap Robert’s overly wary, but I sense if ever there was a safe haven for the wench, that this would be the spot to hide. He welcomes beggars and offers them abode, and he can nay see everyone personally who seeks refuge. But one thing is certain: he’s fiercely protective of his holdings.”

On one hand, he thought, it made for a strong leader. He, too, was fiercely protective. On the other hand, he reminded himself, people who were fiercely protective often had much to protect.