Page 51 of An Earl for the Archeress

She turned to leave, her stomach still growling with pain she had hoped to forget after her stay at Huntington.

“Don’t you worry,” he called. She looked back. “Me old shoulders cannot carry the work they once did. I’m a woodsman, but have not been able to hunt or cut wood for a long time, since before me wife died.” He motioned for her to come inside. “I have little, but what I have, you are welcome to share.”

She nodded her thanks and entered the cottage. Years of accumulated items, saws, tools, and an old hunting bow were tacked to the walls and a window with no glass was positioned opposite the door over his table. He gestured to the one chair he possessed, a roughly hewn piece of furniture made out of incongruent sticks twined together, and went to his hearth, where he pulled out a pot.

“You’re not some sort of criminal, are you?” he eyed her as he slopped the plain broth into a bowl and tore away a chunk of bread from his loaf.

“Nay. My story is my own, but I thank thee kindly for sharing what you have,” she said, and sank into the meal.

The broth was boiling and burned her throat, but her hunger was so overpowering she cared not, tearing off ravenous bites of bread like she was a wolf and saturating them in the liquid. The bread was coarse, seeded, and could hardly be called bread, for it was unleavened and plain. He watched her finish the food, then took the bowl from her.

“It’s all I have to offer,” he said, giving her a sympathetic look, “else I shall starve this day.”

She nodded and smiled, when she heard the sound of hooves approaching from far down the path. She went to the door and cracked it, waiting to see what colors might be coming into view. The man hobbled up beside her and looked out. Her horse sat outside, grazing into the trees, its chestnut tail flicking from side to side.

“Have you brought trouble down upon me?” the old man asked, leveling a glare at her.

She shook her head. “No. I know not who these people could be…”

Her words trailed away as she saw the standard of the Sheriff of Nottingham come into view, though it was not Nottingham’s colors that made her voice falter. The standard of the Sheriff of Ayr also came into view. The menacing eyes of her father, his piercing, cold stare absorbing his surroundings as their horses approached the cottage, settled on the door.

She withdrew inside, the color draining from her face. Crawford would sense her fear. There was nowhere to go. How had he found her? She should have remained at Huntington. She was cornered. Her hands shook, her knees quaked, and she felt a sob attempt to lodge in her throat. The Beast of Ayr was about to reclaim his flighty daughter, and she would soon feel his wrath once again.

…

Robert, John, Will, Alan, and David-the-mute traversed the forest path on foot, having left their horses well off in the trees, and exited Huntington lands. With a finger flick, his men dispersed into the trees. They stalked forward toward the sorry bugger’s cottage, the man they knew was about to be evicted, according to David’s eavesdropping at Nottingham Castle. They needed to make haste, to ensure they converged together with Nottingham upon the cottage.

There had been no sign of Mariel in their day of travel, aside from some tracks that led up to the secluded campsite he had spent the night at with her, where he had wanted so badly to peel away her tunic and trousers by the firelight, bury himself in her warmth, and make love to her with his words, his lips, and all that was masculine about his body. Their campsite, where he had confessed about his father’s brutish ways, his disinterest in Charlotte, and told her of her father’s plan to wed her to his own father. Where he had awoken to her nestled into his arms, her barley hair tangled around his hand. Where he had begun to realize this was a woman that could see him to the altar. He had mentioned none of it to his men when they’d passed by as he dwelled on the memory.

But after passing the mouth of the path, he had not seen any more tracks, nor had he smelled the remnants of a campfire. Apparently, his woman had slept in the cold and dark with nothing to protect her. Clearly, she had learned to minimize the chances of his guards capturing her again.

My woman. Sadly, that wasn’t the case. But knowing she had sought out their campsite made him smile wistfully, even if her cold night spent in misery bothered him. Perhaps she did care. Perhaps she did want him. He let the hope that she had so thoroughly dashed rekindle in his heart. For after his poorly night spent wallowing in his loss and drinking too much ale, he might now have the chance to win her affection again. If he found her.

They began to converge on a clearing through the thinning tree trunks and found the rock landmark beside their hidden cache of supplies. Lifting the weaving of branches and underbrush, he withdrew several coils of rope. Creeping forward, he came closer and saw the cottage of Nottingham’s next victim. He allowed himself a moment of regret. Mariel should have been on this raid, too. A horse whickered. Looking closely at it, his pulse quickened. It was Mariel’s horse. His heart jumped. She had likely only been a mile or less ahead of them the whole time!

He wanted to run to the door and retrieve her, collect her in his arms, and tell her she was a fool for thinking he partook of Charlotte’s favors, but instead took the time to set up the ropes he had slung over his shoulders. There was little time before Nottingham arrived, and there was no way he would best the man if he wasn’t prepared. Climbing a tree to a high branch alongside the path, he braced himself between a couple boughs and tied one of the ropes securely, seeing that his men did the same, though no one spoke or acknowledged one another.

Dropping the rope, he climbed down, took hold of the dangling line, and strode silently across the clearing. He climbed an opposite tree and hung the rope end over a branch, tying off a new rope, climbing down, and carrying the end to another tree, where he climbed up and draped the end over another branch once more. He repeated the ritual with two more ropes.

His task complete, he slunk back through the forest and retrieved his bow and quarterstaff, and ensured he had an abundance of arrows should he need them, flipping the deerskin lid over his quiver. He pulled up his green hood slouching around his neck, dragging it down over his eyes. Nottingham would be lumbering down that path with a smattering of soldiers soon, demanding rent, and then would throw the old man out on his arse when he couldn’t pay, ordering his soldiers to raze the hovel. It was time to get Mariel out.

He perched his staff against a tree and was just about to go to the cottage when he heard horses. His pulse quickened. It was Nottingham. The sheriff was arriving that moment and Mariel was inside the old man’s hut.

“Dammit,” he whispered, stepping behind the tree and waving to capture John’s attention.

He motioned toward the hut, indicating he was going to attempt to go inside. John threw his hands up with confusion and irritation, motioning to the road. Yes, Robert understood. Nottingham approached, and this deviated from the plan. Still, he motioned toward the cottage and mouthed, “Elmer’s horse.”

It took John a moment to understand, his eyes scrutinizing the beast, but when he did, the white sheen that covered his face indicated he suddenly knew what was at stake. Robert left it to Jonathan to inform the others and crept through the trees, padding silently over pine needles and underbrush, and came to the back of the shack where the window stood, shutters open. He peered around the cottage as the men on horseback approached.

Crawford was riding with Nottingham!

“Dammit!” he mouthed again, retreating back behind the shack. Crawford was assessing the cottage…and Mariel’s horse.

Peering inside the window, he saw Mariel with the old man behind the door, her face ghostly, and a terrified tremble shaking her whole body.

“You said you didn’t bring trouble down upon me.” The old man was scolding her.

She shook her head, seemingly unable to find words.