Judging from her attire, she was a servant, though the clean state of the garments she wore showed she ranked high.
“Starving,” Mariel whispered.
“Take the food slowly,” the woman advised. “Too much too fast will only cause you to retch it back up. Here. Sip this. ’Tis the earl’s finest sweet wine. ’Twill make you feel better.”
Mariel took the goblet and sipped. It was crisp. Light. Robert not only made wine for alcohol, but also wine for a refined palate.
The woman stood and walked to the door, opening it. A guard outside peeked in to catch a glimpse of her then left his post at the woman’s bidding.
“Lord Huntington saw to it you were given a decent abode here and removed you from that horrible tower. He wanted to be informed the moment you were awake. He’ll be here momentarily.”
Lovely. Mariel rolled her eyes. He might have been kindly to place her in a bed with a servant to help her eat, but she had still stolen his game, and she would still have to face the consequences. And if the guard outside her door was any indication, she was still a prisoner.
“Can we just skip this part?” Mariel grumbled.
“Pardon?” said the woman, confused by her accent.
“Nothing,” she muttered.
She attempted to prop herself up, looking down and seeing herself dressed in a lady’s chemise and her hair unbound, combed, though in sore need of a good washing. Her hands were clean, and her wrists…Lord, when had she become so skinny? She’d known she was thin, but seeing herself when she was unawares caught her off guard. She was as thin as a twig.
“Let me help you.” The servant fretted, hastening to her side. “You should try not to move overmuch.”
“My thanks,” said Mariel.
She sank back into the pillows the woman placed at her back, when a knock sounded upon the door. The maidservant hurried to it and cracked it open.
“Is she decent?” she heard the earl ask.
His voice rolled over her ears and almost made her forget that she hated him. It was a deep, clear, youthful voice.
“She is, my lord,” said the servant, who pulled back the door.
“My thanks, Alice.”
And in strode Robert Huntington, just as perfectly disheveled as the first time she had seen him. His hair was just as loose and wavy, skimming his shoulders. His tunic and trousers were just as mussed. His leather boots were stately and his vest was hanging open lazily upon his shoulders, as it had that day of the tournament. His sword belt slouched upon his waist, and his eyes were an even warmer hazel in the soft glow of firelight that caused shadows to dance on the tapestries. And of course his codpiece… Her vulgar eyes couldn’t help glancing there as well. She reddened just thinking about it.
“So, Elmer,” he said, and she could see the teasing in his eyes. “We meet again. If you had needed food, you had only to come to my gates to ask.”
She rolled her eyes. “I told your guards I did nay know whose land I traversed. And I went without until I could stand it nay any longer—”
“You’re Scottish?” he interrupted.
She rolled her eyes again. It would seem she had let her guard down. Her Scottish brogue had been unmistakable. “Aye, a barbarian, as you Englishmen consider us.”
He stared at her for a moment then decided to ignore her barb. “Why didn’t you use the shilling I gave you?” he asked.
“I had hoped to save it for when I found a market.”
“My village has a thriving one, and the villagers would have traded you fairly for food.”
She could have simply told him she had not known his village was nearby, but anger lit her temperament and there was little she could do about her tongue in such a state.
“Oh aye, so I could spend it at your markets and you could recoup that shilling, too? You’re just like every other powerful man. Selfish and obsessed with amassing wealth. And now I’m your prisoner to be hit and punished and dragged about like a big spectacle for your entire hall to laugh at. Aye, like all other men. Most assuredly like my faither!”
His servant Alice gasped. “Lord, she’s vulgar!”
Mariel could see a tick in Robert’s jaw pop, sensing she had angered him but caring little.
“Alice, please wait in the corridor,” he ordered, and the maid hastened out, closing the door.
Huntington turned to Mariel, striding forth and cupping her chin in his hand. “Let me tell you something. My father was the arse you speak of. Not I. And praise the Lord he is just now dead. I have never turned away a man, woman, or child who shows up in need. No person who comes to me starves, and no man who cheats goes unpunished. I’ve no idea what your story is, but not all men are vile monsters who laugh at another’s downfall. Had I known my men had stumbled upon you, I would have remedied the mistake immediately. And had I known my man hit you…” His hand on her chin gentled to a tender hold. “The consequences for his actions would have been much swifter.
“Do you know that I searched for you? Wondering what had become of you, so I could give you this?” He withdrew his hand and tossed a coin purse into her lap. Speechless, she gaped at the purse and then back at him. “And then you liken me to other beasts of men, like that beast Crawford of Ayrshire making a name for himself in England as William de Wendenal’s best mate for certain—”
She nearly gasped at how on target his arrow was aimed.
“When all I have been able to think about was how you were wronged.”
“Me? Wronged?” she asked, her voice meek.
“Yes, you. I found out later that my officials threw the contest in my favor. Our arrows were a match. We should have tied.”
Despite the shock of learning that they had truly tied, she couldn’t help but notice his jaw had relaxed, too, as he sat beside her on the edge of the bed.
“But in sooth, I was going to give you the prize money, anyway, and beg you to consider my offer of employment. I need one more archer such as myself for a certain, shall we say, purpose, and I need not another purse of coins.” He gazed away at the fire. “I’m sorry for my men’s actions. Trust that it won’t happen again.”
She took a deep breath, still not having touched the coin purse. “I’m sorry, too, for I formed my opinion of you based on them. You seemed like the other men I know. Stealing from the poor to line your coffers, sleeping with any willing lass, whore or lady, loving the attention of any maid willing to stroke your ego in hopes of an offer, beating those less fortunate…”
Robert’s face creased with a smile as if something she said humored him.
“What?” she questioned.
He gave her a taste of her own medicine and shrugged, rolling his eyes.
“Tell me what you find so amusing,” she demanded.
“So you didn’t like me being serviced by a couple of whores,” he stated, the teasing in his eyes almost triumphant.
She shrugged and rolled her eyes just like he had, folding her arms on an exhale. “It doesn’t matter to me with whom you trifle. And that is one regard in which most men are similar, regardless of their philosophy respecting the less fortunate.”
He laughed now, then looked down his perfect nose at her, kicking out his boots to cross his ankles and folding his arms. “Admit it. You like me.”
“Do not.” She defended herself. “I like men, mind you, so mistake me nay for the female version of your bookkeeper. But I’ll nay squabble over a fine face like all the other women falling at your feet.”
“Do too. You like me. And you want to know how I can prove it?”
She shook her head on a haughty sigh. “Nay, actually―”
“Because I bet if any man tried to do something untoward that you didn’t like, you would have no qualms pushing him away and giving him a piece of your mind,” he said as if she had not said anything.
“I always have,” she replied.
“And if I did this?” His voice softened and he leaned down, his lips coming to rest upon hers in another oh-so-sweet kiss.
She sat still, did nothing but breathe in the smell that was uniquely his.
“That’s what I thought,” he whispered as he pulled back from her, caressing her chin with his thumb. “You didn’t push me away.” He sat up, leaving her speechless. “Any chance you’ll tell me your name?”
“Mariel…Mariel Crawford,” she said, so entranced by his kiss she had let her guard down.
“Crawford…” he replied, concern furrowing his brow. “As in, the Beast, Harold Crawford? The Sheriff of Ayrshire?”
She studied him, deciding whether or not she should tell him, though her hesitation answered his question.
“But weren’t you betrothed—” He seemed to catch himself. “Do you have any idea who I am?”
She furrowed her brow as if he were daft. “Theee…Earl of Huntington?”
“Yes but, did you know my father?”
Her eyebrows still scrunched, she shook her head.
“And you’re not married to the Sheriff of Ayr?” he clarified.
She shook her head, noting the disgust in his voice. “I’m nay married. He’s my faither. I can’t go back to him.”
“And your father never told you?”
“Never told me what? Robert, you make no sense.”
He asked no more questions, but it seemed his curiosity about her was placated as he nodded to himself.
“And you’d rather starve to death than ever submit yourself to him again, wouldn’t you?” He caressed her face, running a finger over the bruise his man had left. “You have a safe haven here, my Lady Crawford, for as long as you need.” He stood and walked to the door. “You could use more rest, but when you feel able, I should like to have you join me as my guest for the meals. Being of such nobility, anything less would be intolerable. Please consider staying and not fleeing again.”
“How can I flee when you have a guard standing watch?”
“My man is here for your protection, not as your prison warden,” he replied. “He’s named Jonathan Naylor. He’s my good friend and formerly the Earl of Lincoln, until Nottingham saw fit to strip his title and land after he argued the sheriff’s increase in taxes and refused to pay them. I believe you agreed to liaise with him at the tournament. He was quite disappointed.”
There was unmistakable distaste in his words as he pulled back the door. Jealousy? What right did he have to be jealous, with so many women ready to part their knees at his command?
“Alice, please see to it the lady has everything she requires whilst remaining as our guest.”
“The lady, sire?” the woman asked, her words laced with aversion as she eyed the young woman who had moments ago insulted her lord.
“Yes, she comes with quite a pedigree,” he replied. “And Elmer?” Mariel glanced up at him and noted the roguish twinkle back in his eyes. “The whores…” He grinned a cheeky grin, his cheeks dimpling in the most adorable way. “None of them were there on my account.”
She rolled her eyes heavenward and he laughed merrily as he walked away.
Chapter Five
Harold Crawford, the Sheriff of Ayrshire stood upon the outer battlements, assessing the landscape surrounding the River Swale from the Duke of Brittany’s fortified Richmond Castle. It had been eight months now since his daughter had disappeared. No searches of his castle in Ayrshire had been fruitful, no sweeps of the neighboring villages had given any clues, and two tours throughout the Isle of Britain clean to the Highlands beyond Inverness hadn’t revealed the lass, either. King William the Rough of Scotland had dismissed him, telling him he should control his family better. King William needed to go, which was precisely why Harold was visiting the duke now, Ranulf de Blondeville, the new husband to Prince Geoffrey Plantagenet’s widowed wife.
With King Richard of England battling in the Crusade for Jerusalem, Harold had been building his ties with de Blondeville, who was the stepfather to Geoffrey’s young son and the king’s nephew. Geoffrey was King Richard’s younger brother, recently deceased. And though Harold’s relation wasn’t recognized, Geoffrey and King Richard were his second cousins, though there had been no love lost between the two. Geoffrey had a history of fighting their father’s, and Richard’s, authority.
Now Ranulf de Blondeville had married Geoffrey’s widow and wielded much influence. De Blondeville was more than willing to give Crawford latitude to command a presence in England, since the king wasn’t in residence to object. With the duke’s influence, Crawford had entered Mariel into a betrothal with a powerful earl in East Anglia, which would have strengthened his English ties further had the man not recently died. Except the little wench had run off and dammit he couldn’t find her! In agreement with de Blondeville, he had been granted further safe passage into England to continue his search. Yet, despite having combed the countryside to the southernmost tip of Penzance, no woman fitting her description could be found.
Mayhap he should venture down through eastern England again. It had been since Mariel’s betrothal that he had visited last, and news from the Sheriff of Nottingham was that the late earl’s son, Robert of Huntington, offered safe haven to the downtrodden. Mayhap he harbored Mariel, because women didn’t simply vanish. He had made the mistake of educating her, which was probably why she made such good use of her wiles now. He had needed a son, not a worthless daughter, but she was his oldest and he would have to rely on her should he not be able to secure an alliance with a man he would rather have in charge when he died. Finding a betrothal for Mariel in the late Earl of Huntington had been a blessing, and the man had been confident in his ability to manage a spirited woman.
Mariel angered him. What had been wrong with his wife’s womb that she could make him no sons? He had tried disciplining the woman in every way. When his indifference had begotten girls, he had forced himself upon her with so much anger he’d hoped it would beget a boy. Yet she had eventually died, leaving him a widower, and he was left with Mariel as his oldest and most competent inheritor, for he had no bastard sons, either.
But until then, dammit, he needed his daughter back, to secure another alliance, since the older earl was now six feet deep. The brat had defied his authority and continued to elude him. For eight months he had been humiliated. And she was a master archer? That fact stunned him, recalling the day she had fled. She had shot one of his guards who had pursued her, catching him in the leg. How in the hell had that happened? He had done well to raise her as a proper lady. There had been no opportunity to learn such a skill. She had visited the priest for her lessons, and every man knew priests were bookish and bland, many balking at the idea of teaching the lesser sex, which was the only time she hadn’t been supervised by her mother, matron, or himself. Such skills she had exhibited would take a normal man years to perfect.
Storm clouds blew over the Yorkshire countryside, cooling his already chilled heart. The surrounding land looked bleak in such weather and the river gray, which normally contented him. But between his weak younger daughter, Madeline, whom he was convinced was daft, and his blatantly defiant older daughter, Mariel, the bleakness only made him restless for the punishment he envisioned when he got his hands around his older daughter’s wee neck.
…
Mariel readied to enter the great hall to attend the evening meal. The three long days of confinement in her chamber, rebuilding her strength and eating her fill, had made her restless. Though Alice had complained that she should wear a proper gown, Mariel felt much more at ease in her trousers and tunic, despite wearing a corset to support her virtues, since her bindings had been cut. And a bodice did little to hide those virtues and a lot to accentuate them.
She faltered, peeking around the stone wall into the lively hall filling with people ready to eat. Normally, her
clothing allowed her to blend in unseen, like an unimportant lad. Not here. Here, she would stick out like a sore thumb and become the subject of gossip and story weaving. Perhaps a gown would have been a better option.
She took a step back to return to her chamber for a change of attire, when she collided with a body coming around the corner.
“Oh! Goodness!” exclaimed a lovely woman with gentle eyes and light brown, rich, and full hair.
“I did nay see you. I’m sorry,” Mariel said.
“Please don’t trouble yourself,” replied the woman. “I just arrived an hour ago and was on my way to see Robert. I suppose I was excited and not paying attention… Wait, you’re Scottish? We don’t see many Scottish women in these parts.” Mariel smiled, trying to tamp down the wary feeling that the woman’s use of the earl’s familiar name evoked, and allowed her to pass. “Are you coming?”
“Nay, I just realized I forgot something,” Mariel lied, no longer planning to change into a gown. She was returning to her chamber to grab her packs and leave.
“Pardon my rudeness, but are you wearing trousers?”
Mariel gave herself a mental kick. She should have worn a gown, but chances were the good earl wouldn’t notice anything once this specimen of femininity entered the hall.
“Indeed,” Mariel replied, reddening.
“’Twas rude of me to ask.” The woman chided herself. “It’s just such a novelty. I don’t know why a woman as pretty as yourself wouldn’t want the world to see her beauty,” the woman complimented. “Are you employed here, then?”
Mariel shook her head, her simple braid swaying. “His guest. I took ill upon my arrival, and am just now joining his board.” It wasn’t really a lie. She didn’t need to tell the other woman she had arrived at Huntington at the hands of his guardsmen who had thrown her in a tower.
“I see. Come with me. We’ll greet Robbie together. I hope I surprise him.” She took Mariel by the arm like a sister and practically dragged her in.
Mariel did her best not to stumble as they entered the bright hall, torches ensconced along the walls in iron chains, regal tapestries that told a rich family history, and the imposing green, black, and silver coat of arms mounted on the wall over the dais. The rushes on the floor were freshly laid, and the serving girls and boys were busy replacing pitchers and platters as the food was devoured. Savory smells overtook the room, and the people were happy, guards, servants, officials, soldiers, and passersby who had stopped for the night along the road. All were eating their fill.
An Earl for an Archeress Page 5
