An Earl for an Archeress

by E. Elizabeth Watson

  “Smaller man” really was a relative matter. His endowment boasted a thickness of girth and a healthy height, if she were to judge through their clothing. He was likely an exceptional lover.

  “Woman,” Jonathan groaned, thrusting his tongue in for a second helping. “I’ve wanted you since that day at the tourney, and you don’t disappoint.”

  Though willing enough, Mariel felt awkward. She didn’t feel much of a spark, even though Jonathan was doing nothing wrong. His seduction was well-developed with nary a complaint to be made. Except, said that foolish voice in her mind, he’s not Robert, and Robert is the one you really want. It was silly. She was with a willing man now, and it had been a few months since last she had succumbed to the desire. Except, that blasted voice said again, you do this to get back at Robert, not because you desire Jonathan. It was unfair to Jonathan, using him in such a way.

  “Neither do you,” she replied, trying harder to make herself like it.

  He growled his appreciation for her compliment and continued his efforts.

  “Sir Naylor,” came a steely voice.

  …

  Jonathan pulled apart from Mariel, but the image of him enveloping her in his arms with his tongue down her throat was forever branded in Robert’s mind, causing a shadow darker than the nighttime sky to fill his eyes.

  “Yes, Robert?” John replied as he wiped his lips.

  “Your services are needed on the front curtain.”

  “Is there something wrong?”

  “Yes. The men off duty argue over a chess match,” Robert said, his eyes slicing to Mariel, who regarded him with a scowl on her face.

  John furrowed his brow. “What’s the issue? Have they come to blows? Men argue over games all the time—”

  “Leave.”

  He folded his arms as John glanced back at Mariel, her face brewing with anger as if it were a cauldron about to boil over, her fists balled at her sides. Robert felt a wave of satisfaction. Good. Let her be as frustrated as I am.

  “I’m sorry, my lady,” John apologized.

  “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 fro
m the Beast of Ayrshire’s dictates and disciplines. She could remain defiant, even if she did so in secrecy.

  She cleared her throat, hoping that the burning sensation in her eyes didn’t show, and turned to leave once again. “Life has afforded me little other choice.”

  Charlotte gentled. “Robert wouldn’t want to see you go.”

  Mariel whirled around. “Pardon?”

  The other woman shrank back. “He meant to seat you beside himself tonight. I…I didn’t know.”

  “That changes nothing.”

  Charlotte shrugged. “Don’t avoid him on my account. He couldn’t take his eyes off you all evening. He would want you to stay.”

  “See here. I know the two of you are involved, and that’s fine by me. I met him amidst a gaggle of whores and therefore his promiscuous ways are no surprise to me. ’Tis clear it’s your seat next to his on the dais. Not mine. He’s not the sort of man in which I hold any interest. Enjoy him.”

  She turned to leave again, when Charlotte’s next words stopped her. “You know nothing about Robert or his kindness.” She shook her head with dismay. “He isn’t how you describe.”

  “My eyes do not lie,” Mariel said. “Truly. I’m not angered at you, or even him. I’m angered at his presumptions and attempts to control me. I bid you a good night, Lady.”

  “And I you, Lady,” Charlotte replied. “Please reconsider. He’s a good man…”

  Mariel was already going down the stairs into the great hall as Charlotte’s words became inaudible behind her. Ignoring the stares and gossip, she strode through the doors opened by the guards and descended into the bailey. Stopping, she looked around. Where was the stable? She had not been outside of the keep since her arrest and knew not the layout. Looking past the shops and stone houses built against the inner wall, she spotted the obvious stable and strode across the dirt, shoving through the door.

  The groom, a lad, sprang to attention. “Can I help?”

  “Aye. My horse was seized, and I wish to leave. In which row of stalls might I find him?”

  The lad pointed, and she said nothing more as she marched in the direction he indicated until she found her horse not only stabled properly, but also in good health.

  “Thank goodness the arse has an appreciation for fine horseflesh,” she said, though it would be just like a man to care about a horse above all else.

  She saddled her mount efficiently, finding the horse’s tack nearby, and after mounting up, rode out into the night. Coming upon the inner portcullis, Robert was jogging toward her.

  “Lady!” he called.

  She ignored him.

  “Lady! Wait!”

  “Should we detain her, my lord?” called the guards now blocking her path.

  Robert slowed to a walk and approached her, taking her horse by the bridle.

  “Please, Lady. Come inside to talk.”

  “There’s nothing to say,” she snapped.

  “There’s much to say,” he said. “I apologize for my rude interruption on your privacy. I bid you come inside and give me another chance to offer hospitality.”

  “I would prefer to leave,” she said, turning the horse’s bridle, though he didn’t let go and his guards moved into position to defend the open portcullis.

  She gave them a slow perusal and then looked back down at Robert with a knowing expression that spoke of anger directed entirely at him.

  “So I truly am your prisoner. Not your guest.”

  “You’re free to leave at your leisure,” he replied, tossing her something.

  Not expecting it, she barely caught it. It jingled. The bloody coin purse.

  “However, I won’t have it on my conscience that you’re riding unsafely through the forest. Therefore, I’ll accompany you to my borders, at which point you may be rid of me.”

  He summoned another guard. “Tell the groom to saddle Goliath in full tack, and see to it a page fetches my jerkin, my full quiver, bow, sword, and two extra daggers from my solar. I’ll also need a pack well-stocked with food. I’ll be escorting ‘Elmer’ to the edge of Huntington lands.”

  “This is absurd.” Mariel huffed, rolling her eyes as Robert’s soldier dashed away to relay the messages, and tossed the coin purse back. “And I’ll not take your charity.”

  He tossed it back. “You’ll need someone’s charity, woman, for believe me, with your forked tongue, no one else will be offering.”

  She scowled at him, irritated even more when he laughed his pleasant laugh. She sat restlessly in the saddle, her horse stomping and shifting, until his mount was finally brought forth. If she hadn’t been so anxious to leave, she would have admired his beast more. The horse, a rich chestnut-brown with a feathery mane and tail, stood to regal height, at least seventeen hands, shining in the nighttime torchlight. The stallion was perfectly sculpted for both speed and brawn.

  His other effects arrived, and Robert allowed a page to help him don his jerkin, buttoning closed his vest and sliding the leather over his head. He held his arms out, and the boy worked the lacing closed down each side until it hugged Robert’s frame. Mariel realized, moments later, that she was staring. Watching him dress was intimate, not to mention the jerkin now accentuated his broadness of shoulder and narrowness of waist. His eyes glanced to hers, noticing her staring, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward. She looked away.

  With his arrow, quiver, and pack of food secured to his mount and his cloak of dark green donned, he hoisted himself aloft. Magically, Mariel noted, the guards blocking her path stepped wide to allow them passage, as if Robert was Moses parting the sea. With Robert leading the way, Mariel rolled her eyes again and turned her horse to follow, trotting to catch up.

  They rode in relative silence for close to an hour before entering a clearing. Moonlight bathed them both, making their expressions visible. Mariel noticed Robert’s lips quirking into a smile, then a grin. Then he shook his head, trying to suppress a laugh.

  “What is of such humor?” Mariel demanded.

  “Nothing,” he replied, then could not contain the laugh any longer.

  “Oh, nothing, to be certain,” she remarked.

  …

  Her sarcasm only made him laugh again. “It’s just, you called John ‘little.’”

  She cracked a smile. “I did what?”

  “On the roof. Back there. You said, ‘John, little as he is.’ ’Tis humorous, for the man is at least as big as my northern bastion.” He grunted, chuckling. “‘Little John.’ Wait until he hears such a nickname.”

  Her smile broadened, and then she laughed, too. Robert glanced at her, the moon illuminating her skin, her lips full, her eyes shining like silver in the darkness, and soaked it in. She was directing her smile at him. Finally. It was a superb reward.

  It didn’t last, however. As silence fell between them, her brooding mood persisted. So he steered his horse up a steep incline, climbing a deer path until they reached an overlook camouflaged by trees. Robert stopped his horse and dismounted, stretched, and began to unstrap his packs from Goliath, who grunted his approval.

  “What are we doing?” she demanded.

  “Stopping,” he said, stating the obvious, his torso jerking with each tug on the straps. “I’ll build us a fire for the night.”

  “For the night?”

  Yes, she is irritated. It only made him smile. He would break the woman to his good nature if it was the last thing he did.

  “How long is your personal escort going to last?”

  “A full day, at least, in every direction,” Robert replied, ignoring her incredulous stare. “I would prefer to feed my stomach and rest my head, then start anew with daylight. I’ve eaten little and am tired.”

  Mariel uttered a curse beneath her breath, and he did his best not to laugh at the yawn in her throat threatening to spread her mouth wide. �
�Just remember that I never asked you to accompany me. I’ll keep pushing onward.”

  She began to turn her reins, when Robert leaped forth and grabbed the bridle. “Lady Mariel.”

  Now she laughed, but it was not a merry sound. “Admit that I’m your prisoner. The farce is easily seen, for every attempt I make to leave, you hold me back.”

  Robert sighed and shook his head. “You’re not my prisoner.” He threw his hands up and stepped back. “Fine. You wish to leave, so go. I’m making camp here. The forest only gets thicker, and you know not the direction we travel, but by all means, go. One of my men out patrolling will certainly find you at some point, and whilst I have made it clear my rules on molesting women, they are still more my father’s men than mine in that regard, so tread carefully. And be mindful of the descent from this camp. ’Tis rocky, and in the dark ’tis impossible to see the horse’s footing. I’ve attempted to demonstrate that I’m a gentle man.” He kicked out a heel and swung his arm across his middle in a practiced bow. “But clearly you wear too many thorns to notice any kindness. So please. Go.”

  He began collecting kindling, preparing a pile in the fire ring barely visible beneath the trees’ canopy. Then he walked to a secret stash of firewood that was shielded from view beneath a camouflage of leaves and twigs. She was watching him, he noted, trying to make sense of what he was doing in the murky darkness, and he returned to the fire ring with an armload of split logs.

  She shifted in the saddle. He glanced sidelong at her, her indecision evident on her face. That he had used her unfamiliarity with the forest paths against her, he knew was probably wrong, and she was clearly weighing the possibility of risking injury to her horse descending from the campsite, which was indeed on high ground.

  “Fine.” She sighed, casting him a frown. “We’ll play it your way. So it will take a full day to reach the edge of your property?”

  Robert smiled but didn’t show his face. “Usually. In which direction do you travel?”