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.
Except all eyes fell on her. She wanted to extract her arm and give the beautiful woman a shove. There was something confident about her demeanor, something that niggled its way under Mariel’s skin. “Robbie” knew this woman, if the command and ease she demonstrated navigating the room said anything. As they neared the dais, Robert stood.
“My lady!” he called excitedly over the din, looking at her, then his eyes glanced to the woman beside her and did a double take, his smile fading. “Charlotte…it is…unexpected to see you. To what do I owe this occasion?” He recovered as the woman released Mariel and practically ran around the dais and up the steps, throwing herself into his arms.
To his credit, Mariel noted, he did not embrace her back, but rather he peeled her hand from his neck and gave it a polite kiss, setting it down at her side. His eyes snaked to Mariel still standing beneath them as Charlotte stood next to the empty seat at his side and waited with an assuming smile on her lips. He looked at Charlotte, then back at Mariel, then Charlotte again. With a reluctant sigh, he finally pulled the seat out for her.
He looked back at Mariel again, his face blank. The dais was now complete except for a seat on the end…next to Wesley. Mariel rolled her eyes and stifled her groan. Surely there was a better option.
And then Alice scurried by her, giving a satisfied nod.
“’Tis His Lord’s mistress, returned,” arose utterances around her. Now Robert rolled his eyes.
Why the idea of Robert partaking of a mistress unsettled her, Mariel couldn’t say. It’s not as if you actually know him, she scolded herself. Of course, he had a life already in motion when she’d crossed his path. Why would he not? But that would explain why he hadn’t been interested in the whores at the fair. Who would when they had someone as beautiful as the Lady Charlotte awaiting them?
And why had she hoped for the seat of honor beside him? She had been arrested stealing game and was practically a prisoner, not an honorable guest. She shook her head and laughed at her own naïveté. When would she learn that this earl, despite his kindly ways, was simply a selfish arse like all the rest?
“Where should I sit, sire?” she asked, detecting shame upon his face.
Perhaps he really had intended for her to fill the seat beside him. Why, though? Before he could answer, the handsome guardsman from the archery tent at the tournament arrived beside her. Jonathon, she recalled. He had also stood outside her chamber, and Robert had said he had fancied her. For some reason she felt relief at his presence.
“My lady. Would you care to sit at our table? I know it’s not befitting for a lady to sit among soldiers, but considering your options…” He nodded his head toward Wesley, who was looking just as displeased at the prospect of sitting beside her.
She summoned the flirtatious smile she had given him at the tourney and nodded. “I don’t care where I dine, so long as the company is cheerful.”
“Good.” Jonathan grinned, winking. “My table is a rowdy lot, but cheerful folk all the same.”
Knowing Robert was frowning and still watching her, she afforded him no further interest and walked with Jonathan to his table amidst the stares and gossip. She had already resolved herself to leave this night anyway, especially after seeing the well-endowed Charlotte thrust her bosom into Robert’s face.
“So you, my small stitch of a woman, are responsible for that fine show at the archery contest?” Jonathan began as he poured her a goblet.
“Oh no,” Mariel said. “I’ll take an ale. Wine is for those who cannot handle a robust drink.”
The other men around her chuckled, and Jonathan, grinning, knocked back the wine himself then snagged two tankards out of the hands of a passing serving boy. He handed her one.
“Is it true you’re the archer who nearly bested Lord Robert?” asked another man.
“I did not nearly best him. I tied him,” she corrected.
Jonathan swigged from his tankard. “But your skill is remarkable. Especially for a woman. Pray tell how you achieved such mastery.”
She waved a dismissing hand. “My tutor, a priest, taught me by placing figures and words upon a target and told me to shoot what I thought were the right answers to his problems.”
“’Tis incredible,” another man replied.
“Aye, it is, and it taught me to think quickly on my feet as well. But I’ll tell you,” she continued saying, taking another swig and pointing at him as if he were a mate at a tavern. “A woman can learn just about anything a man can learn.” The soldiers began to scoff but she cut them off. “’Tis true. For example, I create a horrible, uneven stitch but can solve figures like the best accountant. Why? Because my tutor never taught me I could not, and I liked it more than needlepoint. But lasses are normally denied such opportunities for being simple-minded, though we’re far from that,” she added, lowering her voice with a conspiratorial lilt and letting her lush lips turn up into a smile.
“Indeed,” Jonathan said. “Women are a most clever breed.”
The men chuckled and continued to ask questions, falling into laughter and conversation as the meal progressed. Soon those around her lost enough interest to stop gawking. And if she admitted it, dining with Jonathan Naylor, fallen Earl of Lincoln, was entertaining. He was kind and the other men bawdy, to be certain, but where the men teased and coaxed the serving girls onto their laps for a kiss or two, she noticed Jonathan turn away the attentions of a serving girl, remaining steadfast beside her, suddenly feeling his hand upon hers under the table.
He leaned down so that he spoke beside her ear. “I was disappointed when you departed the tournament. If you’re still inclined, I’d like to walk with you.”
Now she glanced back at the dais, and the look of annoyance upon the earl’s face gave her a surprising amount of satisfaction. So the earl claimed she wanted him? It was obvious to her that he wanted her. But she wouldn’t be one more lover in his steady stream of women, one more notch on his bedpost next to Charlotte and Anna and the countless other ladies and whores.
And as one of his men came up behind Robert at the board, leaning down to pass him a missive, she noticed the woman named Lady Anna from the archery contest sitting a couple seats away. Anna watched Robert with unabashed want. Next to her was a man with dark hair, sporting a well-trimmed beard, his brown coat embroidered with red threading, a familiar man, though she couldn’t place him. He was engaging Anna in familiar conversation, though it was clear to Mariel that he had no interest in the lass.
No, Anna was fixated on Robert. And Robert was tethered to Charlotte. Between the two of them, Mariel had no interest in competing for a man, no matter how kind and handsome he was.
…
Robert stewed in frustration. As he watched Mariel actually enjoying herself with his men, he felt excluded. He wanted to know what was making her laugh, for this was the first time he had seen such an expression on her face. He wished he’d been the man to put it there. Her smile lit her mossy eyes, splitting her full pink lips. He wanted to touch that smile, taste it, but John was the lucky bastard receiving the honor of her happiness.
And he wanted to bash Jonathan’s head into the table as he saw Mariel nod and smile at his whispered proposition, the man’s hand now traveling to her lower back as if protecting her from the rest of the room. The more he dwelled on the unconventional woman, the more he wanted to be the one to whisper those propositions and learn her secrets. He shouldn’t interfere, for it was not as though he had staked a claim on the woman, and with Charlotte at his side, he was pretty sure he would look like an arse, telling his man to stand down.
“…it was as I suspected. Not a single woman knew who had taken the castle weavings… Robert? Robbie, dear. Are you even paying attention?”
And where had these feelings come from? He was generally not a violent man. And he loved Jonathan like a brother. John was a peer, albeit one who had not survived William de Wendenal’s culling. John was the proverbial lover, not fighter, wishing for peace among his countrymen, as well as those who should wander through his castle gates, though he fought fiercely alongside Robert when called upon to do so. So why such feelings now?
Jealousy.
That’s what he was feeling. He quickly denied it. Jealousy was a trait for those who had less control over their emotions. He should let this pass. If Mariel wanted Jonathan’s attentions, who was he to stop her?
Robert felt a tug upon his forearm as he rested his temple on his finger, his elbow propped upon the chair arm. “What?” he asked mindlessly.
Charlotte frowned. “You’ve hardly been aware of me all evening. It’s been months since we saw each other last.”
“Five to be exact,” he amended.
He watched Charlotte gaze at Mariel laughing with Jonathan. After a moment of consideration, Charlotte dropped her gaze.
“She’s beautiful. You haven’t taken your eyes off her all evening.” Charlotte smiled. “I’m beginning to feel like a third, uninvited wheel. Since you’ve never made a declaration, formal or otherwise, of another mistress, I had hoped you might reconsider…”
Robert gazed back at Mariel, watching John’s hand slide up and down Mariel’s back, and did his best to tamp down his possessive scowl.
“Are you displeased to see me?” she asked.
Robert glanced at her, sensing her meekness. “Of course not.” He smiled. “But we did end things betwixt us. You had a betrothal offer and I was sitting vigil over my father’s sick bed. I didn’t expect you tonight.”
Charlotte smiled, again, though it was wistful. “Did you expect that woman tonight?”
He nodded. “She’s been ill. Tonight she was going to join me from her sickbed.”
“Were you hoping to have that woman here at your side?” Charlotte asked.
“Honestly?” Robert asked, glancing back at the beautiful, exotic Mariel Crawford, again pondering how such a creature could be spawned from such a letch as the Beast of Ayr.
“Always honestly,” Charlotte replied, laying a gentle hand upon his. “I won’t have you tell me sweet lies to keep from hurting me.”
He sighed. “Yes. I had invited her to dine with me.”
“And I ruined it.” She slumped. “I should have announced myself on arrival, but the meal was already underway and I decided there was no harm in freshening first. I realize now you’re moving on, Robbie, but I suppose I didn’t expect it to hurt so much. You see, my betrothal has ended. Charles was killed, falling from his tower wall. An accident when Sheriff Crawford was visiting from Scotland, looking for his daughter, some disobedient waif. Therefore, I had hoped you might still be interested in me.”
Robert knew immediately that Mariel was that disobedient waif, and he would gladly let her seek a few days’ refuge in his walls, knowing full well he was breaking a law. The rumors of how the Sheriff of Ayr treated women had spread far and wide as his visits to England increased and his association with the Sheriff of Nottingham grew. And he had heard of Charlotte’s betrothed, Charles of Greystone, passing, too, but had not known Crawford had been in residence there. That certainly made the death suspicious, for it seemed odd that a trained warrior and leader such as Charles would fall from his wall by accident. Tripping, is what they’d said.
He watched as Jonathan rose from the table, extending a hand to Mariel, who, to his dismay, took it. He led her from the hall and, judging by the archway through which they exited, John intended to take her up to the rooftops for fresh air and privacy. Dammit! He knew what happened on the rooftop, for he had swived the lady at his side up there long ago and had walked in on others taking advantage of the relative solitude.
Starting to jump to his feet, Robert caught himself. It was not his place to interrupt. Mariel could do as she pleased and again, he reminded himself, as far as she was concerned, he was a seducing scoundrel with the ladies. He had jested about the whores, but it had looked incriminating. And then the women who had showered him with attention at the tournament, Lady Anna thrusting herself upon him, and now Charlotte here, in addition to the two times he had taken a kiss from Mariel without asking… It all certainly painted him in the worst possible light. Thank goodness Anna was now occupied with Will and couldn’t fawn over him like she usually did.
John and Mariel were gone now, and he made the mistake of remembering the taste of Mariel’s lips. It didn’t matter that the two kisses he had given her had excited him more than he thought possible. It didn’t matter that even though he had surprised her both times, that her lips held promises of softness and pliancy, gentleness and sweetness he wanted to explore. Her kiss, when she finally decided to return it, would be magnificent, a light into her soul kept well-hidden in her layers of trousers, tunics, and guarded expressions. He supposed it was the mystery of this female archer who comported herself with both confidence and pretense that intrigued him the most.
He didn’t want Jonathan to swive her, God above, he didn’t. The very idea was making his stomach roil. He’d never felt such possessiveness before.
What unsettled him the most was knowing that he wanted Mariel, who distrusted him so, to believe he wasn’t out chasing skirts all the daylong. When he really thought about why he teased her with kisses, he realized how arrogant he must have seemed. He always got the attention he aimed for. Women did, in fact, fall at his feet. And he had assumed Mariel would, too. Flirting had always been a game to him, a means to an end. A tryst. And that was where the relation ended. He had never been serious.
But he was serious now. He wasn’t always a horrible tease. He wanted Mariel to see him for who he really was and he, Lord Huntington, seldom showed that to anyone.
“Anyone is welcome to my hospitality, including you. But, Charlotte, my interests have shifted. You knew this clearly. That woman”—he gestured to the empty archway—“already doesn’t trust me. I wish not to make it worse, but I fear that I have, for she’s gone off with another.”
He stood, knowing Charlotte was hurt and unable to help her. He had let Charlotte down gently months ago, so she could accept the betrothal to Charles, for he had never had serious intentions toward her. But the women chasing him for their own gain did nothing but irritate him, reminding him he was like a fattened calf at market, seen for his value, not his kindness. Charlotte was becoming one of those women, presumptuous as her stunt had been this night, no matter how innocently she had stumbled between him and Mariel. Some men might think having their pick of the ladies a manageable problem. But the arrogant approach he had used gave quite the stinging backlash.
Having eaten little, Robert excused himself to his solar and attempted to busy himself with ledgers and requests from his various castle offices. He couldn’t focus. Plucking a leather-bound fable from a coveted row of books acquired by his grandfather, he tried to rouse an interest in reading it. Yet after reading an entire page, he couldn’t recall a single word, and slapped the lid shut, shoving to his feet, and paced to a window with a clear view of the rooftop parapet. He saw no one.
“Dammit,” he cursed, turning away from the window and closing his eyes to rid his mind of the images forming there.
Jonathan’s tongue might very well be down Mariel’s throat. His hand might already be sliding underneath her tunic to fondle her beautiful breasts. She should be mine, echoed a primal voice deep in his mind as he reached in his tunic to feel the road-worn ribbon he had found at the tourney. Not John’s. What if Jonathan already had her braced to a wall or on her back beneath him? What if he was already sheathing his sword, the one Robert had heard his serving wenches liken to a prized breeding stallion’s? The thought snapped his resolve. His jealousy won. He couldn’t sit here pretending to read, knowing the mistake Mariel was making. With his imagination running wild, he tossed down the book and strode from the room.