Chapter Nine
Robert saw Mariel’s horse stabled in a shepherd’s byre. Returning to the cottage, he tapped on the door and awaited an answer. The shepherd’s wife ushered him over the threshold. Mariel sat tucked in a corner on a stool, her bow and quiver propped beside her, her cloak unfastened. On her lap she held a wooden bowl of pottage, though she looked too ill to eat it. He came to her side, then turned to the couple and handed them a couple coins.
“For your trouble. I thank thee for taking her in. Would you mind if we have a moment of privacy to talk before I depart to the castle?”
“Take all the time you need, m’lord,” replied the shepherd, nodding graciously at the money and guiding his wife outside.
Their cottage, on the outskirts of the village, was idyllic with a thatched roof, plastered walls, secure shutters, and a large vegetable croft now mostly harvested. The byre was large enough for several head of sheep, and their reaped field was rolling and lined with stone walls to ensure the sheep stayed out.
“I haven’t a good feeling about this,” Mariel said the moment the door closed.
Robert dropped to one knee and cupped her cheeks. “Remain here, Mariel. All will be well, if you don’t try to flee. You took a great risk before, and you’re lucky your father didn’t spy you. When he and his men depart, I’ll come back for you. I promise.”
“I’m not used to sitting like a deer waiting to take a hunter’s arrow, Robert. I don’t like depending on you for safety.”
“Hush, love. All will be well if you just let me help you—”
“I don’t take charity.”
“’Tis charitable, but not charity. I want to do it.”
“Why?” she replied. “One has to trust the other first. I’ve never been able to trust anyone.”
“Then put your trust in me,” Robert stated.
She laughed wryly, mixing the pottage pointlessly.
“What?” he asked.
She shook her head, fixing her eyes on the menial task.
“You don’t trust me?” He sat back on his heels. She bit her lip but could say nothing.
He softened his voice and lifted her chin, dipping his head to look up into hers. “You would trust me with your body? With your affection? You would have trusted me to make love to you right there on the forest floor this morn? But you won’t entrust your safety to me?”
He wanted to wipe away the look of shame that sprang to her face, but instead he waited for her reply. She looked back down at her bowl.
“Loving doesn’t mean a commitment of any sort, but trust does. Does it surprise you that I might be wary when it comes to my safety?”
“Of me? Of my intentions?” He tried not to sound affronted. “I only want the best for you.”
“And what right do you have to claim such a responsibility over me?” she asked, her eyes shooting to his.
He smarted inwardly but erased the hurt her remark inflicted off his brow. She dropped her eyes. He ran a hand through his hair, looking away. Mariel set aside the bowl and took both his hands in hers. Rubbed her thumbs over his knuckles. Odd, though they had practically had intercourse in the woods, the simple feeling of holding hands sent tingles across his skin. He looked at their fingers, then at her.
“My words were barbed and it was unfair.” She apologized.
He shook his head. “No, you make a legitimate point. I don’t have a right to assert responsibility for you.”
“I’m terrified of being so close to Laird Crawford, but I came back here because you asked it. You’re the only man I’ve given a chance to, but that doesn’t change the fact that I feel uneasy. I wish to be as far from him as possible.”
“I know you don’t know me well yet, but what happened back there…by the stream…” He exhaled, withdrawing his hands, his voice tempered to mask his emotions. “I had hoped it meant something.”
Mariel looked down and folded her hands in her lap. “It did,” she whispered. “I came here with you, did I not? But what will happen if my faither finds me? My point is that you have no right to make decisions on my behalf, and doing so could cause you harm. I’m fearful for myself and for you. With Laird Crawford attempting to assert himself as English royal kin and with your Sheriff of Nottingham and the Duke of Brittany tipping the balance in his favor, I worry that you could be punished and your people could suffer because of me. ’Tis not a curse I wish on anyone.”
“You’re not a curse, Mari.”
“It feels that way.” She shrugged once again and looked away. “Better for only me to bear his punishment than for me, you, and your whole estate to feel his wrath―”
“It won’t come to that.” He chuckled. “You dramatize this overmuch.”
She furrowed her brow in offense. “I guarantee you that if something suits my faither, he finds a way to get his way.”
“Mariel, you’re right. I have no legal claim on you, but I ask you to have faith that I’ll keep you safe. He would expect you to flee, not sit right under his nose. I know not what he wants, but he will leave when his current pursuit is satisfied.”
“What if he pursues you to fulfill your faither’s place in a marriage contract to me?”
Robert swallowed. He had been thinking plenty about marriage, as of late, but that didn’t mean he wanted to talk about it. Like a coward, he deflected the question instead.
“’Tis doubtful he seeks a betrothal when he knows not where his daughter even is.”
Why did marriage make him nervous? He had no idea. But it scared him to know how strongly he felt about Mariel in such a short time. What if he did marry her and was then unfaithful? What if he should take her to wife and to the marriage bed, only to find months later another pretty face that piqued his interest more? One could always back out of a lovers’ arrangement, but after bedding a bride, he would never be able to back out of vows made before a priest.
With her trust already so fragile, infidelity would break her heart. No, he could never be unfaithful. He already knew he wanted to look at her beautiful face each morn while she gazed up at him from his chest, just like she had earlier in the day. He wanted her to remain with him and help him withstand men like Nottingham who abused their position, men like her father. She was the most skilled archer he had ever known. And somehow, this callused little survivor had pierced his heart.
He did his best now to ignore the look of what seemed to be disappointment on her brow and lifted himself up on his knees, taking her hands, pulling her close to him and finding once again he was attempting to wedge himself between her thighs. Leaning in, he placed a gentle kiss on her lips. Despite her stated misgivings, she welcomed him.
His unshaven face raked prickles across her skin. Already, he felt so comfortable with his skin upon hers.
Don’t leave, he yearned, wishing he could convey his words through the earnestness of his affection, knowing that he couldn’t. Because the moment he walked out the door, he knew there would be nothing to anchor her impulses.
…
Harold Crawford, the Sheriff of Ayr, leaned back in his chair in the great hall, drinking a tankard of Huntington hospitality while his head guardsmen stood slouched aside the hearth. A fire roared in the massive fireplace, heat radiating outward and making sweat roll down his temples into his beard. A perusal of the room as he took another swig of ale told him that Huntington Castle was still every bit as rich as he remembered it to be.
Shame Robert’s father had taken ill. He could have unloaded his uppity daughter onto the man and been done with her whilst strengthening his English ties. But now, he only wished to find the wench. He had not been to Huntington since his daughter’s betrothal had been contracted. And because he understood Robert Huntington to be some sort of a benevolent lord, mayhap, just mayhap, Mariel lurked here. A woman as fetching as his daughter didn’t simply disappear into oblivion. He would overturn every stone in Europe before he accepted defeat. He’d already turned over every other stone in all of England and Scotland.
“When can I expect the earl?” he barked at Bridget, the serving girl, who brought him a tray containing another full tankard.
“We know not what his business is, my lord,” she replied, bobbing a curtsy.
“Did he not leave instructions with his staff this morn? ’Tis nearly suppertime,” Harold persisted.
“He departed yester eve, my lord,” she replied, her arms lurching as he slammed his empty tankard back onto her tray, taking the fresh one. “But if he told you he’ll see you by suppertime, then he will be good on his word.”
Harold grabbed her wrist and jerked her forward, and the tray and empty tankard toppled to the floor. She cried out. “I’ll have no lip from a servant or a woman.” He growled.
“You’re the earl’s guest,” stated a tall, broad man, so broad he might be likened to an ox. Jonathan, the Earl of Huntington’s right-hand man, he remembered, having met him at the gates upon his arrival. The man seemed to have emerged from the stone masonry, surprising him. “And I’ll thank thee to refrain from handling the wench and let her return to the kitchens.”
Harold squinted up at him, contemplating his words and his size. “The lass was saucy.”
“She was honest,” Jonathan replied. “If His Lordship says he will meet you here, he’ll do so and you needn’t fret over his whereabouts. Drink up, sir. Supper will be soon.”
The maid pulled her wrist free as Crawford slackened his grip, then bobbed a brief curtsy to John before scurrying back to the kitchens. Serving children were trooping into the great hall with baskets of linens and pewter ware. The trestle tables were dragged from the walls into rows down the center of the three-story hall with a vaulted ceiling. Savory smells were wafting in from the kitchens when the main doors were thrown wide by guardsmen. Robert Huntington strode in, his cloak billowing behind him, his quiver slouching upon one hip, and his carefree hair flopping with each footfall.
Their eyes met. Their gazes locked.
…
Robert unclasped the leather buckle at his neck and handed the garment to his steward, his scrutiny of the Scottish sheriff never wavering, and noticed the man had not even the decency to rise to greet a peer when a guest in his home.
“Robert.” Jonathan intercepted him, striding from his post where he had elected to stand watch over Crawford.
“What, man?” Robert replied.
“You should know the man handled Bridget roughly,” Jonathan whispered, for words had a way of traveling through the echo of the room, despite the commotion.
Robert’s pulse jumped, peering at Crawford over John’s shoulder. “What are you saying? Did he attempt to force himself upon―”
“No, nothing like that. Grabbed her and accused her of smarting off to him,” his guardsman replied, shaking his head. “But I wouldn’t put anything past him.”
“Bridget’s a sweet maid. She’d never be rude to a lord,” Robert said.
“And she wasn’t. She tried to reassure him you would return. He just doesn’t like a woman who speaks freely, ’tis all.”
“I’m aware.” Robert nodded, slapping his arm. “My thanks for the briefing.”
He continued forward, his eyes leveled on Mariel’s father, sitting with his legs splayed in the chair, a boot propped upon a stool as an ottoman. Arriving in front of him, Robert placed his hands behind his back and stood still, leveling a gaze at him, not uttering a single word until finally, Crawford huffed, dropped his boot to the floor with a thud, and heaved himself up. Robert smiled and offered his greeting, though his smile was insincere. Stiffly, they clasped wrists.
“Good eve, Lord Crawford,” he said. “What brings you all the way south to Huntington?”
Harold Crawford gave a brief shake and dropped his wrist, though Robert felt the man’s grip upon the dagger up his sleeve. He smiled. He had felt Crawford’s dagger, too.
“I was visiting my cousin’s former wife and her new husband—”
By this, Robert deduced that he spoke of Geoffrey, the Duke of Brittany and Earl of Richmond who was recently deceased. No doubt, he thought the casual reference to the new Duke, Ranulf de Blondeville, would make him sound more important. Robert resisting a smirk.
“—and I decided to inspect Huntington.”
Robert sighed, folding his arms. He had only met Crawford once before, but already he knew he didn’t like him. Presumptuous and power hungry, just like his friend, our dear Sheriff of Nottingham. “Inspect my home? And under what authority, pray tell?”
“My own.” Crawford grunted, looking about. “Ranulf suggested I come here again, seeing as it’s been several months.”
“Then I must kindly advise you that this is not Lord Ranulf’s estate, and unless my king authorizes it, no one searches my home without my permission first. Mayhap you aught commence your visit with a kind salutation and share with me what troubles you. Does Huntington offend you all the way in Scotland?”
He bit back further sarcasm as he flagged down Bridget and took another tankard from her, offering it to Mariel’s father. Harold, however, had taken note of his sharp words and clenched his jaw.
“Of course. Nay, Huntington has always been powerful and prosperous. I search for a woman.”
“A woman?” Robert feigned confusion. “What woman, sire?”
He watched as Crawford chewed on the distaste in his mouth over the inevitable next words. “My daughter. She ran away December last.”
“Your daughter? Which one? Do you not have two of them?”
“Two legitimate, five bastards,” he replied, adjusting his belts. “Mayhap more, but I have nay the time to verify. Mariel is my oldest. She’s the one I educated when I realized my wife would nay give me a lad. I’ve always assumed I might have to use her to secure my bloodline.”
Robert watched Jonathan’s reaction to Crawford’s words. If it wasn’t obvious the Scottish archeress with matching green eyes was Crawford’s seed, and if Robert’s mock surprise didn’t indicate he knew who the woman was, then the man was daft. But Jonathan’s pulse in his corded neck was jumping. Robert suspected that his guardsmen understood all too well and already hated Crawford.
“Mariel was the one you betrothed to my father, was she not?”
“So you were paying attention,” Harold said, smirking.
Yes. Robert had been a playful young man before his father’s death, content with his outings, his benevolence, his female company when it suited him, avoiding the tittering skirts as if they were the black plague when it suited him not. But it was no excuse for Crawford’s overt rudeness now.
Robert folded his arms, inhaled, then exhaled. The man pissed him off just being near him. “My home thrives, despite so many others floundering whilst our king is away in the Holy Land. I dare say, I paid attention well to all my lessons of life and use my skills now to better my people. Despite my young age.”
“Aye, and how many years have you now? Twenty?”
“Sire, I don’t wish us to get off on the wrong foot. That said, I would clarify a few things so we might get on to more fruitful discussions,” Robert said, his arms still folded, taking a step toward the formidable sheriff. Jonathan must have sensed his lord’s tension and stood up taller, and Robert sent a quick glance around the room to his other guardsmen.
Crawford seemed to feel an awakening of arms around the hall and lifted his bearded chin. “What might those be?”
“It’s clear to me that you hold disdain for either me or Huntington itself, though I request you remain civil, for I care neither that you’re my senior nor that the Plantagenets are your alleged second cousins. And using Ranulf de Blondeville as leverage to sound important is like me using my pet hound as leverage over you. Hardly intimidating.”
Crawford’s face reddened with anger at Robert’s affront.
“I, too, have royal relatives, confirmed ones,” Robert continued, “though I find it poor taste to use mention of them to strengthen my position. I offer my hospitality to you and hope that you’re a gracious guest, despite my meager six and twenty years. Secondly, though I respect all peers, I don’t swear allegiance to you. You hold no jurisdiction over me. Therefore, nobody searches my estate, though it has nothing to do with your ill-behaved daughter and everything to do with principle.”
He took a calming breath and attempted to summon a smile. He failed at the smile but at least reestablished a pleasant demeanor.
“Why, pray tell, do you suspect your daughter of being here? East Anglia is quite a distance from Ayrshire in Scotland and not an easy voyage to make, even when well-made plans are laid. Have you no control of her?”
Harold Crawford’s face was as taut as a bowstring, and Robert’s chastisement seemed to do nothing except make it tighter.
“Word from the Sheriff of Nottingham is that you allow woeful wretches hearth and home, if they come begging.”
“But why here? Would it not be difficult for a woman to come so far on her own accord?”
“She’s a crafty one who has eluded me. I have nay a doubt she’ll find a way to do as she pleases.”
“Have you not considered that she’s dead? Or kidnapped? A lone woman, young and virginal as your daughter no doubt is”―he chose not to look at Jonathan, knowing that Mariel had not acted virginal with either of them―“wouldn’t stand any chance against a thief or criminal.”
“I’ve considered this, but my daughter, as it turns out, is a skilled archer. I have nay a doubt she can survive.”
“A female archer?” Robert’s eyes widened, sending John and his other men who knew her to be his competition at the tourney a glance to keep their ale portals shut. “You still haven’t told me your reasons for bringing your search to East Anglia.”
“It’s been some time since I’ve visited, since I met with your faither. If it’s true that you allow stragglers to seek refuge, then mayhap she’s here.”
Robert stared at him, which Crawford mistook as surprise.
“Indeed,” Crawford said. “The lass is mad, is she not?”
“Or she has bollocks,” Robert said. “She might have valuable skills to offer you.”
Crawford scoffed, a sound Robert deduced was the closest he ever came to laughing. “She’s a wench. ’Tis preposterous.”
“I don’t recall any unescorted women coming to me for refuge,” Robert said, feigning ignorance. “What does she look like? My father mentioned once that she was fetching. I don’t recall meeting her on your journey southward for her betrothal.”
“Blonde hair, green eyes, even nose.”
Crawford might have just described a rock with his lack of enthusiasm. He made no hint that her hair was not blonde but a color that could only be described as a nuanced blend of barley and honey at sunset. And her eyes weren’t green. They were shaped like almonds, mossy, deep, and shone with intelligence and quick wit. They were lined with thick lashes that required no darkening. Now that he had come to know her, he was amazed that anyone could mistake her fair features and delicate proportions for those of a lad.
“Blonde hair and green eyes describes a goodly portion of Englishwomen, sire. But I’m afraid I cannot help you. The only new people who have moved here are families, the latest, a man and woman with several children, and the woman is English and of low birth.”
Robert gestured back to the seat and Crawford obliged, slapping his boots back onto the stool one at a time so that clumps of mud fell off onto the rushes. He gestured to Crawford’s guard to take a seat as well, a dark-haired man he had at first hardly noticed, though the guard shook his head no and gave a respectful bow of the head.
“Please enjoy more refreshments whilst I freshen myself. I’ve been out all day and have need of washing the road off me before I sup.”
“Word has it you were gone since yester eve,” the Scotsman remarked, taking a knife from his waist to clean beneath his nails, dusting the grime onto the rushes.
Robert frowned. The way Crawford made his statement implied deeper knowledge.
“Indeed,” he replied, “though that isn’t a detail that matters, considering its personal nature.”
“It doesn’t,” Crawford agreed. “’Tis an interesting time of day to depart is all, a secretive time.”
Robert put on his best mask for his irritation and attempted to achieve calm, for Crawford only made him want to put his fist clean through the front of the man’s head and out the back. And the sheriff’s persistence made him uneasy. Perhaps because you’re a guilty man. But despite the law stating he should turn over a man’s property to him, he’d known within five seconds of Crawford’s company that he had made the right decision about Mariel. She would fare poorly at his hand.
“When it becomes law that I clear my outings with a Scottish lord, then and only then will I tolerate your disrespect,” he ground out, leveling his eyes at Crawford’s. “As I’m not in the habit of including my staff in my personal decisions, I will tell you. I’ve a young widow who services me well and I enjoy her company on occasion, hence my departure yester eve. Certainly a man such as yourself with, what was it, five bastards and two legitimate”—he tapped his chin—“can understand a man’s urges. I was en route to inspect landholdings when your untimely arrival happened this morning, causing me to have to return tonight, and it puts me behind schedule now.
“I cannot think of any reason why I would warrant your scrutiny. However, you have done much already to warrant mine. And so we’re clear, if you don’t amend your methods to those more becoming of a guest in another lord’s home, I will see fit to withdraw my hospitality and have you escorted to my border.”
Crawford studied him. Robert couldn’t tell by his stern expression whether or not his diatribe had just earned him more disdain or a little respect. And his lie, such a grand lie. He had bedded a villager or two a long time before, in his teenage years, but had grown into a more confident man who needed no such pleasure when it had potential to disrupt the relationships between his castle’s maidens. Nothing, he had discovered, made women more envious of one another or fueled feelings of rivalry than when one friend was welcomed into the bed of a favored liege lord while the others were not.
When Crawford said nothing but simply watched him with a tick in his jaw and a scrutinizing eye, Robert turned to Jonathan, who had not strayed far, and ordered him and his men to keep the Beast of Ayr and his guardsmen under a watchful eye.
“Don’t let him wander off,” he said. “Keep him well-sated with ale and make certain the female servants remain clear of him.” Jonathan nodded and Robert turned back to him, a look of amusement teasing the corner of his lips. “Ah, I meant to tell you. The lady came up with a pet name for you,” he whispered.
“Did she now?” John replied, his interest piqued.
With arms still folded, he leaned in. “Indeed she did. It’s in relation to your, shall we say, size.”
Jonathan’s chest puffed up and he grinned a cocky grin. “Most women do have pet names for that.”
“Ah, my good man, I’m sure they do,” Robert teased, patting his cheek. “But her pet name is, let’s just say, not what you might think.”
Leaving John with a curious crinkle to his brow, Robert walked away with a laugh working its way out of his throat.
…
Crawford said nothing as dinner began, and sopped up his stew and venison with his bread so that it dribbled in his beard. Indeed he was not burdening himself to use any manners, Robert thought, glancing beside him and refraining from calling the man a barbarian. Instead, he picked up his spoon and chewed a bite of food, washing it down with a swallow from his goblet. Wiping his mouth, he turned toward Harold Crawford and cleared his throat.
“I apologize if I seemed vexed earlier. I’m only recently returned from my outing and my tourney before that. Admittedly, I’ve not had a chance to recuperate.”
“No matter. We leave in the morn.” Crawford grunted. He offered nothing more.
Robert should have been satisfied at the decision and left well enough alone. He didn’t.
“I’ve been giving an idea some thought,” Robert began, testing Crawford’s reception.
“What is it?” the sheriff replied.
“I was thinking, should you find your flighty daughter, I might consider taking my father’s place in the betrothal contract. If you find merit in the idea, I would welcome a discussion.”
Crawford eyed him, paused, and ultimately set his meat down, wiping the sauce from his beard with his cuff. Robert resisted the urge to squirm in his seat under Crawford’s scrutiny. Finally, the sheriff showed a hint of a smile.
“You’re the first man since her disappearance to show any interest. Why is that? She’s unruly and hardly advertises herself as a useful wife.”
Robert shrugged. Just like Mariel would. “I have my pick of the English ladies and haven’t found one to which I wish to attach myself. Since my king has been eager to see me married, I’m certain a betrothal would please him.”
Not true, you liar. A formal betrothal to a wealthy English family who supported the crown would please King Richard. But the verdict was most definitely out on a Scottish one. The only reason a marriage between his father and Mariel had been tolerable was the fact that his father was an aging man with a ready, grown heir in place. An English one. Robert.
“My younger daughter, Madeline, is much more agreeable and would make a better prospect at this point. For I can tell you, Mariel’s prospects look bleak when I finally get my hands on the wee wench,” Crawford said threateningly.
He released a belch and Robert recoiled inwardly. The man spoke of Mariel as if she were a criminal, not a daughter. Instead, Robert took to play-acting. “I have to admit a demure, agreeable woman is not to my taste. She needs to have some, fire, shall we say, in order to hold my interest. I like to submit a woman. And to be honest, I’m tired of the search. ’Twould be easier if I could just put my name to paper and say to hell with it. My father said Mariel was fair and I’ll trust his judgment on that, but I know not what your other daughter looks like and her looks would need to appeal to me, if I’m supposed to sire heirs.”
The look on Harold Crawford’s face seemed to change. Robert couldn’t determine what that meant, but the man seemed to understand his sentiment—a grand lie—and nodded. Still, Mariel might embrace motherhood if she married, but Robert should in no way expect her to be beholden to the birthing bed. She was too spirited, would want the freedom to ride, to shoot, not to be tethered to a gaggle of crying mouths. And as enjoyable as it would be to take her to bed, he had no desire to ever douse her fire. It was that very fire that was scalding him and the burn from it was most pleasant. She would submit to him of her own will. He would never force her.
He slammed a portcullis down on his thoughts. He hardly knew the young woman. How on earth could he consider her wishes about children, as if they had been planning on them all along? He was daft. He didn’t even want to be married. Not really. Though the idea didn’t sound so much like a death sentence anymore.
But he did want to save Mariel from this arse next to him, consuming his food with exactly the manners Robert would have expected from a barbarian.
“If you seek to enter into a betrothal contract, then what if I agree but can nay find the brat for some time to come?” Crawford finally said.
Robert shrugged again, plucking grapes from a stem in the center of the dais. So the key to gaining a little of the man’s respect, or at least his attention, was to behave like a callous husband. “I might want the contract to placate my king, but make no mistake, I’m in no hurry to be shackled at the altar. If you cannot produce her just yet, I wouldn’t complain overmuch.”
“And what if she’s ruined herself already? I wouldn’t put it past her to be promiscuous, given her wild ways.”
No, not the question Robert wanted to ponder. Mariel was indeed versed in men. On the one hand, he was excited by what little of her passion he had tasted, knowing he would get to benefit from her experience. But on the other hand, he wished he could have been the man to teach her about loving. Alas, some other lucky bastard—or bastards, the thought hit him—had taken the pleasure. Hell, even Jonathan had taken his taste before Robert had intervened.
Most women would be ashamed if a man questioned their bedchamber behaviors. But again, not Mariel. Does that bother you? That I like men? That I’m not afraid to like men? Oh Laird in heaven, m’ reputation! Because if you were looking at me like some vestal virgin to seduce, you’ve barked up the wrong tree… She had turned his criticism on him. If men could love women, women could love men.
He shrugged again. “That’s a bridge to cross only if reached.”
Crawford was clearly thinking. “How would you subdue her? Word has it you’re soft on those in your charge.”
“Ah, my good man. I am soft unless I needs be firm.” That much was true. “I guarantee you, she would need commit only one poor behavior with me to learn her place.” That much was a massive lie. He could never bring himself to hit her. “Still. I’m generous to my people, but make no mistake, I take no guff. Over there, those two guardsmen who just entered, for example”—he pointed, guiding Crawford’s eyes to the wide double doors—“they can attest to my heavy hand when they broke my rules. Tonight is their first chance to dine in the great hall after the labor I imposed upon them.”
He was pointing, of course, to the guards who had imprisoned Mariel without his knowledge, and they had, of course, only been given squire duties for several days. As foul as their tasks had been, they had not been cruel. And despite the implication, his guardsmen hadn’t been deprived of food, either. The kitchen had sent one nooning meal with them each day of bread, salted meat, and an apple. He wasn’t technically lying. But Crawford didn’t need to know that.
The Sheriff of Ayr finally sat back, rubbing his paunch. “Nay. At least nay, now. I get my chance to exact punishment before she’s given to another man. And you may believe that I have the right to see her executed for the humiliation she’s imposed on me. She’s pushed me too far, and I can nay guarantee her fate.”
She’s never leaving here. Robert decided then and there, refraining from the aghast expression that threatened to overtake his face as he conceded a half-hearted shrug. Never never never. Even if I have to tie her down. Even if I have to die that torturous death Crawford just prescribed to prevent hers. This bastard can rot in hell before he is ever allowed to touch Mariel again.
“However, make no mistake,” Crawford said, turning to level a gaze at Robert. “If any man has taken her to wife without my consent, he’s as good as dead.”
I have to marry her. The thought charged through his head with more conviction than he had ever felt. Neither William de Wendenal nor his own men at Huntington would allow Crawford to kill him. And should Crawford try, well, there was a reason Robert was a skilled fighter and archer. Robert had inherited too powerful an earldom, and Nottingham would prevent his death on the grounds that Robert’s death would invite the king’s scrutiny, for he was a favored young earl and Nottingham knew it. Lord, he didn’t want to tie the proverbial knot. But for some strange reason, it was the only idea that soothed the fear burgeoning in his heart for Mariel’s safety.