by Ashley York
“Please.” He gestured to the ground she’d been sitting on.
Brighit sat as if alighting on a throne rather than the cold, hard ground. She moved the whistle to the folds of her skirt.
“So why do you skulk around in the darkness?” Peter asked.
The moon hid behind the clouds so he could no longer see her features. “I do not wish to awaken the others.”
“I thought perhaps you didn’t wish to be caught stealing the whistle you were just playing.”
“He won’t miss it. I will return it before he awakes.”
“You were quite adept at obtaining it... and moving among the sleeping men with them none the wiser.”
“So now you believe I am a thief?”
“I do not know what to believe.”
“Hmph, you knew well enough when you made accusations about me sitting around naked in the carriage.”
Peter turned away slightly to hide his grin. “My apologies if I was wrong.”
“If?” Brighit stood again, her voice louder now. “I have given you no reason to think I was a wanton woman. Why would you behave as if I am?”
He remained sitting, leaning his head back to look up at her. “I am at a loss to explain this situation. You are the only woman with three men. None of which I believe are your relatives. Am I mistaken?”
The sob carried to him. He took his time standing.
“Are you Ivan’s property? Do you warm his bed?”
An open-mouthed sob now. She covered her hand with her mouth.
“I do not wish to cast stones but to understand.”
“I—I am no—not his whore!”
She gave him her back.
“I don’t expect you to believe me,” she said. “I don’t expect the other men to believe me. I don’t expect anyone to believe me. Ivan has said as much.”
He placed his hand lightly on her shoulder. “Please tell me what is amiss. I will do my best to assist you in whatever you need.”
She faced him. “I wish only to be taken to the Priory.”
Brighit shoved past him, pushing the whistle at him. He followed. She returned to the carriage.
The men slept on, oblivious to the goings on around them. It was just as well. Peter had missed a chance to learn what he needed. He returned the whistle to Andrew’s bag and returned to his earlier position. He settled back against the same tree.
“I take it things did not go well,” Mort spoke without moving. Naturally he was awake to witness his failings.
“Go back to sleep.”
The little man was quiet and Peter was shocked to think he was finally obeying his orders.
“Perhaps you will get a chance to question her alone again and you can be more... judicious in your questioning.”
Peter stretched out on the ground, his back to Mort. “Perhaps you should take your sleep when you can. I believe you will have your hands quite full come daybreak.”
Chapter Ten
Brighit turned once again in the cramped confines of her carriage. She knew the moment she fell asleep the sun would rise and the rest of the camp would be stirring. She was right.
“Hey!” Ivan poked at the curtain. “You need to join us, not lay about all day in your private chambers.”
The other men laughed at his jest. She couldn’t be sure she heard Peter’s laugh with the others. He probably did laugh, finding it quite funny even.
Are you Ivan’s property? Do you warm his bed?
What audacity. If that were so, wouldn’t Ivan have joined her in the carriage? She jerked herself up. That would be awful. Her stomach lurched. Surely if the little man wanted to lay a claim to her, that would be all he would need to do. She sent up a prayer of thanks he had not done so thus far, promising anew to give him no reason.
She tugged her cap tightly over her hair and slipped her kirtle over her bed clothes. Thank goodness she’d found something else to sleep in rather than to wear her dampened gown. The night had turned cold once the clouds broke. A few moments by the fire now would help the last bit of material dry more fully. Mort had showed her kindness and didn’t seem to be cut from the same cloth as the knight he served.
Brighit jumped down from the carriage. All eyes were on her as usual. It seemed odd that they always watched her. She imagined their tongues nearly touching their chins like a dog eager to receive a bone. As usual they all grinned at each other as if she had done something quite alluring rather than just stepping out of the carriage.
She caught Peter’s eye before he turned around. He had a scowl of disbelief on his face. Mort, however, smiled and stepped toward her.
“I will do my best to be closer to assist you the next time.” His words were for her ears only. Gallantly, he took her fingertips in his hand and escorted her to the side of the fire, even brushing off a rock for her to sit on.
“My thanks.” Such kindness.
Peter appeared as a man ready to strangle someone. Was he angry that Mort had shown her such thoughtfulness?
“You have missed the turn off to Tanshelf,” Peter announced to the group.
Ivan’s face screwed up as if trying to discern if Peter spoke English. “What are you talking about?”
Peter blew an exasperated breath. “You have missed the turn off to the Priory.” His tone was precise and impatient.
Brighit took the offered biscuit from Mort who then sat beside her. Her stomach turned to mush. Could they have intentionally missed the turn? She kept her eyes downcast.
“I’m sure you are mistaken,” Ivan responded.
Brighit could tell by his tone he was lying through his crooked, yellow teeth.
“I am not,” Peter said. “You did say you knew where you were going?”
Ivan sat perched on the edge of the rock, his cup of mead halfway to his mouth. The innocent look she had become so accustomed to stuck on his face. “I know I can trust my lead man, Cole, and he mentioned no such turn.”
Peter licked his lips before turning rounded eyes to Cole. “If you know the way to Tanshelf, then you know you’ve passed the turn off.”
Cole tipped his head back, his lips puckering in thought. “I recall no such turn.”
“Recall or not,” Peter’s tone demonstrated he was out of patience, “I am telling you,” his tone was low and menacing now, “we will go back. You missed the turn.”
Cole rubbed at his dark beard, mayhap considering the wisdom of the man. “Yes. Yes, you could be right. I may have forgotten the turn. My thanks.”
Peter relaxed his stance, nodding his head as if in answer to some internal question and began to pick up his few belongings from around the fire. “We leave shortly. Finish breaking your fast and make provisions for our water. There is little available between here and the next village.”
He came close beside Brighit, but she assumed he was leaning in to speak to Mort.
“Methinks you may call attention to yourself a purpose. Fear not, I aim to be certain.”
She drew back and watched him walk away. Mort’s finger under her chin, gently closing her mouth shut, brought her out of her shock. He smiled at her.
“Did I hear him a right?”
Mort shook his head. “Methinks you did indeed.”
“Why does he speak to me so?”
“Brighit!” Ivan barked at her. “Gather our things.”
She glanced toward Peter, knowing full well that Ivan’s use of the words “our things” just gave Peter the proof he sought of her intimate relationship with the disgusting man. She pulled together the few items strewn about. Let the arrogant knight believe whatever he would of her. She didn’t deserve it but that seemed to matter even less.
Mort handed her his bowl, a small smile on his lips. “You missed this, my lady.”
My lady? That title was foreign to her ears of late. Although not usually used in Ireland, she accepted it as a title of deference. She was the daughter of the clan leader after all.
“My thanks, kind sir.” She d
ipped her knee before walking toward the carriage.
Mort treated her kindly, even reverently. How could he easily see what his master could not? Surely, it was apparent to all who came upon her. She was a lady, nobly bred. Why did it matter? Their time together was limited. What he did or didn’t believe about her should not matter at all. But it did. That was the most frustrating. She wanted him to think better of her. She wanted him to see her goodness. She wanted him to see her for who she really was. Why that was, she couldn’t explain.
Chapter Eleven
Peter was anxious to get to the inn. He and Mort had passed it a few days earlier but certainly it could be reached by nightfall if they hurried. He wasn’t just anxious to have a roof over his head and a warm bed to sleep in, but to find some female companionship. Most inns had at least one woman for hire. He could forge steel with his unrelenting erection.
To slake himself now would surely help him keep his mind focused for the trip to the Priory. One day on the road with these four and Peter was at his rope’s frayed and tattered end. He’d had more ornery travel companions in the past, so it had to be this unreleased sexual tension driving him.
When they arrived, Peter strapped his sword to his side as he perused the inn, such as it was. No surprise he had given the inn so little attention. It had a more comfortable looking shelter for the animals than for paying guests. There was not a person in sight. His heart pounded quickly with barely controlled anger. He shoved his way through the door.
“Hail.” Peter peeled his gloves off sweaty hands and allowed his irritation free reign with his booming voice. “Is anyone here?”
The smell of food cooking was the only indication he was not alone. The open room had two, small, wooden tables—marred, nicked, and looking as if they had been pieced together from scraps. Various bottles, flasks, and wine skins sat on a shelf to the left of the open fire. He did not hesitate to help himself.
“Is no one about?” Mort asked from the open door, his hands rubbing along his belted waist.
Peter took a long sip of some sort of barley water that went down smooth. “I’ve seen no one.”
Mort gave him a disgusted look. “You have ridden us hard, my lord. I believe I am not the only one who thinks so.”
“You’re complaining?” Peter tipped back for a second swallow.
Mort locked his jaw then walked through the door at the far corner.
One small window faced the road with enough grime on it to convince Peter that although the place was quiet now, it was not always so. A sure sign they would be able to meet all his required services.
Ivan walked in like the captain of a ship and towing Brighit close behind. He stopped, made a sweeping glance around the room and laughed. “Well? Does this place seem familiar to you, Brighit?”
Brighit paled.
Peter stopped mid-drink. He moved toward her. “Have you been here before?”
She shook her head. A slow, emphatic “no”.
“Speak up, dear Brighit,” Ivan said. “Tell Sir Peter what this place reminds you of.”
Peter wanted to smack that do-as-I-say-or-else look right off Ivan’s arrogant face.
“If it is a troublesome memory, you need not share it with me.” Peter spoke quietly, sorry for having walked right into Ivan’s latest attempt at belittling his ward.
“It was our first place... together.” Ivan spoke the words as if speaking of some memorable, deeply treasured place.
Together.
Brighit stared straight ahead.
“Tell him, Brighit. I’m sure he is curious. Aren’t you, Sir Peter?”
“I said she does not need to tell me.” Peter clipped each word. This man was surely the vilest creature he’d ever met.
“No. No! You should be told.” Ivan suddenly became serious, his eyes widening as if not telling him might stop the sun from rising on the morrow. “A room very much like this one was where I offered her my complete protection.”
Ivan moved in closer to Brighit, sliding one hand down her forearm to rest on her clasped hands, the other hand unseen behind her. Brighit gave a stiffened jump. The bastard had grabbed her arse.
Her color deepened three shades but she said nothing. Peter took a deep, slow, deliberate breath. It was gain control or gut the man right here.
“Ivan.” He moved in close to the little man, a breath away from spitting in his ugly face. “If you ever touch Lady Brighit in my presence again, make no mistake, I will see every last bit of your blood spilled beneath your feet.”
Ivan released Brighit’s hand, took two steps away from her and appeared to be actually shrinking in size.
Peter stared him down, unflinching. He wanted to reach down Ivan’s throat and rip his lungs up through his mouth. He wanted to rip his entrails out as well. He wanted to stab him right through his black heart.
Instead, he took Brighit’s trembling hand, placed it lightly on his forearm, and escorted her into the room. He brushed off a bench for Brighit to sit upon. “Please, rest here.”
Peter straightened. Perhaps Mort could locate the owner of the inn and get some food for her. He dare not leave her alone. “Mort?”
An older man entered from the corner door. He had a thick cloth wrapped around his middle and a large pitcher in each hand. The innkeeper. Mort followed behind.
“Here, my lord,” Mort said.
“Andrew, grab the mugs from yonder wall.” Peter sat beside Brighit.
The bald man did as ordered, placing them upon the tables. He sat beside Cole who had already chosen the other table for himself. Ivan stood by the door, shuffling his feet and skulking like a child who’d lost the cat he’d been torturing.
Peter wanted him out of his sight.
“Ivan, sit with your men or be gone from the room.”
The innkeeper reappeared with a well-browned pheasant, speared with a knife, on a wooden platter. This time he was followed by a gray-haired woman, probably his wife. She carried a tray of dark bread and offered the upper crust to Peter. Her head bowed slightly.
“My thanks,” Peter said.
Mort smiled, no doubt pleased by the deference being shown Peter. The man had probably informed the couple of the honor they were being paid by the presence of one of the King’s own favored knights.
After properly serving the knight, the couple brought in the victuals for the other table.
Peter removed the knife and cut the meat. He pierced a small, juicy piece and offered it to Brighit.
Her warm eyes held his for a moment before accepting it, the pink tip of her tongue catching the liquid that dripped off it.
The tension in his body doubled.
“My thanks.”
“I hope you find everything to your liking.”
“It is very good,” Brighit said.
The innkeeper’s wife topped off Brighit’s mug.
“Is there no one else here? Are there no wenches about?” Peter asked.
The gray-haired woman paused beside him and searched his face before responding. “A young woman helps sometimes.”
He waved his hand to decline the mead, opting to continue with his own filched libations. He took a long sip. The sudden, delicious warmth in the room may have been from the fire, but he suspected it was not. Release would be sweet. “Will she be here tonight?”
Brighit frowned at Peter. He speared another piece of meat.
“She only comes when needed,” the older woman said.
Her gaze was unwavering. He need only admit his need for the wench and it would be done.
Peter missed Brighit’s mouth.
“Ow!” Brighit gingerly touched her lip.
“My apologies,” Peter said.
No blood. Peter put the knife down.
Brighit drank from her cup, watching him over the rim. She placed her mug on the table beside the knife then glanced over at Ivan. Peter did the same before turning back to her.
The little man dropped his head to slurp his soup as i
f he’d not eaten for a week.
“Do not vex yourself,” Peter said.
“I am under his protection.” Although she kept her face down now, her eyes widened at the word protection.
He couldn’t resist asking. “And is that all?”
Her eyes widened then narrowed into little slits of unspoken indignation. Her entire expression closed down. When he offered her more meat, she held up her palm, then turned away.
She sat perfectly still—stiff as the wooden plank she sat on. Her shoulders pressed back. Her chin in that ever-so-defiant tilt. Her full breasts pressing against the coarse material of her sack-like kirtle. Her nipples puckering beneath his gaze. Large, rosy nipples if he remembered correctly.
“How soon could she arrive?” Peter asked the innkeeper’s wife.
Mort’s annoyed intake of air was quite loud.
“We will get her immediately, my lord,” the innkeeper said then rushed his wife into the other room.
“What is amiss?” Peter finally asked Mort. “I thought it would be appropriate to have Lady Brighit receive assistance while she was here. Do you not agree?”
Suspicion flashed across Mort’s face before his shoulders rounded suddenly. “Oh, no, my lord. You are very thoughtful.”
The innkeeper returned alone.
“Do you have rooms for us?” Peter’s irritation intertwined with his unquenched desire.
“Yes, my lord.” The man bowed slightly then smiled. “We have enough room in our outbuildings to accommodate a small army.”
He didn’t have or need an army at the moment. When he needed was a willing woman.
Peter took another swallow of the warming liquid. He stood. The smoothness of his drink made a pleasant sweep through his body, down into his loins, and up into his head.
Brighit remained unmoving. Her head beside him, blurred slightly. He had the sudden urge to feel the softness of the brown hair that lay hidden beneath the stark, white wimple. Run his hands through it. Slide his finger along her unyielding profile and tip her chin up ever so gently so he could meet her mouth for a warm, wet kiss—