Chapter Eleven

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 if 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—

Mort coughed loudly from across the table. "You were saying, my lord?"

Mort's face appeared quite expectant but Peter wasn't sure what he had been sa—oh yes.

"Well, a warm bed or two would certainly suffice."

The arousing picture of being in a warm bed with the even warmer body of Brighit beneath him flashed through his mind. Her lovely brown hair splayed across the pillows. His manhood making its presence felt between her—she shifted beside him.

"Yes. Do you have a room?" Mort came up to Peter, blocking Brighit from his view. But Peter wanted to see her, watch her, think about making love to her. He stepped to the side so that he could continue to observe her. Some movement at the other table caught his attention. Ivan watched him, his face dark and unreadable.

"We only have the one bed in the loft." The innkeeper's wife spoke. "But plenty of room in the stables. It's warm and dry."

Peter crossed his arms and smiled at Ivan. "I'm sure our traveling companions would be happy with those accommodations."

"As will I," Mort stated. "Come, gentlemen, let us see this enticing area."

The four men followed the innkeeper out the front door. Peter glanced at the unyielding future bride of Christ. His arousal painfully tight in his close-fitting hose. He closed his eyes and breathed in her scent. A feminine scent that required just that gentlest of touches to bring her to full arousal.

Reality hit him. He opened his eyes. This was no willing wench. She was not to be seduced. There was no chance Peter could spend tonight in the company of this fetching woman. It must be his long abstinence turning her into a highly desirable morsel. He should know better. If Brighit wanted the only bed, that was fine. She deserved it. He wanted a willing wench beneath him, quenching his raging need—perhaps more than once. Hopefully they would both get what they wanted.

Peter's eyes bore into her. She knew it as well as if she could see his face. The bench beneath her was unyielding and uncomfortable. Her numbed bottom begged her to shift but after his last insult, she refused. She couldn't understand why he would treat her respectfully one minute then ask about this imagined, intimate relationship with Ivan the next.

That whoreson smacking her bottom was the last straw. The innkeeper's wife would be back any second to clear away the remaining items on the trestle. The small knife sat among the wooden plates, mugs, and bones on the table. It had taken long enough but she was not about to pass what may well be her only opportunity to obtain a means to protect herself. With the others gone, it would be hers if Peter would just turn away.

"Well?" Peter asked.

She started at his voice. Indecision held her immobile. If he could be distracted before the woman returned, she could grab that little knife.

She would engage him and get him to leave. "I'm sorry?"

"As well you should be, but what will it be?"

What will it be? What was he going on about? He did not seem inclined to leave. She glanced toward the back door. She had only a fleeting moment to act.

She leaned closer to the table, her fingertips curling around the wooden edge. She pushed herself up, swung to face him, and scooped the blade into her hand.

Brighit stood, squared her shoulders, and held her head high. Behind her back, she clenched the hilt of the pilfered knife. Elation coursed through her body like a river overrunning its banks. She now had a means to defend herself against anyone who would harm her. She bit her cheek to keep from smiling.

His brown eyes were unusually bright. The hint of a playful smile on his full lips.

"Is this stubbornness now?" Peter moved in close, his steps a little unsure.

"Not intentionally stubborn." He misread her yet again.

He licked his lower lip. When his gaze dropped to her breasts, the air was knocked out of her. A full smile now. He was appraising her with total appreciation. The way a man looks at a woman he desires. Her breath returned with a solid whoosh.

"What. Will. It. Be?" He leaned in closer, whispering each word.

"Whatever you think best?" She spoke as calmly as she could but the room was getting very hot.

He glanced up as if trying to read an unclear sign but then that assured smile returned.

A tiny quiver rippled through her. Before she could speak again, he was closing in on her, his body up against hers.

"Whatever I think best?"

She wavered for a moment, unsure why he answered her with that tone. She wanted nothing more than to melt against him, envelope herself in his heat. This was just like in her dream. Hot and heady.

Then his firm lips were on hers. His hard length pressing her into the table, as if trying to meld them together. Her body would gladly have done just that if only it could have turned to pure liquid instead of just a growing warmth where his hips grinded into her.

He pulled his head back enough to search her face. He was breathing hard. He looked bewildered. "Is this what you want then?"

Her body arched towards his where the pressure had eased. "I…I'm not sure." She should not be feeling this way. "Please."

The answering sound from deep in his throat surprised her but then she got what she craved. His lips on hers again, then trailing across her cheek and down her jaw. An intense ripple of pleasure shot straight to her core. His hips undulated against hers, the heat, the dampness. She moaned.

He suddenly stopped, his head still dipped into the crook of her neck. She didn't dare breathe.

"I do not believe your protector will be happy with the outcome if we continue." His voice was husky, his breath warm against her skin. He shifted away.

Her body immediately missed his. Her eyes closed, she took a slow, steadying breath.

"I believe you need to think more carefully before you answer a man who asks you where you prefer to sleep."

She put her hand to her throat.

His eyes narrowed, clearer now, pierced hers. Her disappointment tripled.

The innkeeper's wife chose that moment to make her presence known.

"Lady Brighit will make use of your bed." Moving in close to Brighit's ear, he added. "And if you need a bigger knife, you have only to ask me."

The forgotten knife was nearly dropped onto the floor before she grabbed it tight in her hand.

"Yes, my lord." The older woman bent a knee.

Peter took a step away. A respectable distance.

"And what of our young woman, my lord? Where shall I send her?"

"To Lady Brighit." Peter grabbed the last remaining jug from the shelf and left the same way the others had.

Brighit blew a long breath. She noticed the older woman was still there, a knowing smile on her face.

"This way," the innkeeper's wife said.

Brighit followed the woman up a ladder at the far end of room. The small area was cozy, cut off from the few stairs by a heavy tapestry that was short enough to let in the heat from the fire below.

"Ursula will bring some fresh water for your ablutions."

"My thanks."

Alone in the room, Brighit tucked her little weapon beneath the pallet that sat on the floor, hilt side out. Peter knew she had it and didn't take it from her. Mayhap he understood her need for protection. He told her she needed to be more careful in what she said. Had he kissed her because she gave the wrong answer? It did not feel like a lesson on protecting herself.

She placed her cold palms against her flushed face. The longing deep inside was still there. She wanted him closer. Even now. She had never felt like this about a man... about anything.

Brighit stretched across the stiff straw mattress. It crunched beneath her. She placed her palms over her breasts, imagining they were Peter's strong hands. Remembering the look of appreciation in his eyes. She would dream of him tonight. In her dream, she could be brazen. She would take him into her bed, as naked and splendid as he'd looked by the loch. He would hold her against his hard body and have his way with her. And she'd have her way with him. She'd know what it was to be a woman. Then she would wake up and continue her journey to the Priory where woman did not think of such things.

Peter rested his elbow on his bent leg, rubbing his lip with his thumb. His thoughts remained with the woman who slept soundlessly in the bed that should have been his. She had certainly ignited a fire in him.

Whatever you think best.

He'd only hoped to put a little fear in her. Her tight-lipped kiss and rigid body spoke of her lack of experience. He should have behaved better, released her, and explained why her answer was asking for trouble. Instead he became acutely aware of the way her breasts flattened against him. He could still feel her nipples hardening into nubs, pressing into his chest. His mouth watered with the need to take that generous peak into his mouth. Her scent drifted to him as it seemed to shift from fear to desire. It intoxicated him. He needed to have her. So he coaxed, encouraged, seduced with his mouth, tongue, hands. She didn't slap him or shove him away but inch by inch she responded. Leaning into him. Opening up to him. When he rubbed against her, revealing his hardened need, her hips pressed closer. He ached to rip off that unbecoming sack—her disguise—and stroke her silky skin, grasp her buttocks with both hand to yank her even closer, and touch her core to see if she was as wet and ready as she seemed. It took every ounce of his control to draw back. Her disappointed moan nearly called his bluff.

Damn.

He was not being a protector of the woman but a defiler! As bad as Ivan with his vicious mouth. What she needed was his protection. Protect her from himself, more correctly. Or perhaps protect her from herself. He needed to keep his guard up. That was plain to see. The only way to do that would be to keep his passion in check and see her safely within the Priory walls. The latter would be hoped for continuously but the former would require a huge amount of restraint. Planning to practice just that restraint, Peter didn't get a bit of sleep.