Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

Bleary eyed, Peter staggered toward the rain barrel at the far side of the small inn's yard. The anvils in his head rang out with every step. Animals bleating and pecking all around him made sleep impossible. The other men were dead to the world.

"God bless you." He spat the words.

He stilled. He stretched, scratching at the stiffness in his crotch. Wasn't he going to see someone about that?

Unbidden, the dreams came back to him. His own warm bed and his love splayed out before him. Him taking his time, his hands overflowing with her generous assets, sucking at her tightened nipples. Stroking her warm, wet treasures, delving inside, his hand wet with her moisture. Her moans of pleasure. Whispered promises of love and faithfulness. Suddenly it was Brighit's face, her smile of pleasure, shifting into Jeanette's face—smiling with dark, sunken hollows for eyes. The ghastly scream still sounded in his ears.

Peter doused his head in the ice cold water, then whipped his hair out of his face. He sloshed his hand down his face. Why would he be dreaming of Brighit? Jeanette was the usual bed partner of his dreams. His own personal hell. Now the future nun was haunting him? It was going to be a long day. The light burst over the hills and he had to shade his eyes from the onslaught. Stumbling, he made his way into the still darkened hall of the inn.

He plopped on the bench, his head in his hands. Whatever happened to the wench he'd asked for? Ah, yes. Lady Brighit got a servant and he got aching balls.

A bench creaked nearby and he lifted his head. The vision before him had long, red hair and a very revealing red gown that seemed to be lacking its under dress. Red. The color for whores.

"My lord?" she spoke in a seductive whisper.

"Ah, the missing wench." His cock jerked to attention.

Her smile was sheer enticement.

"Come here." Peter adjusted his legs and patted his now accessible lap.

She closed the distance and sat sideways on his lap to face him, pressing her breast against him. The opening at her neck ran down to her belly. He slipped his hand inside. Her breasts were small, without much life to them. She met his lips. Her tongue seemed too rough and he pulled back.

"Easy." He rubbed his palm along her nipple, tugging it, purling it into a hard little nub. Brushing aside the material, he took it into his mouth with a hard tug. She squirmed on his lap.

He withdrew again. "Have you never done this before?"

"I heard you liked virgins."

"Where did you hear that?"

"The innkeeper's wife."

The sole witness to his advances on Brighit. The memory of Brighit's body shifting from tentativeness into passionate eagerness shot straight to his groin. The innkeeper's wife had come to the same conclusion as Peter. She was indeed a virgin. Ivan had absolutely no basis for insinuating anything else. That would come to an end this day.

The redhead, willing or not, didn't have a chance of satisfying Peter now. He moved her off his lap. Wood scraped against the floor overhead. The object currently inflaming his desire was awakening.

"See if you can locate the rest of your under clothes and present yourself to Lady Brighit. She requires your assistance."

"Aye, my lord." The wench dipped into a curtsy and left to do his bidding.

Peter crossed into the kitchen and stopped in the doorway. The open hearth blazed. Both husband and wife moved about the small area. A kettle sizzled over the fire.

"How fare thee, my lord?" the innkeeper asked, scraping the ashes off the bottom of a dark loaf of bread before dropping it onto a wooden platter.

"Fair enough. I will see the other men roused and will return anon to break our fast."

"As you wish, my lord."

Peter went out the way he'd come. The tension grew in the pit of his stomach the closer he got to the stable, anticipating his encounter with Brighit's guardians. They were scoundrels of the worst kind. Not to be trusted. And the only ones with any information about Brighit. That was about to change.

"Ivan!" Peter shoved the little man with his foot. Ivan rolled onto his back and wiped the spittle from his mouth. He blinked several times before answering as if trying to get his wits about him.

"Aye. I'm up."

Ivan's obvious annoyance was a boon to Peter's irritation.

"We need to talk. Now."

Peter walked a short distance past the stable, away from any possibility of being overheard. Ivan joined him, his face scrunched up into a nasty grimace.

"Tell me about Brighit."

Ivan stood a little taller and his face just about split with his arrogant smile. "I thought you would take a liking to her."

Peter grabbed him by the front of the tunic and jerked his face in closer. "Enough with your arrogance! Never speak so of the lady again or you will find your entrails spilling onto the floor."

Ivan lifted his hands in surrender. His eyes two wide orbs. "I yield, my lord. Beg pardon."

Peter gripped the material tighter. "I know you have threatened her bodily to make her afraid."

Ivan shrugged against his grip, his feet half off the floor. "I don't know what you speak of. I've said nothing."

Peter's nostrils flared, his teeth clenched. "You lie."

He paused, fighting to cool the rage coursing through him.

"If you lay a hand on her, I will cut that hand off. If you look at her askance, I will pluck out your eye. If you offend her with any part of your body, I will remove it."

Every pore on the man's face bulged with fear. Peter unclenched his fist. It took Ivan a moment to move again. Peter stood before him, crossed his arms and waited.

"Her uncle was to see her safely to the Priory from Ireland."

Peter glanced around, raising his hands palms up. "Uncle?"

Ivan shifted and averted his gaze. "My master, her uncle, ordered me to see the job done."

Peter tightened his chin. This missing uncle was the root of the problem. "Where can I find this uncle?"

Ivan blanched. "He is not with us."

"My question was not a difficult one."

"He is in Ireland."

"While his ward and niece is here? Unattended by family? At your mercy?"

"It's not the way you're presenting it."

"It is exactly this way."

"I'd never touch her."

"You were going to sell her!"

"That's not true. Scots are all liars. Their tales are spun bigger than their pricks."

"I will not discuss this with you. You are no longer in command here."

"These are my men. They're in my hire." Ivan's face was suffused with color now.

"What happens to you or your lackeys matters little to me. I will see the lady safely to the Priory. That is my only objective." Peter rubbed at the growth on his cheek. "I may allow you to continue with us unless you become a problem for Lady Brighit."

"Lady Brighit," Ivan muttered the name under his breath.

Peter placed his hands at his hips and tipped his head. "This is not the way to go about ingratiating yourself with me so that you may remain in good standing with your hired help."

"Beg pardon, my lord."

Peter doubted very much this man would be with him until he reached the Priory. He didn't seem intelligent enough to keep his mouth shut. If he followed orders, Peter would allow Ivan to go with them so he could report to his master that Brighit had arrived safely.

"Rouse your men and break your fast. We leave on my orders."

When Mort escorted Brighit to the carriage, the sun was still low in the sky. He placed the step-up box that lay beside the wheel in front of the door and offered his hand.

Brighit smiled and took his hand. It was much easier to get into the carriage.

"My thanks, Mort," Brighit offered and sat down on the hard bench.

Mort picked up the box and placed it at her feet within the conveyance.

"Is there anything you need before we begin our travels for the day?"

Brighit was taken aback at such courtesy. "I am sure I have everything. Unless..."

"Name it, Lady Brighit."

"Perhaps some company?"

"My pleasure." Mort jumped into the carriage and sat across from her. He adjusted his legs so they were not even close enough to accidentally bump her knees. His palfrey was already tied to the back of the carriage. She smiled. He had once again anticipated her requirements.

Peter, ready and mounted, guided his horse abreast of the carriage. He glanced in her direction then addressed Mort. "Shall we depart?"

Mort turned toward her, his brows raised in anticipation of her response.

"Yes. I am ready."

Mort turned back to Peter. "Yes, my lord. All are ready."

Peter tipped his head slightly and urged his mount to the front of the carriage, out of her view. "Move out."

The carriage lurched into a steady pace and Brighit relaxed into her seat. It would be a pleasant ride. Cole and Andrew paid little attention to their speed or how much the faster speeds jarred the carriage. Her comfort being of little importance.

"So Lady Brighit, tell me about yourself."

It had been a long while since she'd had an opportunity to speak of her home or family. She swallowed. "What would you like to know?"

"Where do you come from?"

"I am of the MacNaughton Clan."

"Ah, a name I am not familiar with."

She giggled. "Your accent tells me there are probably more names you could say that of than not."

He blushed slightly. "That is true enough but I have a wonderful memory and pride myself on remembering such things."

Brighit glanced out the window. Ivan caught her gaze where he rode his horse. Her stomach lurched but he averted his face. If she didn't know better, she'd say he seemed fearful. When she'd passed him earlier, he'd not a word to offer to her.

"Ivan seems to be keeping to himself." Brighit regretted the words as soon as they were spoken.

"I believe that is in response to advice he recently received."

She faced Mort. "From you?"

Mort's look of shock was almost comical. "Oh no. Certainly it is not my place."

Brighit hesitated before asking, "Does Peter lead us?"

"Yes. He sees to all the arrangements for your journey now."

A weight was lifted from her shoulders. She needed to understand where she stood though. "And Ivan is allowing this? Is he p-paying him as well?"

Mort's gasped. "My lord would never accept money for doing what is right."

Relief flooded her. "My apologies. I didn't mean to impl—"

"Ivan has no say in the matter, Lady Brighit." Mort searched her face before he spoke. "Sir Peter is from the King's personal guard and acts in his stead. There is no discussion. There is only his will."

Brighit shivered slightly at the idea of Peter's will being tantamount.

"Thank you for sharing that with me."

With nothing to add, Mort nodded then leaned back and closed his eyes.

She turned to watch the scenery. It wasn't the hills and glens she saw but the glistening body of her dream lover.

He came to her again last night. His hands hot on her skin and so much more real now that she'd actually experienced Peter's touch. He'd barely noticed her this morning. She had willed him to look on her again, to see the appreciation that had been there before. And have him touch her with hands that spoke of a desire to handle her even more intimately. To have his mouth on her lips, her neck, her bare skin. Skin that begged for more. Her pulse quickened. Her breath quickened. Her heart quickened.

Brighit closed her eyes. In her dreams, Peter wanted her desperately. She stroked her lips, remembering every sensation from his kiss. Her first kiss had not been disappointing. His lips had been coaxing, his tongue tracing her lips as her fingers did now. His arms were strong but didn't crush her. Instead he drew her into his own body, surrounding her with his heat. Again, her stomach did that little flip. Opening her eyes, she turned toward Mort who appeared fast asleep. Brighit blew out a slow, inaudible breath.

Last night, Peter had indeed seemed like the man in her dreams but today that man was gone. Not even sparing more than a glance her way. No interest at all. Perhaps what the red-headed servant girl had told her was true. Quite talkative, that one. When she should have just helped Brighit to lace her dress and brush out her hair, she'd prattled on and on about her other duties at the inn and her encounter with "the knight". Brighit would have wished her to keep her mouth closed as she had the night before but no. Ursula had even shown her the gold coin Peter had given her after he'd lain with her.

Brighit said nothing. She was shocked to hear someone speak so brazenly about something she knew little about. She was also curious. Did he kiss her? Did he stroke her? Was his touch hot? Of course she'd said nothing. She listened to her speak of Peter in that way. Her chest tightened.

And as if all that wasn't enough, the servant had stopped at the ladder and said in a very matter of fact tone, "And he doesn't even like virgins."

The afternoon dragged by. Several times, Peter stopped for a respite. The men would dismount and stretch and go out of their way to avoid him. He didn't seem to notice. He was always busy seeing to the carriage, the supplies, the horses, the road.

Mort, however, saw to her. He made sure she had everything she needed. A drink. A blanket. A helping hand out of the carriage. A comfortable rock to rest on. He even went so far as to stand guard when she saw to nature's call. Peter gave her only a cursory glance.

When Peter gave the order to stop for the evening, it was just past dusk. He delegated who would build the fire, unpack supplies, and see to the horses. There was no grumbling in response. Something had definitely changed since they left the inn. Despite her questions, Mort had refused to elaborate on what his master's course of action had been. He assisted her out and saw her settled in front of the fire before seeing to his own duty—the food preparations.

Brighit stretched, her arms reaching over her head. Her deep breath turned into a big yawn. It felt good to relax a little. There was a calm around her that hadn't been there before. It had to be due to Peter's presence. Her stomach rumbled and for the first time since she'd left her home, she found she looked forward to the evening meal.

Alone for the first time that day, she observed the interchange of the men around her. When going to the carriage, Ivan made a wide arc around her. Cole and Andrew kept their heads down, their eyes averted. They didn't seem to want to have anything to do with her.

When she twisted to work out a kink, however, their heads snapped up to leer at her. That lustful gaze she knew so well. Andrew winked. Fear struck at her like a snake. Brighit hunched forward, crossing her arms about her. She sought out Mort but couldn't find him. Peter was missing as well. The bald man quickly approached and searched the area around her.

"Our little Brighit is being well taken care of now, isn't she?" He reached for the wood behind her as if that was his objective but his words were for her ears only. Low and menacing. "Fear not. We'll be nearby as well."

There was a movement behind her. Andrew took a wide step away, going back to drop the wood on the blazing fire without a backward glance.

"Is there something amiss?"

Brighit jumped at Peter's voice. Her hand went to her throat.

"No. Nothing."

Peter frowned and searched her face just as her brother, Tadhg, did when he was trying to decide if she was lying. He pressed his lips together.

"Mort!" he called without taking his eyes off her. He sounded angry.

"Here, my lord." Mort came at a quick pace, wiping his hands on a towel wrapped around his waist, a questioning look on his face.

Peter's look of accusation thickened the guilt seeping through her veins. Mort hadn't done anything wrong. If she spoke in his defense then Peter would know something had indeed transpired. Andrew had approached her as if he'd been waiting to catch her alone.

Brighit glanced from Mort to Peter. Unheard words seem to be flying between them and Mort nodded before turning his full attention to her.

"My lady, if you could assist me with the preparations, I would be forever in your debt."

Peter placed a fisted hand on his hip but said nothing.

Brighit dipped her head. "Of course."

She followed Mort to the far side of the carriage. An iron pot sat on the ground. It was already overflowing with various root vegetables. A hunk of meat lay on a wooden slab, the huge knife protruding from it. He kneeled beside the makeshift carving table.

"I was having some trouble with the quality of the tools here." He gave her a sideways glance. "The knives are not as sharp as I am used to."

Her hand instinctively went to her belted waist where her small knife lay hidden beneath her outer gown. She dropped it just as quickly. Mort tipped his head up to her and smiled.

"I'll be but a moment." He tossed the meat into the pot, grabbed it by the leather handle, and stood beside her. "We'll get this to the fire."

Brighit followed him back. Mort snatched the wooden box beside the wheel with his other hand and placed it next to the fire.

"Please." He gestured to the box then went to get his would-be stew close to the glowing embers.

Brighit glanced around. There was little talk but much was being accomplished. Always before, Ivan and his men took out the mead and beer before anything else was seen to. They would drink as they worked, throwing ribald comments her way. Comments that would make her face heat. There was none of that now.

Mort looked around as if assessing the situation. He half turned toward her.

"If you will excuse me, I will be but a moment. Not out of sight or out of ear shot." He gave her his most charming smile and walked past her.

The others still kept their distance. Andrew's threat had been delivered. Her peace was shattered. Peter may believe he was in charge but it was only as long as these men allowed him to think so. It wasn't possible for Mort to be with her at every moment and they wanted to make sure she knew that. She wasn't safe from them even with Peter and Mort nearby. She no longer had any desire to eat.