Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

The darkened woods were very near but the clearing they'd found for their camp would suffice for one night. It gave the others a place to retreat without knowing exactly how far they'd gone. Ivan's lackeys would surely make as good a use of the cover as Peter did now. Unlike them, he chose to still be seen. Mort needed to remain vigilant. Peter crossed his arms and gave the man his sternest look.

"What were you thinking?" He kept his voice low.

"My apologies, my lord. The men were busy jumping to the tasks you'd given them. I saw it as an opportunity to give her a few minutes to herself. She has much on her mind."

"How do you know that?" Peter snapped his mouth closed. The urgency was there in his question but he would have preferred not to be quite so transparent. The entire situation with this woman was becoming more and more intense. His tension was rising as if preparing for battle.

"I can see it in her movements, my lord. She is in a fragile state."

Peter had sensed that as well.

"And yet you left her alone."

"I was wrong to do so. These men are more observant than they appear."

"Hmphh."

Mort shook his head. "I cannot possibly be at her side every second."

"Then she is not well protected."

"Who was it that approached her?"

Peter knew Mort was more astute than most so he didn't mind telling him what he should have already known. "It was Andrew I saw collecting wood near her. I found her trembling while she stood there. Her face blanched. I did not hear what was said and she refused to tell me."

"I fear she does not trust any of us."

"Were you not at least trying to alleviate her fear? Alone with her in the carriage all day?" Peter snorted. He sounded far too accusing and by the surprise visible on Mort's face, it hadn't gone unnoticed. "My apologies. I fear I did not sleep well last night."

"Guilt, no doubt."

Peter frowned. "You overstep yourself when you make such accusations."

"I am torn between protecting the fair lady, as you have ordered me to do, and being respectful. The two duties are warring within me!"

"How so?" Peter demanded an explanation.

"Your behavior last night was less than chivalrous."

Peter shifted his feet. "I lost sight of our objective."

"Since when? You are a great fighter. It would not be true if you could so easily ‘lose sight of your objective.'"

Peter knew he was correct. Without a single word, Brighit demanded his total attention whenever she was nearby. He seemed unable to tear himself away from her. How many times had he stopped today to check on her? Feigning a need to relieve himself. When Mort finally asked him if he had eaten some bad beef, he knew it had been too many times.

He needed to look at her, check to see that all was well, see if perhaps she would ask to ride outside the carriage for a while. She never said a word to him.

"The knife?" Peter asked.

"She has it on her, hidden beneath her kirtle."

"Do you think she plans on using it?"

Mort thought for a moment. "She will use it if she needs to."

"If she is attacked? She will use it in her own defense?"

Mort strummed his fingers against his lips. "No. I think she may feel she needs to use it even now."

"As in commit murder?"

Peter turned back toward the fire. Brighit gently rocked, her hands wrapped tightly around her waist. His heart sank. Without waiting for the reply, he walked to the fire with enough noise to assure he did not startle her.

"May I sit?" Peter asked.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with her fear. "You may."

Peter settled himself beside her. He still had hope he could offer some bit of peace.

"Were you comfortable enough in the carriage?"

Her smile brightened her entire face. "I was. As Mort reassured you all afternoon, it was quite comfortable."

He shifted on the cold ground, his legs stretched out before him. "Are any of these men known to you?"

Her face shifted to a guarded anger before his eyes. He regretted his choice of words immediately. That was something he needed to move beyond with her if she was to ever feel safe with him.

"Known? As in the way you know Ursula?"

He did not anticipate the question. He paused before he asked, "Who is Ursula?"

"You don't even know the woman you paid to lay with you?"

"I paid no one."

"She showed me the gold coin." Brighit's head tipped to one side, her jaw tight.

"I've lain with no one."

Brighit's mouth closed tight.

Peter searched his memory. The woman in the red dress came to mind. "Ah, the wench at the inn?"

She turned toward him with eyes wide with outrage. "Now you remember?"

"I do not know what she told you but I gave her no gold coin and I did not lay with her."

"So she lied to me? Why would she do that?"

Peter thought for a moment. "Perhaps she tried to make you believe I had lain with her?"

"Why would I care?"

"You do appear irritated."

In a better light he was certain her coloring was turning a deep red.

"I do not know. I barely spoke to the woman." He didn't want to tell Brighit that she may have been insulted at his lack of interest in her. "I believe I was asking you about these men you are with. Have you met them before?"

Her lips tightened. "No." She turned away.

"And your uncle hired them?"

She gave an exaggerated sigh. Peter resisted the urge to smile, instead waiting patiently for her answer.

"Ivan is my uncle's man. Ivan hired the other two."

"And your uncle?"

"I never met him before—at least that I remember, before the day we left my home to come here."

She turned away. Her nostrils gently flared. Her throat constricted with her swallow. She struggled to keep her composure.

"It must have been very difficult to leave your home."

Her tear left one single clean streak down her travel-weary face. "It was."

"I take it that it was not your choice?"

Her look spoke of the absurdity at such a question. "I am a woman. I do as I am told. May I return to the carriage?"

Peter wanted to take her hand... no he wanted to take her in his arms and let her cry on his shoulder. He wanted to comfort her with reassurances of her safety. To tell her he would not let any harm come to her. He didn't move.

"Yes. If that is what you choose."

Brighit rose slowly and walked back toward the carriage. He followed her, waving Mort aside, but not before seeing the angry frown on his face. Peter assisted her into the carriage. She closed the door in his face with a quiet thud.

Peter sat on the cold ground and leaned against the tree in the darkness. A cloudy sky offered no clear view but silhouettes of black, hulking objects where the men sat before the fire. Ivan, Andrew, and Cole huddled around the dying embers still drinking their fill. Loud and unruly, the occasional quiet drew Peter's attention back to them. Their heads close together, they talked of things among themselves. He would not be surprised to have them inform him that they were departing on the morrow. The evening had gone that badly.

Ivan pushed to have Brighit ordered out of the carriage to eat with them. All but falling short of ordering her to be dragged to the fire. Peter was not so inclined and said as much. If she wanted to be alone, they should allow her that. He and Ivan had nearly come to blows over it. The man was single-minded and loose-mouthed from the drink. Peter's insistence jeopardized Ivan's leadership in the eyes of his lackeys, no doubt. Neither was willing to back down. But when Mort quietly pointed out to Peter that it may be her pride that was keeping her inside, he had second thoughts.

He approached the carriage to ask her to join them. The door opened and she jumped down again. He couldn't miss the mumbles of appreciation erupting with the movement or the back slapping from the three at the bawdy entertainment. Brighit seemed unaware of the amount of leg she displayed with every unaided ascent and descent from the carriage. All the way up to her knees. Peter refused to acknowledge that her ivory-skinned ankles and calves were indeed the most comely he'd ever seen. The sudden silence assured Peter that Mort had silenced them with his god-awful glare.

Brighit returned to her earlier seat. Mort quickly handed her a trencher.

"My thanks. This smells delicious."

The courtesy she displayed indeed spoke of noble breeding but her inability to keep herself completely covered—no, that wasn't fair—her inability to get in and out of the conveyance without showing far too much leg belied it.

The men proceeded to pass around the mead throughout the meal, filling in the quiet with their own boisterous laughter and vulgar comments. Peter did not object. Men needed to relax. Even if he found their company far from desirable. So now he lay again in the quiet of the night, thinking. He needed sleep and he fought against it. His sleep was not restful. His dreams were tortured. He didn't awaken refreshed, he awakened with a raging need for release. Guilt. Misery.

Peter stood abruptly. The men were settling down now, the fire nearly out. They didn't notice him. Mort was nearby. He followed the path that led deeper into the woods and isolation. He needed to be alone.