Chapter Five

Chapter Five

At the King's orders, Peter headed to York. The road through the north of England vacillated between being overcrowded with travelers and not seeing another soul for days. He wished to be alone but his flamboyant traveling companion did not choose to be ignored. Not only was he dressed in fine silk, silver bells and feather adornments, he refused to be quiet.

"So when William came to York, it was really just to visit FitzOsbern whom he had the greatest of respect for, you understand, but he does like to keep even his closest friends under his thumb—though I mean no disrespect, but the man truly is a tyrant at times…so sorry, do not mean to offend—"

"Mort! Will you please just shut up?" Peter tried yet again to get the man to give his mouth a rest. The subject of his irritation turned his head quickly, the feather tucked securely in his cap flapping up and down.

"My lord, you know I have nothing but the greatest of respect for you and for our mission here but you need not be so obviously disgruntled with the fact I am a talker and, as the King knows I am a talker, I believe it is the reason he put us together. Do not think for a moment I did not have better things to be doing…" Peter rolled his eyes and prayed to be struck down by lightning though the skies were finally clear. Listening to this man blather on and on was going to be the death of him. "...and it was true I was never far from the King's side during most of his conquests but—"

"Desist!" Peter maneuvered his gray warhorse in front of the palfrey the plump, little man rode, causing it to stop. With the sudden movement, the bells at his waist jingled slightly. "I mean now."

The man was clearly surprised by Peter's direct orders and dropped his jaw to make his defense but Peter held up his hand. Holding his gaze, the other man turned away abruptly as if being insulted by a man of lesser value than himself.

"I know not why you feel the need to speak without end but I can bear it no longer."

The plump man turned his evil eye on Peter who tried not to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

"Hear me! Either you stop talking or…" Peter drew his sword from his saddle with slow deliberation until it was held up before him "…I will cut your tongue out."

The little man really knew nothing about him. Peter could very well be the sort to do just that. Mort definitely tried his patience. Admittedly, Peter had been sorely tempted over the last week's travels to do just that— and more—to keep from listening to the man anymore.

Mort pursed his lips and crossed his arms. When he opened his mouth, Peter lifted the blade slightly higher.

"Do we understand each other then?"

The feather that drooped from his floppy hat quivered with his angry grunt.

"Good. Then I will be allowed to travel unmolested by your tongue and perhaps plan my strategy for possible assault?" Peter paused, quirked a brow, his lips pressed tightly together. "York does not hold kindly to the King sending yet another envoy to her gates. They prefer to rule themselves."

"That is what I was telling you about," the man huffed his response.

"No. You were just talking. You said nothing of the sort."

His nostrils flared and Peter swore he could hear the man's teeth grinding. "You, my lord, have no sensitivity to the finer art of conversation."

"So I have been told."

"Hah!" The man's eyes widened on him. "I knew that was the very problem at the last inn. You did not show that woman the proper amount of attention before trying to get her beneath you."

Damn. Peter had hoped the man was too drunk to have remembered that embarrassing scene. Truly, Peter had been too long without a woman. How else could he have bungled such a simple job as bedding a very willing wench. He replaced his broadsword and gave the man a withering look.

"You talk again, yet I have not asked you to do so."

"You're surly because you've been without a woman." Mort spit the words at him. "Do not take that out on me!"

"I most certainly will not." Peter pulled the reins to head the horse back along the little path. "I have no need for a woman."

Mort's humph could be heard even across the distance he put between the two of them. Perhaps he was right. If Peter could be left alone to think, he might be able to figure that out as well. The hill sloped down below them at last and a castle in the far off distance came into view.

The wooden structure sat formidably raised on a hill and surrounded by a palisade of timber but seemed no worse for wear. FitzOsbern's fort building days had long passed, however, and having this one controlled by an Earl of questionable loyalty was just one more thing for King William to be unhappy about. Peter had been sent by the King to make known a strong and loyal presence to those who might wish to question his leadership again. No doubt the harrying that had taken place could never be forgotten. Peter accepted the duty as an opportunity for space and time to overcome the loss of his lady love.

His love. Thoughts of their last night together came slamming back and he fought against the desire that burned his loins. It had been too long and this craving was becoming unbearable. That ridiculous attempt at carnal satisfaction the night before had given him hope and dashed it just as quickly. Enough. They crossed the gentle slope at the edge of the glen. The lake came into view.

Peter reined in his horse and dropped to the ground. "We'll stop here."

He ripped his tunic off in one motion. His companion tsked behind him, mumbling of this and that. Peter removed his braies and hose. He dove deep into the crystal blue lake before his unappeased appendage could be commented on. At the muddy bottom, he pushed himself back up, his lungs near bursting. The water was ice cold and it felt good. He flipped his hair back and dove again, savoring the numbing chill.

The barrenness of the countryside would take Brighit some time to get used to. Perhaps it was only this area, but it seemed nothing like her home which was so lush and green. She missed her family. A tightness began to build in her throat but Brighit refused to acknowledge it. A splashing sound came to her from just beyond the tree stand.

She glanced back the way she'd come. The need to return immediately or confront Ivan's wrath had her clenching her teeth. That splash sounded very much like the lake Lachlann had mentioned. A chance to clean her face and hands in a refreshing body of water rather than with a soaked cloth? The heat in that confined carriage was making her wilt. She sniffed and confirmed her stench was overwhelming. Before even thinking it through, she headed in the direction of the sound.

Brighit paused on the barely discernible path. Sure she heard rustling, she glanced behind at the open field she'd come from. It was empty. Nothing behind her that could make such a sound. Was it a deer perhaps? Taking a few steps farther, the small rise gave way to the breathtaking sight of a small lake. The top glistened like glass without a ripple to disturb its surface.

The slight breeze carried the pungent aroma of honeysuckle and lavender. The plants would be a wonderful thing to find and put in with her few belongings. Each night she would be surrounded by the smell of flowers. Without another thought she headed through the bushes to her right, careful to not make a sound in case the deer were still nearby. Movement along the banks drew her attention and she froze.

A man stood there dripping wet and naked. He pushed his hair away from his face. A handsome face with a strong jaw and a thick brow. She followed the movement of his hands, sloshing the water off his chiseled body. Blond hair spanned his broad chest and across his rippled torso, leading down his muscular legs, glistening in the fading light. His tarse was visible even from this distance. She looked long and hard. Her breathing became labored. Magnificent.

He turned in her direction. She ducked. She held her breath and shivered in the bush, willing her heart to stop pounding so loudly. When she ventured another peek, he was gone. Disappointment welled up inside her gut. She'd wanted nothing more than to sit and watch him, imagine how it would feel to run her hands down his expansive chest and firm body as he had done, to appreciate the rippled strength there. She blew out the breath she'd been holding and licked her dry lips. That certainly wasn't going to happen, not in this lifetime—as a nun. A small bush of purple flowers brushed her hand and she snatched it. Lavender. The sun was dropping below the hills in the west and she needed to get back. Enough of these wasted desires.

Desire made things happen. It was her grandfather's favorite saying. As the seventh son, he had been a man of some notoriety among Irish nobility. He was given the Celtic Princess, Faighrah, to wed. When he sired his own seventh son, the other leaders turned to him for guidance, for wisdom, in return for unfailing loyalty. The belief always that the seventh son of the seventh son of the seventh son had a special anointing from God. No evil could befall him.

Brighit was no son and evil seemed a little too close. Ivan had told her he would not hesitate to make up a lie about who she was. Even saying she was his wife. Others would believe him because he was a man. Perhaps a little more protection from the same God who made her a female was not asking too much.