by Lynn Lorenz
“Ow!” Peter fell back on his ass. “What did you do that for?” Now the man, eyes clamped shut, fought him. His body bucked and legs kicked as he struggled against Peter’s hold.
Peter groaned. He got back on his knees, then threw one leg over the man and sat, pinning the younger and slighter man under him. He pushed both arms down on either side of the man’s head and leaned forward.
Chest heaving, the man opened his eyes and looked up into Peter’s. Eyes the color of heather met his. Full pink lips, skin the color of fresh milk, and a light sprinkling of freckles danced across his nose.
Beautiful.
Peter and the young man gasped at the same time.
Then the man went limp. Surrendering.
Caught in his stare, Peter couldn’t look away. Couldn’t breathe. Deep inside his chest, his heart thudded. Just once.
“I won’t hurt you.”
A pink tongue licked pinker lips. He blew a great breath, and strands of red hair flew up and away from his face.
He nodded.
“I’m going to get off now. Are you well?”
Another nod.
Peter shifted, got to his feet, and offered his hand.
The man took it, and Peter pulled him to his feet. He came up to Peter’s shoulder. Peter fought the urge to push the man’s hair from his face and pick the leaves from it.
Strange.
“What’s your name?” He softened his tone.
∙•∙
Arvel tilted his head, inspecting the man’s face with the intensity of a hawk. It warmed him all over to look at this man, just like his Heart did.
But was he a friend? Would he be safe?
Something about the man made Arvel trust him.
He pushed the hair out of his face, then squatted and wrote his name in the dirt with his finger, as he’d been taught long ago.
“Arvel? Is that your name?” Something about that name sounded familiar.
The man nodded and gave him a shy smile.
“I’m Peter.” He pointed to his chest and squatted down to write his name just as the younger man had, in the dirt of the road.
Arvel watched him, then nodded.
“Are you hurt?”
Arvel got to his feet and brushed off his breeches and tunic. He extended his hand toward Peter, those lavender eyes glancing up and down Peter’s body.
∙•∙
Peter took the offered hand in his. Small, delicate. If he didn’t know this was a man, he’d have sworn the hand belonged to a woman. Everything about Arvel spoke of gentleness, delicacy, and grace.
But he still hadn’t said a word, just stared hard at Peter as if absorbing every word he’d spoken.
“Well. Can I escort you to your home in case the others come back?” Peter moved away and gathered his horse’s reins as she grazed along the side of the lane.
∙•∙
Arvel cocked his head and twisted his lips to the side.
Too many words at once and his lips moved too fast.
Arvel waited for the man to speak again.
∙•∙
Peter shrugged. It seemed the young man didn’t want his help. He climbed into the saddle as his mare grunted and tossed her head at the tightening of her bit. He gave Arvel a wave and turned the horse back to the lane. He needed to find the lodge before dark fell.
The young man ran forward and caught his boot. Peter looked down into Arvel’s upturned face, and his memory snapped into place. The caretaker of Marden Lodge?
∙•∙
Arvel mouthed his thanks as his hand clenched tightly on to Peter’s leg, pulling at him, willing him not to go. To stay.
He glanced down the road. The others might come back again to hurt him. They rarely gave up. He should never have left the safety of the lodge, his home, not even for the supplies he’d needed.
Not without someone to protect him.
Like this man.
“What is it? Can’t you speak?”
He shook his head and touched his fingers to his mouth, then to his ear and shook his head.
∙•∙
“You can’t speak or hear?” Peter’s eyes widened—then anger flooded him. Those bastards had not only attacked a man alone, unarmed, and outnumbered, they’d attacked someone deaf and mute. Had they no honor?
He took out his map, opened it, and showed it to Arvel, pointing to Marden Lodge. “Are you the caretaker of Marden Lodge? Do you know the way?”
Arvel opened his mouth in what should have been a laugh, and nodded. He released his hold on Peter’s boot and motioned with his hand to wait. Then he ran back and snatched up a sack, its contents spilled and strewn about the ground. He gathered them up, stuffed them back into the cloth carryall, and trotted ahead, down the lane, waving over his shoulder for Peter to follow.
Peter shoved the map away and urged his horse forward.
Chapter Three
Arvel stopped and looked back at Peter. He pointed into the dense woods where the faintest lane showed beneath the thick lower branches of the oaks. Peter dismounted. There was no way he’d be able to ride without being scratched raw by them.
If Logan had expected him to find this path and the lodge, he must not have been here for long years. It looked completely unused, and if Peter hadn’t been shown its location, he never would have found it. Someone had to be watching out for him and his mission.
Peter glanced to the heavens, now darkening with storm clouds. He reached inside his tunic and fingered the soft linen handkerchief Mary had embroidered with his name the first month they’d been married. Perhaps she had put him on the path to the lodge.
His guide ducked, stepped into the thick growth, and disappeared.
Guiding his mare, Peter pushed through and followed. As he lifted branches to make way for the horse, he lost sight of his guide. Ahead, the path widened, and the branches rose high enough for him to ride under, if he wished.
He stayed on his feet, hoping it wouldn’t be far.
The woods thinned, but the path never widened. Arvel continued, with only an occasional glance over his shoulder at Peter. Where did he think Peter would go? So far, they hadn’t passed a single place where he could have turned his horse.
Overhead, through the canopy of the trees, the skies darkened. The wind rose, a sure sign the rain would start before long. Peter looked toward Arvel, who’d moved farther ahead, picking up his pace as if he too were concerned about the storm.
Peter moved faster. The woods opened around him. Through the trunks of the trees, he spotted deer. They froze, tails flicking, then bounded away deeper into the wood.
A hunting lodge indeed. The deer at least were plentiful, so he wouldn’t go hungry. He just hoped the young caretaker had taken care of the lodge and he wouldn’t find it filled with vermin and forest creatures, or leaking rain, damp, and cold.
Arvel stepped into a glade, a natural opening in the forest, and halted. Peter came up behind him and the horse bumped into him, pushing him into his guide. Arvel reached back and caught Peter’s hip, steadying himself and Peter but not moving forward.
Peter felt the steady rise and fall of Arvel’s breathing against his chest. The man’s head stood just under Peter’s nose, and he inhaled. A sweet, earthy odor rose from the long red tresses. Leaves stuck out at various places, and he reached up and plucked one free.
Arvel spun around, his hand clapped to his head, brows furrowed.
“Pardon, Arvel.” Peter held the leaf up to show Arvel.
Arvel took the golden leaf from him, glancing up into Peter’s face. Their gazes met, locked, and Peter’s mouth went very, very dry.
His gaze dropped to that expressive mouth, lingered on full pink lips, and then he tore it from Arvel and looked over his head.
The lodge.
It stood on the other side of the glade, tucked into the woods. The trees seemed to protect it, hold it in thick, bark-covered sheltering arms. Built from thick stones and covered in a thatch
roof, the building looked well-tended.
“Marden Lodge?”
Arvel, still staring up at him, nodded. Peter felt his exhale. Then Arvel turned and strode across the glen to the door of the dwelling.
Peter waited no more than a second, then followed.
Arvel turned to the side and pointed. A small stable had been built adjacent to the lodge, and in front of it an iron stake rose from the ground to tether Peter’s horse. Then he moved to the door and waited.
“Let me tend my mount, and I’ll join you inside.”
∙•∙
Arvel nodded, smiled, lifted the latch, and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. As he leaned against it, his heart beat as fast as a small bird’s wings.
Had he done wrong to bring him here? The man had come to his home for a reason. But why? How long before his Heart returned?
Well, it was done. He was here. Arvel could start a fire now.
He pushed off the door, went to the hearth, and kneeled, selecting four good, dry logs. He prepared the kindling, struck the spark, and watched it blaze.
∙•∙
Peter exhaled. He led his mount to the stable and into one of two stalls, their floors laid with fresh straw. A bag of oats sat outside the stall and a bucket of water sat in the corner as if waiting for him to arrive.
Had Logan sent word ahead? Peter shrugged, not caring, just thankful the lodge had been well-prepared. Working swiftly, he removed the saddle, wiped down the mare, and gave her a scoop of oats. He left her munching, content, and after hanging up her bridle he closed the stable door and left, his saddlebags over his shoulder.
Once at the door to the lodge, he hesitated, hand raised, then knocked.
No one answered.
Peter frowned. Arvel knew he would be coming inside. Why not answer?
He groaned, remembering the man’s deafness. He couldn’t hear the knocking, and wouldn’t no matter how hard or long he beat on the door.
He opened the door and stepped inside.
Arvel kneeled at the hearth, putting the last log on the fire. Peter moved farther into the great room, surveying it. The roof soared overhead, great logs forming its bones, the thatch thick and sturdy-looking. On one side, a table and benches to eat at—on the other, a large bed, covered in quilts and furs. In front of the hearth, as if waiting for Peter to sit, stood two large stuffed chairs.
He dropped his bags on the table with a thud. Arvel gave the fire a last poke, then stood, put away the iron, and brushed off his hands. He turned and spotted Peter.
Arvel smiled, shy yet wary.
“I won’t hurt you.” Peter held out his hands, away from his sword or blade.
Arvel nodded and pointed to a chair. Peter sat and stuck his legs out toward the fire. Warmth crept closer, filling the room and Peter with ease. Arvel went to the table and began unpacking Peter’s saddlebags. He placed the clothes in a pile, then carried them to a small trunk next to the bed, opened it, and put them inside.
Then he returned and sorted out the food that Peter had brought, tucking each item into a spot on the shelves above a pantry press that stood against the wall. Once that was done, he took a knife from a drawer and rummaged in a sack, bringing out several turnips and carrots.
He began what Peter hoped would be their dinner. Now that he’d sat, his belly let him know its need. He frowned and rubbed it.
“What are you preparing?”
Arvel continued working, chopping up the vegetables into thick pieces and adding them to an iron pot.
Peter sighed. Arvel couldn’t hear him. Peter rubbed his eyes and sank back into the soft chair. He’d just close his eyes for a time, just to rest, that’s all.
»»•««
Peter woke to the clanging of a wooden spoon against a pot. Arvel bent over the pot, stirring, then brought the spoon to his lips for a taste. He slurped the gravy, then tapped the spoon again, put the lid on, and pushed the metal arm holding the pot back over the fire.
Peter prayed the meal was near done—his belly ached sorely. His last meal had been quite early in the morn, and he’d eaten only some cheese and bread. Not much to hold a man his size.
Arvel ignored him, going about his work, with only a quick glance in his direction and a short nod of his head in greeting.
Peter wished Arvel could speak. He’d counted on learning much from the caretaker about the possibility of Duke Weathers’ men being seen in the area. So much for that idea.
Arvel might know, but how would they ever be able to exchange information?
It seemed quite hopeless. He’d have to speak with the local villagers and forget asking Arvel about Weathers.
Damn.
Peter growled. Impatient to get started on his mission, he’d have to take his ease until morning, when he could go to the village. He’d start at the church, speak to the priest, and see where that might lead him.
Arvel placed chargers on the table, then a jug of water, and went to the hearth. Using a thick cloth, he pulled the pot off the fire and removed it. The little caretaker motioned to the sideboard and a washbowl and ewer. Peter stood, went to it, and poured some water. He washed the road’s dirt from his face and hands, then dried them with a cloth left neatly folded next to the bowl.
Peter sat, pulling a wooden charger in front of him. Arvel removed the lid, and the aroma of the stew filled the room.
“It smells wonderful!” Peter grinned, inhaling deeply.
Arvel cocked his head to the side, then grinned back. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, signaling he too appreciated the smells.
Peter laughed.
Arvel’s mouth opened, miming a silent laugh. His eyes twinkled, the odd color capturing Peter’s attention.
“You think it smells good also?”
Arvel nodded and ladled stew onto Peter’s plate, then poured water into a pewter goblet and sat opposite Peter. Each man selected a piece and began eating. Peter dabbed some bread into the gravy and took a bite. It tasted as good as it smelled.
They ate in silence, broken only by the scraping of their spoons and their chewing. Peter longed to speak with Arvel, to ask about Weathers’ men, to ask if Logan had him prepare the lodge, but mostly to hear the sound of the man’s voice.
This was very odd since he’d gone these last six months wishing to hear only Mary’s voice call to him. Tell him of her day, ask him about his day’s duties, and tell him of the gossip in the castle.
When they had finished their meal, Arvel cleaned the plates away, rinsed them in a bucket of water, and then dried them off with a cloth. Peter sat at the table, watching. Arvel moved gracefully, his motions smooth, silent. A spoon dropped to the floor and Arvel bent over to pick it up, and Peter could barely pull his eyes from the firm globes presented to him beneath those breeches.
He swallowed and looked away, but his eyes fell on the bed.
It was a large bed, built to hold more than one.
He scanned the room again. Just the one bed. Well, he’d brought his bedroll, and the fire looked warm enough. If he wanted, he could sleep in one of the chairs, should the floor prove too hard.
Peter stood, went to his saddlebags, and pulled out his blanket. He took it over to the hearth, dropped it onto one of the chairs, and dragged the other chair out of the way.
Arvel stared at him, head cocked. When Peter unrolled the blanket, snapped it open, and let it float to the floor, Arvel rushed over to him, shaking his head.
∙•∙
Arvel snatched up the blanket and pointed to the bed. The guest must always take the bed. He replaced the chair and turned back to Peter, motioning him to sit.
He stomped his foot. This was his work, what the duke paid him to do, to care for the lodge, fix the meals, and tend the guests.
And he did it well. The duke had told him so the last time he’d visited, had been pleased to find the old lodge so well-kept. And Gareth told him often he’d never been tended so well. Or as well fed.
And so would Peter, if he’d just let Arvel do his work.
∙•∙
Peter sat. After folding the blanket, Arvel dropped to his knees and patted his thigh for Peter’s boot. Peter placed his boot on Arvel, and the caretaker pulled it off. Peter switched feet, and the other was removed.
Arvel looked up into Peter’s face, smiling, his hand wrapped around Peter’s ankle. Peter held his breath as he gazed at the beautiful younger man. Arvel blushed. Then he rubbed Peter’s leg, massaging away the tightness.
When Peter didn’t protest, Arvel used both hands to work the muscles. Heaven. How long had it been since he’d felt such a touch? The pressure increased, moving up his leg. Arvel’s hands worked the muscles around his knees.
Peter let his head fall back, relaxing into the kneading of muscles he hadn’t realized were sore until touched. The warmth of the fire, the steady rubbing, his full belly, all added to the feeling of contentment.
A feeling he hadn’t felt in long months. Since before…
His eyes shot open, and he pushed to his feet. Startled, Arvel fell back to the floor and gaped up at him.
“I meant no harm.” Peter held out his hands to the man. “It’s just…just…” He couldn’t get the words out—they burned in his throat, threatening to choke him.
Arvel nodded, pushed back to sitting, and pointed to the bed.
Aye, that’s what he needed, to climb into bed. But all these months and he’d chased sleep, rarely catching it and then regretting that he had. Because with sleep came the dreams.
But Arvel had offered, after all. Peter moved to the bed and drew back the quilts. The mattress looked thick and soft, the quilts no doubt warm.
He sat on the edge of the bed and undressed, ignoring Arvel’s presence but aware that the man had moved to a chair and curled up in it.
Did he mean to spend the night there? Peter knew the man didn’t sleep in the chair when he was alone. This bed was Arvel’s. By all rights, the man should lie in his own bed, shouldn’t he?
Where did the caretaker rank next to the second-in-command on a secret mission? About the same, Peter wagered. So, he could not demand the right to the bed, but he could accept the generous offer.
∙•∙
