The Gentle Knight (The Norman Conquest Book 2)

by Ashley York

  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.

  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 unc
le, 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.