The Gentle Knight (The Norman Conquest Book 2)

by Ashley York

  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 lo
rd.” 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.

  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.