by Ashley York
She glanced sideways at him for just a moment. “I’m sure I’ve said too much already.”
Peter stopped.
Mort said, “Lady Brighit, it is clear to me that you have been ill-treated by these men. Mayhap we can work together to find out why.”
“Will you not accept my protection?” The words stung Peter’s heart even as he spoke them.
He had not been there for Jeanette but he would be for Brighit. Resolve settled in the depths of his heart. “My protection will not be withdrawn, my lady. I will see that no harm comes to you.”
“Indeed. We will reach the Priory with you none the worse for wear—” Mort broke out into a smile “Maybe a little worse for wear since we are now forced to walk.”
Brighit sighed. “Beg pardon, Sir Peter. I take your protection as my own but wonder if Ivan and his men were to return, would I be handed back over to them?”
“We will not gainsay your decision to stay or return.” Peter had an almost overwhelming desire to punch something.
She smiled. “Yes. Then I will take your protection with the understanding that Ivan no longer has any hold over me.”
“And that is at it should be,” Peter said.
“We should keep walking,” Mort reminded them both and they all started out again.
“The tall man was hooded and it was just getting dark,” Brighit said. “He and my uncle were arguing when I came upon them. My uncle had just yelled something about someone not being a problem. I was afraid he meant me and that he was changing his mind about seeing me to the Priory.”
“They ceased their talking as soon as my uncle spotted me. Then he dragged me back into the inn. I was told Ivan would protect me until he returned. When it was time to board the curragh, I was immediately sick at the movement and my uncle never got on with us.”
Her pace quickened with the ending of her remembrance.
Mort gave her a reassuring smile and nodded.
“Not a lot of information,” Peter said.
“I’m sorry. I was upset to be leaving my home.”
He knew he was being harsh but the frustration at not being able to complete one simple task—like seeing her safely to the Priory—was grating on his nerves. The King would be sending soldiers to support Peter taking the castle in less than a week unless he sent word that all was well.
The morning stretched on and they kept a clipped pace. Their silence was broken only by occasional greetings from the few travelers they passed, all going in the opposite direction. Finally a young boy went by with an older woman Peter assumed was his mother. He had an excited look about him and a big grin.
“Mornin’,” he said. “Fine day.”
The child passed Brighit and handed her a tiny, blue flower.
Her face brightened.
“Look out for the cooper,” his mother said over her shoulder. “He seems fair and honest but he had no problem taking from my son.”
Peter turned back to face the departing pair. “It must be market day.”
Brighit smelled the flower. “It smells wonderful.”
“That flower looks quite fresh. It is probably just ahead.”
“Thank you!” Brighit yelled to the two who were already twenty paces beyond them. The little boy waved back. She placed it carefully behind her ear. “Wait.” She turned back at the departing pair. “We may have passed them.”
The three exchanged glances. Peter trotted after the pair. “Please. Can we have a word with you?”
The mother and son stopped and waited.
“How can I be of assistance?” the mother asked.
Brighit moved in closer and smiled at the little boy. She touched the flower at her ear. “My thanks, again. Do you remember passing a wooden carriage a few days ago?”
“Of course,” the mother answered. “It near blocked the path and the men were rude. Did they bother you as well?”
Peter gave Brighit an expression of encouragement, so she continued. “Did the men say anything to you.”
“Aw,” the little boy’s mouth dropped open. He screwed his face up. “You mean the dirty men? They asked if we knew where we could find Tostig’s soldiers.”
His mother nodded. “They were crazy. Tostig’s been cold and dead for a long time now. We just rushed by them. Loons.”
Peter nodded. He patted the little boy on the head. “My thanks.”
They returned to walking toward the market.
“My thanks, Brighit.” Peter smiled at her. “I’m glad you recognized them.”
“There wasn’t much else to do but look out at the people we passed. The boy was very cute. He carried a sack for his mother.”
“They must live in the area somewhere,” Peter said. “Just who are these men and what are they doing here?”
“Now we know they’re asking about a Godwinson,” Mort said.
“Yes. The one who held the territory in this area. But he was killed just as Harold and the rest of the family.”
Lowering his head, Peter caught a glimpse of Brighit’s near naked state. His eyes again perused her shapely calves. He blew a noiseless whistle. Mort noticed his focus shift.
“Perhaps we can find something for Brighit to wear at the market ahead?” he asked.
“Chances are better there than a single home,” Peter said.
At the crest of the hill, a wide, green valley spread out before them. Perhaps ten different vendors lined the road with colored flags waving from their carts. The din of caged animals and voices hawking items for sale drifted to them.
“We cannot dally here. Just renew our supplies,” Peter said.
The view of the castle was obscured from this direction and the reminder that he had other duties he should be seeing to made Peter ill-tempered. That and other distractions.
A glance at Brighit showed her excitement at the prospect of a market day. Peter smiled to himself. Ivan had made things quite difficult for her and being without a proper gown just made it that much worse. She wasn’t part of the Priory yet. These worldly things would be a part of her past very soon. He couldn’t begrudge her a few minutes to take in their wares. Her features turned dark suddenly.
“What is wrong?” he asked.
She turned toward him, an incessant shaking of her head adding to his trepidation. “I cannot be seen like this.”
He didn’t need to be reminded of her shapely calf and near transparent clothing but his eyes wandered of their own accord, stopping at the precariously placed flower in her hair.
“We know that,” he said and immediately regretted the harshness of his tone.
She pushed her shoulders back in a determined stance. “All will be well. Whatever you may find for me to wear, I will be grateful.”
Her voice was clipped as if reassuring herself as well as him.
“We will do our best,” Peter replied.
Her bravery was admirable but he noticed her step slowing as they approached the carts tightly gathered at the crossroads ahead. Why wouldn’t she be embarrassed to be seen in her night dress? Even one covered by a man’s long tunic. She could easily be mistaken as a kept woman and the tunic, along with his bare chest, certainly marked her as his. Ivan had been treating her as such throughout the trip. He snorted and stopped.
“Mort will you look ahead to see what can be found for Brighit to wear? We will wait here.”
The little man frowned. “I will do my best.”
Peter sat at the ground beside Brighit, just off the road. “We will see you respectable again, Lady Brighit.”
“My lord, we do not have such titles in Ireland.”
“Are you not of noble birth?”
“My father is clan leader—although it may be my brother by now.”
Peter ripped a piece of grass from the ground in front of him. “How do you mean?”
“My father was on his death bed when I was spirited away.” There was a little slant to her tight lips. “At his death, my brother will be clan leader.”
She s
wallowed hard before blowing out a loud sigh. “Apologies, my lord, I have much weighing me down.”
“No need. As the daughter of a clan leader, I believe lady is the correct title for you.”
Her eyes sparkled. “My thanks.”
She stretched out on her side, bending her knees slightly so that her legs were covered, and rested her head on her arm.
“Not even a blanket to cover you with,” Peter said. He crossed his legs before him and leaned back on his arms.
She gave a small laugh. “It is certainly not for lack of planning on your part. Being robbed can definitely leave one short of many necessities.”
Idle conversation was not Peter’s way but he decided he would try. “Do you enjoy the markets in Ireland?”
“We have a few tradesmen who would travel through but we are mostly on our own.”
“In Normandy, the market days were quite frequent... at least whenever the fighting stopped.”
She bent her head back to face him more fully. “Fighting sounds like it was on going.”
“It is a part of our everyday life. William has unending plans for the acquisition of lands.”
“I have memories of a lot of fighting when I was younger, as well.”
“I suppose we should be glad when celebrations begin and we can have a peaceful market day.”
She smiled. The dark image of a man coming toward them was indeed Mort and Peter stood to greet him. He carried a large sack and a basket full of hard bread, colorful cheeses, and a skin near to be bursting.
“You’ve done well, my friend.” Peter relieved him of the wine skin. “My thanks.”
The liquid was cool on his parched throat and it gave him a distraction from Mort handing Brighit the newly acquired gown. He drank and glanced around but saw no place for her to have even the slightest privacy to dress. There was also no one else nearby. He handed the skin to Brighit.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to change with our backs to you.”
She drank a sip and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I will trust you not to look.”
Mort accepted the skin and they walked a few feet away, turning their backs to Brighit.
Peter’s senses tuned into the sounds behind him. First the tunic dropped to the ground making a sound as loud as a tree falling to his ears. He held his breath and saw again in his mind the way her dampened gown had clung to her curves.
Mort all but slammed the skin into his chest. Peter’s hands scrambled to grab it and saw Mort’s dark visage. “Keep your mind where it should be.”
Peter grunted and took another drink. He tried to concentrate on the refreshing liquid but the rustling behind him reminded him of the way she’d felt against him. Soft and yielding. He thought again of her mouth against his. Her lips parting to allow his tongue access. Her breasts crushed against him.
“All done. You may turn around.”
When Mort shoved at him to obey, reality felt like cold water splashed on him. However, Peter was in no condition to face her. His hardened cock bulged quite visibly against his hose and he had no tunic to hide it with. Ever observant, Mort noticed and quickly retrieved Peter’s tunic. Peter pulled the clothing over his head and tugged it down over his demanding appendage. Unfortunately her scent surrounded him, fighting against any inward resolve to cool his ardor. He breathed in deeply, giving in to the memory of her shifting against him in submission. Clearing his throat, he steeled himself before turning to face her. His jaw dropped at the vision before him.
The tightly-fitted gown was made of a simple material but the way it hugged her womanly assets, it might as well have been silk. The generous swell of her bosom strained against the material so much so that her pearled nipples were clearly visible. Peter’s mouth went dry.
“You look lovely,” Mort offered, no doubt to cover Peter’s foolish response, and stepped in front of him.
Brighit accepted his compliment with a smile. She glanced shyly at Peter, the flower gone from behind her ear. Like a parched man, he drank in the fluidity of her graceful curves. His gaze gliding along her narrow waist to the swell of her hips. Mort cleared his throat. Peter glanced toward him again.
“The color becomes you, Brighit.” Peter frowned slightly and turned away.
In his mind’s eye, he saw her again as she had looked standing in the carriage. Her spirited response more desirable than the willing red-haired wench he could have easily slated his sexual desires with. The vision he had of Brighit was of a passionate woman whether in anger or... and Peter knew he was taking liberties even thinking about it... in his bed. Briskly, he began walking the rest of the way toward the market.
“Are you coming?” he asked without actually turning back.
He breathed deeply, trying to clear his mind. Celibacy required a certain deadening of the senses that he had yet to master. Her scent drifted to him again from his tunic. He pulled the offending material over his head and tossed it to the ground.
“Can you see to this, Mort? I believe I require some new garments, as well.”
Brighit’s voice could be heard behind him. She questioned Mort about his response but Peter ignored her, walking even faster. The sooner he got to the little group gathered at the market, the quicker he would be able to... Peter didn’t know what he planned to do but he needed distance from this woman.
As he’d hoped, the first cart he came upon had several tunics. He grabbed the first dark tunic he found.
“How much?” He pulled it over his head. It was tight in the shoulders but it smelled of wool which was better than to have Brighit’s scent teasing him. Mort stepped forward to pay the required amount. Brighit moved closer to Peter.
“Have I done something to anger you?”
The man beside the cart heard her question and looked toward Peter, waiting for his answer.
“Of course not.”
She turned away and moved along the table, admiring the items for sale.
“Are you looking for something else?” The man spoke in a low voice and looked sideways at him. “I can find almost anything you need.”
It was the way the man said it that Peter recognized his offer to find him a willing wench. Either Peter was going to commit to celibacy or find some release. “Yes.”
Mort turned toward him. “My lord!”
“Monk’s pepper,” Peter said. “Where can I find it?”
The tradesmen looked Brighit up and down and smiled. “Third cart on the right side of the road. That’s where all the herbs can be found.”
Chapter Fifteen
Brighit soaked in the scene before her. A dozen tables laden with every imaginable necessity from pots to swords to spices to fowl to clothing to breads. Brightly colored banners fluttered in the breeze every few feet as if heralding in the festivities. Strange smelling herbs and bleating sheep all vied for her attention. She hadn’t been to market day since before her mother had passed. The MacNaughtons of late had little to offer to sell and even less to buy something with.
Peter provided her with clothing and she was grateful. She wanted to thank him but he seemed irritated. He wanted to buy something... Monk’s pepper? She didn’t even know what that was. Mayhap later on she could thank him... with a kiss. Her lips curled into a secret smile. A pleasant thought but never would she be so bold.
Mort offered his arm, escorting her down the little swell in the road toward the other carts. She went from vendor to vendor, each one offering more exotic items than the one before. It wasn’t possible for her to keep the grin from her face. It was easy to forget her circumstances and become entranced by her surroundings.
“And you, my lady,” an ebony-skinned man called to her. His eyes as dark as his skin, drew her toward him. “This flower would look exceptional on you.”
The table behind him held fresh flowers, several small jars of various hues, and a brightly colored bird in a cage hanging from the corner. She gawked at it.
“Ah, you like my pet?” he asked.
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“What is it?”
“It is called a parrot. I won him in a game of chance from an interesting traveler I met. The man has gone both north and south, east and west in his travels on the sea. This—this fine feathered friend is from one of those trips.”
Mort laughed quietly beside her.
“Why dye him so many colors?” she asked.
“Ha ha, no. I did not dye him. He came that way.”
“Monk’s pepper! Have you never heard of it?” Peter’s irritated voice interrupted what she was about to say. She turned to the cart behind her.
Mort went to Peter’s side. “My lord, are you having no luck in securing the item you seek?”
Peter turned toward them and his gaze fell on her, roaming once again up and down her body. It might have been the dress he saw but the way he focused on her bosom... her breath hitched. His expression spoke of longing. Heat radiated off him. When he brought his gaze to her mouth, she wetted her lips.
“What vexes you so?” Somewhere inside she noticed the breathiness of her question and tried to stop from reaching toward him.
Mort coughed. Peter caught her hand, stilling the movement, then released it. His expression closed off, his inner desires no longer visible. “I find markets annoying—the people, the noise, the smells.” He turned toward Mort. “Do you think anyone here is going toward the Priory?”
“I found only one man headed in that direction but he doesn’t leave until the morrow. He is the entertainment for tonight.”
Peter’s jaw tensed. “So we will have to stay the night as well.”
Her heart sank in disappointment. There had been something in Peter’s look that had promised so much. She’d swear he’d wanted to touch her. Caress her.
When she had awoken in his arms, it took her a moment to make sense of his nearness. She remained still, feigning sleep. His scent drifted to her but she dared not turn into his chest as she longed to. Instead she listened to the steady beat of his heart and his quiet breathing and pretended she belonged there. The man’s arms were as comforting as a boat in a harbor.
The longing she’d just seen on his face brought that all back to her and sparked an ache in her soul. A desire to experience his strength again. And more. To feel his hands gliding over her. His light kisses along her cheek, her jaw, her neck. His warm breath against her skin.
