“And you have a true knack for stating the obvious.”
Mort snickered. “This would be a good time to sit and wait to see what happens next.”
With the moon casting strange shadows about their little camp, Peter rested against a tree in the darkness along the forest’s edge. Sleep eluded him. That was just as well. Ever since he learned of Jeanette’s death, his dreams were dark and macabre. Sometimes the dream would be of his own birth and his mother screaming for help with her last breath. Sometimes it was Jeanette delivering their babe, alone and abandoned. Always he awoke in a sweat, emotionally sucked dry, unable to return to sleep.
The men had been passed out in a drunken stupor for just a short while. The banked fire glowed a distance from Peter, but the occasional snore still carried. Mort, too, slept but twenty feet from him. His feathered cap within an arm’s reach. His head against his forearm. It promised to be a long night.
A dark form moved between him and the fire. He squinted, trying to identify the shape. It could be a wild animal. The shadow was small but appeared to be upright. It paused beside each of the sleeping men, an arm’s length away. When it drifted to the right, the dim light revealed it was indeed a person. Peter couldn’t be certain it was Brighit but he had definite suspicions. Who else could it be?
She stopped beside Andrew. He rolled onto his back. She jumped back soundlessly, out of the reach of his arms. Perfectly still. Then he turned back over, tucking his hand back beneath his head. He imagined she counted to ten before she moved again, reaching to the pile of his belongings, rummaging through, looking for something in particular. Slowly she withdrew a long stick and held it in the air.
Peter tensed. The muscles of his legs coming to full alert, ready to stop any bloodshed she might be planning. Instead she dropped her arm and backed away, disappearing into the darkness just to his right. She hadn’t seemed to notice him.
Peter stood without a sound and followed her into the woods. The muffled crunch of branches breaking beneath her feet was like a beacon guiding him. He glanced back to assure no one else was aware of their movements. It didn’t take long to come upon her. She sat beside the small loch, still within the shadows of the forest.
With her back to him, he moved in closer. A tentative high pitched noise, then slightly fuller but just as high, whispered through the air. She turned toward the camp. Peter ducked soundlessly against a tree just short of her sighting him. She returned to the pilfered whistle. The instrument sounding much better than the noise Andrew had gotten out of it. A quiet tune soon drifted across the water, its haunting melody sad but sweet. Peter settled on the ground.
After playing two more tunes, Brighit leaned her head forward and placed a hand over her face. No catch in her breathing. No unintelligible words. But her shoulders shook in the moonlight. She was crying. It tugged at his heart. The beautiful music she had played spoke of her talent. Mort was correct. She was indeed a lady bred.
He filled his lungs then exhaled before standing. He walked toward her.
“That was a lovely tune.”
She jerked herself to standing, feet spread in a defensive posture, the whistle hidden behind her back.
“Do you follow me?” Her sharp tone surprised Peter.
He paused in front of her. The moon made a sudden appearance, casting her in full light. Her cheeks were damp from tears, her lips appeared soft to the touch, and her long, brown tresses promised the same. With a start he realized she was not wearing her wimple. His manhood stirred. She was quite provocative. Was she aware of the picture she presented? He licked his lips.
“I thought my new ward was making an escape.”
“Your ward, now?”
“Perhaps I will take my duty more seriously that Ivan.”
She turned slightly. In this light, she appeared quite the seductress. The gown she wore was tighter than her kirtle, outlining her breasts and dipping in at her narrow waist. He was shocked to see her ankles were exposed as well. Perhaps he had misjudged her. She could easily be a lady-bred but fallen from grace.
“Please.” He gestured to the ground she’d been sitting on.
Brighit sat as if alighting on a throne rather than the cold, hard ground. She moved the whistle to the folds of her skirt.
“So why do you skulk around in the darkness?” Peter asked.
The moon hid behind the clouds so he could no longer see her features. “I do not wish to awaken the others.”
“I thought perhaps you didn’t wish to be caught stealing the whistle you were just playing.”
“He won’t miss it. I will return it before he awakes.”
“You were quite adept at obtaining it... and moving among the sleeping men with them none the wiser.”
“So now you believe I am a thief?”
“I do not know what to believe.”
“Hmph, you knew well enough when you made accusations about me sitting around naked in the carriage.”
Peter turned away slightly to hide his grin. “My apologies if I was wrong.”
