The smell of food cooking was the only indication he was not alone. The open room had two, small, wooden tables—marred, nicked, and looking as if they had been pieced together from scraps. Various bottles, flasks, and wine skins sat on a shelf to the left of the open fire. He did not hesitate to help himself.
“Is no one about?” Mort asked from the open door, his hands rubbing along his belted waist.
Peter took a long sip of some sort of barley water that went down smooth. “I’ve seen no one.”
Mort gave him a disgusted look. “You have ridden us hard, my lord. I believe I am not the only one who thinks so.”
“You’re complaining?” Peter tipped back for a second swallow.
Mort locked his jaw then walked through the door at the far corner.
One small window faced the road with enough grime on it to convince Peter that although the place was quiet now, it was not always so. A sure sign they would be able to meet all his required services.
Ivan walked in like the captain of a ship and towing Brighit close behind. He stopped, made a sweeping glance around the room and laughed. “Well? Does this place seem familiar to you, Brighit?”
Brighit paled.
Peter stopped mid-drink. He moved toward her. “Have you been here before?”
She shook her head. A slow, emphatic “no”.
“Speak up, dear Brighit,” Ivan said. “Tell Sir Peter what this place reminds you of.”
Peter wanted to smack that do-as-I-say-or-else look right off Ivan’s arrogant face.
“If it is a troublesome memory, you need not share it with me.” Peter spoke quietly, sorry for having walked right into Ivan’s latest attempt at belittling his ward.
“It was our first place... together.” Ivan spoke the words as if speaking of some memorable, deeply treasured place.
Together.
Brighit stared straight ahead.
“Tell him, Brighit. I’m sure he is curious. Aren’t you, Sir Peter?”
“I said she does not need to tell me.” Peter clipped each word. This man was surely the vilest creature he’d ever met.
“No. No! You should be told.” Ivan suddenly became serious, his eyes widening as if not telling him might stop the sun from rising on the morrow. “A room very much like this one was where I offered her my complete protection.”
Ivan moved in closer to Brighit, sliding one hand down her forearm to rest on her clasped hands, the other hand unseen behind her. Brighit gave a stiffened jump. The bastard had grabbed her arse.
Her color deepened three shades but she said nothing. Peter took a deep, slow, deliberate breath. It was gain control or gut the man right here.
“Ivan.” He moved in close to the little man, a breath away from spitting in his ugly face. “If youevertouch Lady Brighit in my presence again, make no mistake, I will see every last bit of your blood spilled beneath your feet.”
Ivan released Brighit’s hand, took two steps away from her and appeared to be actually shrinking in size.
Peter stared him down, unflinching. Hewantedto reach down Ivan’s throat and rip his lungs up through his mouth. Hewantedto rip his entrails out as well. Hewantedto stab him right through his black heart.
Instead, he took Brighit’s trembling hand, placed it lightly on his forearm, and escorted her into the room. He brushed off a bench for Brighit to sit upon. “Please, rest here.”
Peter straightened. Perhaps Mort could locate the owner of the inn and get some food for her. He dare not leave her alone. “Mort?”
An older man entered from the corner door. He had a thick cloth wrapped around his middle and a large pitcher in each hand. The innkeeper. Mort followed behind.
“Here, my lord,” Mort said.
“Andrew, grab the mugs from yonder wall.” Peter sat beside Brighit.
