The bald man did as ordered, placing them upon the tables. He sat beside Cole who had already chosen the other table for himself. Ivan stood by the door, shuffling his feet and skulking like a child who’d lost the cat he’d been torturing.
Peter wanted him out of his sight.
“Ivan, sit with your men or be gone from the room.”
The innkeeper reappeared with a well-browned pheasant, speared with a knife, on a wooden platter. This time he was followed by a gray-haired woman, probably his wife. She carried a tray of dark bread and offered the upper crust to Peter. Her head bowed slightly.
“My thanks,” Peter said.
Mort smiled, no doubt pleased by the deference being shown Peter. The man had probably informed the couple of the honor they were being paid by the presence of one of the King’s own favored knights.
After properly serving the knight, the couple brought in the victuals for the other table.
Peter removed the knife and cut the meat. He pierced a small, juicy piece and offered it to Brighit.
Her warm eyes held his for a moment before accepting it, the pink tip of her tongue catching the liquid that dripped off it.
The tension in his body doubled.
“My thanks.”
“I hope you find everything to your liking.”
“It is very good,” Brighit said.
The innkeeper’s wife topped off Brighit’s mug.
“Is there no one else here? Are there no wenches about?” Peter asked.
The gray-haired woman paused beside him and searched his face before responding. “A young woman helps sometimes.”
He waved his hand to decline the mead, opting to continue with his own filched libations. He took a long sip. The sudden, delicious warmth in the room may have been from the fire, but he suspected it was not. Release would be sweet. “Will she be here tonight?”
Brighit frowned at Peter. He speared another piece of meat.
“She only comes when needed,” the older woman said.
Her gaze was unwavering. He need only admit his need for the wench and it would be done.
Peter missed Brighit’s mouth.
“Ow!” Brighit gingerly touched her lip.
“My apologies,” Peter said.
No blood. Peter put the knife down.
Brighit drank from her cup, watching him over the rim. She placed her mug on the table beside the knife then glanced over at Ivan. Peter did the same before turning back to her.
The little man dropped his head to slurp his soup as if he’d not eaten for a week.
“Do not vex yourself,” Peter said.
“I am under hisprotection.” Although she kept her face down now, her eyes widened at the word protection.
He couldn’t resist asking. “And is that all?”
Her eyes widened then narrowed into little slits of unspoken indignation. Her entire expression closed down. When he offered her more meat, she held up her palm, then turned away.
