She sat perfectly still—stiff as the wooden plank she sat on. Her shoulders pressed back. Her chin in that ever-so-defiant tilt. Her full breasts pressing against the coarse material of her sack-like kirtle. Her nipples puckering beneath his gaze. Large, rosy nipples if he remembered correctly.
“How soon could she arrive?” Peter asked the innkeeper’s wife.
Mort’s annoyed intake of air was quite loud.
“We will get her immediately, my lord,” the innkeeper said then rushed his wife into the other room.
“What is amiss?” Peter finally asked Mort. “I thought it would be appropriate to have Lady Brighit receive assistance while she was here. Do you not agree?”
Suspicion flashed across Mort’s face before his shoulders rounded suddenly. “Oh, no, my lord. You are very thoughtful.”
The innkeeper returned alone.
“Do you have rooms for us?” Peter’s irritation intertwined with his unquenched desire.
“Yes, my lord.” The man bowed slightly then smiled. “We have enough room in our outbuildings to accommodate a small army.”
He didn’t have or need an army at the moment. When he needed was a willing woman.
Peter took another swallow of the warming liquid. He stood. The smoothness of his drink made a pleasant sweep through his body, down into his loins, and up into his head.
Brighit remained unmoving. Her head beside him, blurred slightly. He had the sudden urge to feel the softness of the brown hair that lay hidden beneath the stark, white wimple. Run his hands through it. Slide his finger along her unyielding profile and tip her chin up ever so gently so he could meet her mouth for a warm, wet kiss—
Mort coughed loudly from across the table. “You were saying, my lord?”
Mort’s face appeared quite expectant but Peter wasn’t sure what he had been sa—oh yes.
“Well, a warm bed or two would certainly suffice.”
The arousing picture of being in a warm bed with the even warmer body of Brighit beneath him flashed through his mind. Her lovely brown hair splayed across the pillows. His manhood making its presence felt between her—she shifted beside him.
“Yes. Do you have a room?” Mort came up to Peter, blocking Brighit from his view. But Peter wanted to see her, watch her, think about making love to her. He stepped to the side so that he could continue to observe her. Some movement at the other table caught his attention. Ivan watched him, his face dark and unreadable.
“We only have the one bed in the loft.” The innkeeper’s wife spoke. “But plenty of room in the stables. It’s warm and dry.”
Peter crossed his arms and smiled at Ivan. “I’m sure our traveling companions would be happy with those accommodations.”
“As will I,” Mort stated. “Come, gentlemen, let us see this enticing area.”
The four men followed the innkeeper out the front door. Peter glanced at the unyielding future bride of Christ. His arousal painfully tight in his close-fitting hose. He closed his eyes and breathed in her scent. A feminine scent that required just that gentlest of touches to bring her to full arousal.
Reality hit him. He opened his eyes. This was no willing wench. She was not to be seduced. There was no chance Peter could spend tonight in the company of this fetching woman. It must be his long abstinence turning her into a highly desirable morsel. He should know better. If Brighit wanted the only bed, that was fine. She deserved it. He wanted a willing wench beneath him, quenching his raging need—perhaps more than once. Hopefully they would both get what they wanted.
Peter’s eyes bore into her. She knew it as well as if she could see his face. The bench beneath her was unyielding and uncomfortable. Her numbed bottom begged her to shift but after his last insult, she refused. She couldn’t understand why he would treat her respectfully one minute then ask about this imagined, intimate relationship with Ivan the next.
That whoreson smacking her bottom was the last straw. The innkeeper’s wife would be back any second to clear away the remaining items on the trestle. The small knife sat among the wooden plates, mugs, and bones on the table. It had taken long enough but she was not about to pass what may well be her only opportunity to obtain a means to protect herself. With the others gone, it would be hers if Peter would just turn away.
“Well?” Peter asked.
She started at his voice. Indecision held her immobile. If he could be distracted before the woman returned, she could grab that little knife.
She would engage him and get him to leave. “I’m sorry?”
“As well you should be, but what will it be?”
What will it be? What was he going on about? He did not seem inclined to leave. She glanced toward the back door. She had only a fleeting moment to act.
She leaned closer to the table, her fingertips curling around the wooden edge. She pushed herself up, swung to face him, and scooped the blade into her hand.
