“I take it that it was not your choice?”
Her look spoke of the absurdity at such a question. “I am a woman. I do as I am told. May I return to the carriage?”
Peter wanted to take her hand... no he wanted to take her in his arms and let her cry on his shoulder. He wanted to comfort her with reassurances of her safety. To tell her he would not let any harm come to her. He didn’t move.
“Yes. If that is what you choose.”
Brighit rose slowly and walked back toward the carriage. He followed her, waving Mort aside, but not before seeing the angry frown on his face. Peter assisted her into the carriage. She closed the door in his face with a quiet thud.
Peter sat on the cold ground and leaned against the tree in the darkness. A cloudy sky offered no clear view but silhouettes of black, hulking objects where the men sat before the fire. Ivan, Andrew, and Cole huddled around the dying embers still drinking their fill. Loud and unruly, the occasional quiet drew Peter’s attention back to them. Their heads close together, they talked of things among themselves. He would not be surprised to have them inform him that they were departing on the morrow. The evening had gone that badly.
Ivan pushed to have Brighit ordered out of the carriage to eat with them. All but falling short of ordering her to be dragged to the fire. Peter was not so inclined and said as much. If she wanted to be alone, they should allow her that. He and Ivan had nearly come to blows over it. The man was single-minded and loose-mouthed from the drink. Peter’s insistence jeopardized Ivan’s leadership in the eyes of his lackeys, no doubt. Neither was willing to back down. But when Mort quietly pointed out to Peter that it may be her pride that was keeping her inside, he had second thoughts.
He approached the carriage to ask her to join them. The door opened and she jumped down again. He couldn’t miss the mumbles of appreciation erupting with the movement or the back slapping from the three at the bawdy entertainment. Brighit seemed unaware of the amount of leg she displayed with every unaided ascent and descent from the carriage. All the way up to her knees. Peter refused to acknowledge that her ivory-skinned ankles and calves were indeed the most comely he’d ever seen. The sudden silence assured Peter that Mort had silenced them with his god-awful glare.
Brighit returned to her earlier seat. Mort quickly handed her a trencher.
“My thanks. This smells delicious.”
The courtesy she displayed indeed spoke of noble breeding but her inability to keep herself completely covered—no, that wasn’t fair—her inability to get in and out of the conveyance without showing far too much leg belied it.
The men proceeded to pass around the mead throughout the meal, filling in the quiet with their own boisterous laughter and vulgar comments. Peter did not object. Men needed to relax. Even if he found their company far from desirable. So now he lay again in the quiet of the night, thinking. He needed sleep and he fought against it. His sleep was not restful. His dreams were tortured. He didn’t awaken refreshed, he awakened with a raging need for release. Guilt. Misery.
Peter stood abruptly. The men were settling down now, the fire nearly out. They didn’t notice him. Mort was nearby. He followed the path that led deeper into the woods and isolation. He needed to be alone.
Chapter Fourteen
Brighit shifted again. The hard wood of the carriage floor pressing against her shoulder blades made it impossible to sleep. The men had quieted and she knew from experience they were passed out. Peter and Mort had not been a part of their nightly gathering. She wondered where they were. The night before, they had slept apart from the others as well.
She sat up, hugging her knees into her chest. This was the time of night when she could safely venture out. The men would not hear her. They slept like the dead. As carefully as she could manage, she stood to open the door. No movement. She hopped down.
The fire was nearly out. She didn’t sense anyone closer. Perhaps Mort and Peter slept in the woods. That would be foolhardy with the wild animals around. She stilled. Maybe it was not a good night for this. An owl sounded in the distance. Fear tripped up her spine. The cold night air left goose bumps where it caressed her exposed skin. The carriage at least was warm.
Brighit turned to go back inside, the shadow of Mort beneath it. She froze. He shifted suddenly, turning his back to her and pulled the rough, woolen blanket over his shoulder. She smiled. If she called him, he would surely come, but for now she did desire time outside of her tight quarters. Peter was nowhere she could see so she moved closer to the fire.
Ivan lay on his back, his arms flayed out on either side. He mumbled something but she couldn’t tell what he said. Moving in closer, Cole and Ivan had their possession in close proximity as always. She searched the area beside Andrew but found nothing. She bent in closer then heard a movement behind her. She jumped, glancing back toward the sound at the forest’s edge. A tall silhouette of a man emerged, a sack hanging from his hand. It was Peter. Fully clothed. His sword at his side. He held Andrew’s bag up higher as if to say “Come and get it”.
Indecision rippled out from her stomach. Peter knew what she was after. She moved in closer.
“Is this what you search for?” His face was in shadows but he sounded as if he had a smile on his face.
“Are you stealing from them?”
He reached inside and pulled out the small whistle, dropping the sack to the ground. “I believe you were looking for this?”
She snatched it from his hand. Infuriating man. “You’d best not awaken them.”
Peter stretched his arm the way he’d come, directing her into the woods. She hesitated but a moment before heading down the little deer path she’d noticed earlier. He followed close behind. It gave her a strong feeling of safety to have him with her.
“Here.” Peter veered to the left and she followed. “There is a small clearing just ahead,” he whispered over his shoulder. “I do not think they’ll hear your music from there.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He stopped abruptly and turned toward her. She stumbled into him, the heat shooting up her arms where they slammed into the solid wall of his chest. She pulled back and righted herself.
“What do you think you know? One night I played a whistle so you think I do that every night?” she asked.
He stood up straighter. “I don’t think I know anything. I saw you searching Andrew for the whistle. Was I wrong?”
