The little man frowned. “I will do my best.”
Peter sat at the ground beside Brighit, just off the road. “We will see you respectable again, Lady Brighit.”
“My lord, we do not have such titles in Ireland.”
“Are you not of noble birth?”
“My father is clan leader—although it may be my brother by now.”
Peter ripped a piece of grass from the ground in front of him. “How do you mean?”
“My father was on his death bed when I was spirited away.” There was a little slant to her tight lips. “At his death, my brother will be clan leader.”
She swallowed hard before blowing out a loud sigh. “Apologies, my lord, I have much weighing me down.”
“No need. As the daughter of a clan leader, I believe lady is the correct title for you.”
Her eyes sparkled. “My thanks.”
She stretched out on her side, bending her knees slightly so that her legs were covered, and rested her head on her arm.
“Not even a blanket to cover you with,” Peter said. He crossed his legs before him and leaned back on his arms.
She gave a small laugh. “It is certainly not for lack of planning on your part. Being robbed can definitely leave one short of many necessities.”
Idle conversation was not Peter’s way but he decided he would try. “Do you enjoy the markets in Ireland?”
“We have a few tradesmen who would travel through but we are mostly on our own.”
“In Normandy, the market days were quite frequent... at least whenever the fighting stopped.”
She bent her head back to face him more fully. “Fighting sounds like it was on going.”
“It is a part of our everyday life. William has unending plans for the acquisition of lands.”
“I have memories of a lot of fighting when I was younger, as well.”
“I suppose we should be glad when celebrations begin and we can have a peaceful market day.”
She smiled. The dark image of a man coming toward them was indeed Mort and Peter stood to greet him. He carried a large sack and a basket full of hard bread, colorful cheeses, and a skin near to be bursting.
“You’ve done well, my friend.” Peter relieved him of the wine skin. “My thanks.”
The liquid was cool on his parched throat and it gave him a distraction from Mort handing Brighit the newly acquired gown. He drank and glanced around but saw no place for her to have even the slightest privacy to dress. There was also no one else nearby. He handed the skin to Brighit.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to change with our backs to you.”
She drank a sip and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I will trust you not to look.”
Mort accepted the skin and they walked a few feet away, turning their backs to Brighit.
Peter’s senses tuned into the sounds behind him. First the tunic dropped to the ground making a sound as loud as a tree falling to his ears. He held his breath and saw again in his mind the way her dampened gown had clung to her curves.
Mort all but slammed the skin into his chest. Peter’s hands scrambled to grab it and saw Mort’s dark visage. “Keep your mind where it should be.”
Peter grunted and took another drink. He tried to concentrate on the refreshing liquid but the rustling behind him reminded him of the way she’d felt against him. Soft and yielding. He thought again of her mouth against his. Her lips parting to allow his tongue access. Her breasts crushed against him.
“All done. You may turn around.”
