“Can you see to my niece’s comforts while I search out our boatmen?”
Brighit shifted forward so her voice would carry. “No, ah—”
“Of course, my lord.” Ivan spoke more loudly than her. That or her uncle chose to ignore her.
“Ah, Uncle—” she tried again.
“Do not trouble him.” Ivan’s quiet voice purred like a contented cat. “He has done so much for you already. He’s disrupted his own duties to see to you. Allow him a few minutes to himself.” He threw his cloak over his shoulder and rested his hand on the sword hilt at his hip, small as it was. Was he threatening her? With disgust, she noticed a little bulge fairly bursting through his breeches. “I will take very good care of you.”
The thatched building, aptly named the Crossroads Inn, was set just off the much traveled crossroads that led down to the sea. The smell of salty water permeated the air but Brighit hadn’t yet spotted the turbulent tides she’d soon be crossing. Not having spent much time on the ocean, she feared it. She was convinced the dark, churning depths that separated her from her new home were totally impassable. When her uncle returned, he assured her it was doable.
“The crossing to England is not a long one. I travel it myself quite often.”
“You do?” This surprised her. “For what purpose?”
He stared blankly back at her before answering. “Now, now you needn’t concern yourself.”
His irritation with her was apparent by his tone.
“My apologies, Uncle. I meant no harm in asking.”
He blew out his annoyance. “Enough! Just don’t be daft now. You’ll land with no harm coming to you. Come along, Brighit.” Uncle Ronan grabbed her arm and directed her inside the small building to the center trestle before the fire.
The walls of the great room they entered were black with soot and ash and it reeked of urine and stale ale. The few patrons, dark and foreboding, blended into the shadows.
“That’s a good girl now.” He helped her to the bench but didn’t sit down himself.
A small, elderly woman brought one plate with various hard cheeses and dried fish along with one tankard of cider.
Brighit’s throat tightened. “Are you not joining me, Uncle?”
He looked about the empty room as if searching for someone. Having just sent Ivan off with the stable boy to care for the horses, Brighit had no idea who that could be.
“Do you know this place?” she asked. “Do you stop here often on your travels?”
Uncle Ronan seemed distracted. “You ask too many questions. I’ve some things to see to.”
“Things?” Fear clawed at her insides.
His frown deepened. He glanced at her with a questioning look.
“Didn’t you already see the boatmen?” Brighit said.
“Oh, yes. I have some other things... When Ivan returns—”
“Uncle, I wish to speak to you about Ivan. I do not feel safe in his company and—”
The older man beamed at Ivan who came up beside them, dropping onto the bench next to Brighit. He was far too close. She moved away, raising her voice.
“Uncle! I am not—”
“At your behest, my lord,” Ivan spoke over her. “He has agreed to meet with you.”
Brighit’s jaw dropped. “What? Who? Who has agreed to meet you? Another boatman?”
Her uncle ignored her questions and headed to the door without a second glance. A tall, dark man waited by the door, his face concealed by the hood of his cloak.
“Uncle, I must object.” Brighit began to stand but Ivan grabbed her hand, jerking her back down beside him.
