Instead he withdrew and took a deep, shaky breath. Still within his arms, she opened her eyes to find him surveying her face, her body, as if he had received a precious gift and he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it.
“Do not stop.”
He finally looked her in the eye. “I do not want to stop.”
“Then why are you?”
“This doesn’t seem—”
“I need you... inside me.”
His eyes rounded. “Brighit, I don’t want it to be like this for you.”
She glanced around, noticed the cold air against her skin where he had pulled away, the dirt floor, the darkened corners. For the first time she wondered if there were rats seeking shelter nearby as well. Suddenly embarrassed, not because of the location, but because she had been so swept away by her passion. She backed out of his arms, adjusting her dress, and pulling the cloak back in place, allowing his to drop to the floor. Her face reddened with shame. She wanted him to make love to her. Still wanted it.
She walked about the room, rubbing her arms, and felt his eyes on her. She wanted him to take her in his arms, put his hand between her legs, and stroke her again. The dampness there was near impossible to ignore. Just to have him love her one time. To know the feel of him. Like a treasured memory she could hold on to. Now she would never have that. He was correct. This was no place for them to be together.
“Will you build us a fire?” She sounded much more in control than she felt, almost demanding. Finally she turned to face him.
“Is that what you would have me do?” he asked. Deep lines creased his forehead.
“No. I told you what I wanted.”
He picked his cloak off the floor, shook it, and put it on. He moved toward her. “Brighit, I didn’t me—”
She raised her hand.
“No. Do not touch me again. You are correct. This is not the best place.” She turned away. “Please just make the fire if you would. It’s bitter cold in here.”
The door shut behind her and she fell to her knees on the straw pallet. She’d acted like a wanton woman and her unquenched desire still held her in its grip. He had clarity even in his passion and she showed none.
The scrape of his footfall at the door had her sitting on the pallet. He came in covered with snow and carrying a pile of small twigs in his arms.
“I found a shelter almost big enough for my horse and a pile of dry kindling.” She saw his glance but she refused to look at him. “I’ll take care of him after I get the fire going.”
He dropped the twigs into the open hearth, striking the flint by the hearth, and waited for it to catch a flame.
“I need to bring in more wood.” He stood beside her. “”Brighit, I want to te—”
“Do not. It is done. When the snow stops, we continue to the inn and get word to the Bishop as I have been asked to do. If you could please return me to the Priory, you can be about your duties.”
“That is not my want.” He stared at her until she relented and turned to him. “I want you still. I did not want this,” he gestured to their surroundings, “to be the memory of our love making.”
“Yes. I see you are concerned for me.” Her nostrils flared but she swallowed down the tears. “I understand also that I will not have another chance for such a memory.”
“So I am to give you your memory? And then be done?” he asked.
Her composure slipped but she refused to respond.
“That is not to my liking either.” He left, pulling the door tightly behind him.
“But that is the way it must be.” She rolled over, pulled the cloak tightly around her and rocked herself to sleep.
A short time later, Peter awoke her by gathering her into his arms.
“Hush. You sleep. Just let me hold you.” He kissed her lightly on the head.
It felt so right in his arms. He was warm and smelled of horses and smoke. She snuggled into his chest and struggled to make words then drifted off again.
