Hidden Honor

by Anne Stuart

  And that was exactly what it would have cost him. His immortal soul. He was on shaky ground already, and a lifetime of penance and self-denial might make the difference. If not in the matter of heaven and hell, at least in his ability to live in peace for the rest of his days. To willingly commit even one more grievous sin would make the guilt unendurable.

  But the ties had unfastened beneath his nimble fin-gers sooner than he would have wanted, and she moved away, out of his reach, before he could let the madness take over.

  At least she would be covered, head to toe, in drab brown cloth. He would no longer be distracted by her flaming hair, her saucy mouth or her defiant eyes. No longer distracted by her beautiful long legs that he could just imagine wrapped around his hips as he…

  He cursed beneath his breath. There was no way he could punish the need out of his body—she would never believe that the bastard prince had a repentant bone in his body. And it was greater punishment to simply have to bear the need and do nothing about it. Far worse pain than self-flagellation or a hair shirt. Looking at Elizabeth's ripe mouth and not being able to do anything about it was the true definition of torment.

  Of course, he'd already done something about it. The taste he'd had of her had only made things worse. He'd made it through seven years of celibacy, and it had never been easy, but he'd managed to resist some of the most beautiful women in England during his time at court. Why would a long-limbed, flame-haired termagant manage to undermine his vows when no one else had done more than tempt him?

  He could always tell her the truth, now that things had fallen in such disarray. He had impersonated Prince William to keep him safe, for all the good it had done. He had no idea whether or not the prince still lived, though he expected he did. Evil wasn't easily diminished, and Peter knew full well the extent of William's cruelty. A monster lived inside him, one that wouldn't die easily.

  Was Adrian with him, watching over him? Or had he been killed as well? And what of Dame Joanna? He should have stayed, fought till the end.

  But he'd looked up from fighting his way toward the prince and seen Elizabeth, and everything else had fallen away but the need to save her. She'd run, and three men had gone after her, and in the end it had been no choice. Three more men on his conscience, their blood staining his soul. It didn't matter that they were hired killers, bent on destruction. It didn't matter that he killed them to save an innocent life. Each life he'd taken was part of the debt he owed.

  No, he wouldn't tell Lady Elizabeth that he was nothing more than a lowly monk. She despised Prince William, and that was one of his few defenses. As Prince William he could insult and cajole her, tease and annoy her. Brother Peter could do none of those things.

  And if they happened to meet anyone on their journey to the shrine, the less she knew the better. He would deliver her up to the mother abbess, safe and sound, and then go in search of the missing prince. With any luck he'd find him in pieces in the forest, or hanging from a tree outside Neville Castle. Peter would have failed in his task, but the world would be a safer, better place without such a monster living in it. He could face the king's wrath and vengeance with equanimity. As long as Elizabeth was safe behind the cloister walls.

  Though in truth he'd meant it when he said she was ill-suited for the veil. Her unruly nature would make obedience difficult for her, and obedience to the rule was essential to the cloistered life. She should be married, the mother of many children who'd drive her mad just as she was driving him mad. She'd need a strong husband, not a weakling like Thomas of Wakebryght, but not a bully, either. In truth, he could think of no man who would be her equal—she would terrify half of them and enrage the other half.

  He was thankful that it wasn't his responsibility. She'd chafe at whatever yoke the world put upon her—at least in the convent she'd be able to use her wits.

  He heard the bushes rustle, and he quickly schooled his expression into princely hauteur. She emerged, swathed in the rough brown habit, and he wanted to groan. The layers of cloth may have covered her feminine shape effectively, but they did little to hide her natural, coltish grace.

  She was carrying the sodden green dress, but he could see no lighter colors in the pile that she set on the ground. "Where are your underclothes? Your chemise?"

  "Still wearing it," she replied. "If you think I'm going around in nothing but a monk's robe you are sadly deluded."

  "Why not? I am."

  She blushed, as he expected she would. Interesting that the thought of his naked body beneath the robes would disturb her.

  As for him, it didn't matter what he thought she was wearing beneath the rough wool. If she was dressed in her loose chemise or nothing at all, he was still aroused. One more torment that he richly deserved.

  "You were supposed to get out of your wet clothes so you wouldn't catch cold," he said, exhibiting nothing of his thoughts.

  "They'll dry well enough. Besides, the cloth is too coarse next to my skin. It's a curse that goes with my devil's hair—my flesh is easily bothered." She raised her head. ""What was that noise?""

  "A cough," he said, covering his heartfelt groan of dismay at the thought of her pale, bothered flesh. "We need to get as far away from this place as we can—we've wasted too much time already. Put up your hood and we'll make haste."

  "You were going to feed me."

  This time he didn't let the groan reach his lips. "We need to get away from here first. Unless you're too weak from hunger…"

  "I'm not weak," she snapped, straightening her shoulders. She pulled the hood up over her head, drooping it down low so that it hid her face. "How does that look?" She started forward. "Will people truly believe I'm a monk?"

  "They would have no reason not to. And despite the fact that you walk with a girlish gait, even that is acceptable. There are any number of young monks who flit around like pretty moths."

  She jerked her head back to him so fast the hood started to slip off her head. He'd come up to her, and he simply reached up and readjusted the thick brown wool, hiding her face. Hiding it from his own hungry eyes. "Don't worry, Lady Elizabeth. Just follow my lead and keep your tongue in your head. We're just a couple of mendicant monks on a pilgrimage, and I, as your elder, would be expected to do the talking. Can you remember that?"

  "Of course," she said, affronted.

  "And can you keep quiet and do as you're told?"

  "Certainly. I'm a female—I've spent my life doing just that."

  "Not since you left your father's household, lady," he said. "Never mind. Behave yourself as if your life depended on it. It may very well."

  "Yes, my lord."

  "Yes, Brother. And speak in deeper tones."

  "Yes, Brother William," she said in an exaggeratedly bass voice. "Anything you say, Brother William. I am yours to command, Brother William."

  "If you say so, Brother Bratling." And he moved past her, down the winding path, without bothering to see whether she'd follow.

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  Joanna dreamed of heat and bright, blessed sunlight. When she awoke, the late afternoon sun was pouring down on her from the broken doorway to the hut, and the man next to her was burning with fever.

  She scrambled out of bed in a panic. How could she have been so weak, to fall asleep like that when the young monk was wounded and possibly dying? He was so pale, his dark hair curling against his face, and the blood soaked through his robes.

  She glanced around the small hut, looking for something that might hold water. She needed to clean his wound, find him something to eat. A bit of food for herself wouldn't come amiss.

  She managed to find a bowl amid the broken crockery, and she headed for the door, casting one last glance at Brother Adrian. He lay so still, he almost looked dead already.

  If she had any sense she would leave him, strike out on her own. She could either make her way back to Wakebryght and the tender mercies of Owen's bed, or she could move farther, look for someone a little l
ess brutal, a little less demanding. She could even find her way to Saint Anne's on her own. Even if the sisters wouldn't let her join, they would never turn a pilgrim away. Particularly one who could pay her way with jewels, soiled as they were with their acquisition.

  Adrian made a faint noise. A groan, most likely, but it sounded to Joanna's ears like a protest. She couldn't leave him yet. Not until she'd made some effort to see him safe.

  The stream running not far from the shack was clear and swift running, and she filled the bowl, washing her hands as best she could in the process. More dirt in Adrian's wounds would hardly improve matters. When she ducked back into the shelter he hadn't moved, his eyes were closed, his ridiculously long lashes resting against his pale cheeks.

  She was adept at undressing men, but she'd never undressed a monk before. The rough weave of his habit was stiff with blood, and it stuck to his wound, so that when she tugged at it he groaned again, this time more loudly.

  "I'm sorry, my love," she whispered. "But if we leave it like this you'll die of blood poisoning." She poured some of the water on the wound, hoping to loosen it, and he moaned again.

  She had little choice. She took the small, jeweled dagger from her waist and carefully cut the robe away, pushing it off his chest. And then, holding her breath, she ripped the rest from his wound.

  Adrian's eyes flew open, and he screamed. His hand clamped around her wrist with crushing force as he stared up into her face, trying to sit up. And then he fell back, unconscious, his hand releasing hers.

  The wound could have been worse—she'd seen men more grievously hurt and survive. It was deep, but it had bled freely, and it was bleeding afresh.

  She washed it carefully, looking for signs of infection, the dark red streaks that would radiate out from the wound and signify probable death. Some had set in—there was no doubt, or his skin wouldn't be so hot to the touch—but it wasn't yet a lost cause. She washed the knife wound clean, and the bleeding slowed. She needed to bandage it and pack it with powdered yarrow, then get some food in him.

  She wet his dry lips with some of the water, and bandaged the wound with strips from her chemise, then stepped back.

  Leaving him was the only sensible alternative, before it grew too dark to find her way. She would head west, stop at the first village she came to and tell them of Adrian's presence in the hut. Someone would come to his aid, and she could be safely on her away, sure her Christian duty was done.

  It was a relatively simple matter to rip the ornamentation off her gown, replace her jeweled girdle with a rough swath of fabric. She stripped off her rings and set one on the bed next to Adrian, as payment for anyone who helped him, and she put the jeweled dagger there as well. She hated to go out without any weapon, but the fancy knife would alert everyone to the fact that she was no ordinary woman.

  She had a few silver coins in her bag, as well. Even one would buy her a plain, serviceable knife, a loaf of bread and directions to the nearest city. She would tell them she'd come across Adrian by accident, and then hope his God would protect him.

  She brushed a dark curl away from his pale, hot skin. He lay still, deep in a sleep of pain.

  "Poor, pretty little boy," she said softly. And she leaned down and put her lips against his for a brief, gentle kiss.

  She might have dreamed it, but it seemed for a moment as if his lips clung to hers. And she must have imagined that faint sigh as she pulled away.

  "Goodbye, my angel," she whispered. "May God look after you." And she turned her back on him for the last time, heading out into the bright afternoon sunlight to find her way back to comfort and safety.

  It was a good thing she had big feet, Elizabeth thought as she struggled to keep up with the prince's long stride. The rough monk's sandals fit her well enough. Indeed, her overall size was, for the first time, a boon. If she were as small as most women the man's robe would drag on the ground, tripping her up, and the sandals would fall off her tiny feet. She'd have to take three running steps to every one of the prince's steady footsteps, instead of one and a half.

  Yes, she should definitely be counting her blessings. Her devil's hair was now decently covered by the enveloping hood, and, in fact, if she had to be caught alone in a menacing forest with murderous bandits abounding she probably couldn't have chosen a stronger companion. The prince didn't appear to be particularly powerful—he hadn't the bulk of most of the soldiers she'd seen, but she'd had enough of a glimpse of him in battle to know that he was fearless and powerful.

  Which didn't explain why he'd run away from the fight to follow her, if he wasn't afraid for his life.

  And then the simple, obvious answer came to her, so plain and unacceptable that she made an inadvertent sound of protest.

  He halted abruptly, turning to look at her. He'd pulled his hood up over his head, as well, but he looked like no monk she'd ever seen. "What's wrong?" he demanded.

  "Nothing."

  "You said 'no.' I heard it distinctly. If you're already mentally rehearsing the battle for your chastity you might as well put it out of your mind. We have more important things to consider than whether or not I'm going to get beneath your skirts. Such as how we're going to stay alive for the next few days."

  "I wish you'd stop it," she said crossly, catching up with him. "I have little doubt that overwhelming lust for me is the least of your problems."

  He said nothing in response to that. She told herself that was a relief. "Then what was the horrified noise that came from your petal-pink lips, my sweet scold?"

  He was deliberately trying to annoy her, as always. Presumably he did so because he could get away with it. Even a bastard prince was relatively above chastising, except by an angry church or a kingly father whose power was threatened by his son's intemperate behavior.

  "Why did you leave the battle?"

  "Which battle? I've run away from many," he said lightly.

  That was a lie, making clear that the other was a lie as well. "Why did you leave when the bandits attacked?"

  "I was scared to death. I'm used to having knights and soldiers to protect me, and they were outnumbered. A strategic retreat seemed the wisest thing to do."

  "You weren't scared. I saw you—you were enjoying the battle."

  "I do like killing. I'm very good at it." There was a strange, almost bitter tone to his voice. The rest had been lies, but this she believed.

  "You didn't run because you were afraid," she accused him. "You were coming after me. To save me. Weren't you?"

  He put his hands on her shoulders, and his smile was cool and disdainful. "Dear lady, you can't have it both ways. Either I'm quivering with overwhelming desire for you or I'm not. Make up your mind and I'll be happy to act on it."

  "You didn't come after me to bed me. You came after me to save my life," she said, stubborn, with the weight of his hands on her shoulders.

  The gentle mockery in his smile should have chilled her. "Ah, my secret is out. In truth I have no interest in shallow pleasures, I simply go about the countryside looking for virgins to rescue, wanting no reward 'but the sharp side of their tongues. Sweet maiden or wicked scold, it makes no difference to me as long as I have the joy of preserving their maidenheads. "

  "It doesn't matter how you mock me," she shot back. "I know you came after me to save my life."

  "And why would I do that? Why would I care?" He put his hand under her chin, tilting her face up to his, and the hood fell back on her shoulders. "Surely if I were driven by lust I would have been far smarter to have saved Dame Joanna."

  "Is she dead?"

  "I told you, I didn't see her body, so I can only assume she escaped."

  "So then, why did you come after me instead of her?"

  "Child," he said, "I came after no one. I ran for my life, and you happened to be in the way."

  The lie was so clear, so easily told, and yet she knew without question that a lie it was. She opened her mouth to say as much, then shut it again, for once wise enough to
know when silence was a better option. If she insisted he'd followed her out of concern, he might be tempted to show her just how physical that concern might be.

  "I'm hungry," she said instead.

  "So am I. We wait until we get to our destination before we eat."

  "We're not going to eat until we get to Saint Anne's Shrine?" Elizabeth shrieked. "I'll drop dead."

  "I expect you'll manage to survive," he said dryly. "A great many people go longer than a few days without solid food, and they're usually walking when they do so. But, in truth, we'll be stopping for the night in a few hours. You'll have a full belly and a good night's sleep before we head out again."

  A good night's sleep sounded promising—she'd have to be lying alone for that to happen. '"What if the outlaws sneak up on us while we sleep? The forest muffles any noise, and we could have our throats slit before we knew it."

  "If someone slit your throat you probably would be past noticing, anyway. Besides, if anyone's going to kill you it will be me, out of sheer frustration. We're not sleeping in the forest."

  She waited, but he didn't elaborate. "You're just like my father," she said. "Thinking you don't have to explain a thing, that I'll just do as you say without questioning."

  "I'm a great deal smarter than your father, and I know perfectly well that you wouldn't do anything anyone told you unless you had no choice. Trust me in this matter, lady. There is no choice."

  She opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of asking again. As a matter of fact, she had no intention of having any more conversation with him at all. She was stuck with him—he knew his way to the shrine, and it was in his best interest to deliver her there. She could make it through the next few days without wasting another word on the wretch.