Hidden Honor

by Anne Stuart

  Did Brother Peter escape, as well? Surely a man didn't survive the brutal horrors of the Crusades only to be bested by paltry outlaws.

  Except that Adrian suspected those were no ordi-nary outlaws, and there was a reason Prince William hadn't been one of the first to die.

  There were two possible answers. One, the most obvious, was that the raiding party had been sent by the vengeful Baron Neville, in retaliation for his daughter's death. He may have insisted the prince be brought before him so he could punish him himself.

  But that was romantic and impractical. Most men would simply require justice be done, and any henchman would serve as an instrument of vengeance.

  The other, horrifying possibility, was that those were William's men, come to spare him a few days of discomfort in an unwanted penance. And the lives lost were of no account when it came to the prince's pleasure.

  The more he thought about it, the more he was sure that hideous possibility was the only one. He couldn't be sure, but he thought he recognized one of Prince William's favorites, a degenerate named Gervaise, among the attackers. Which made it doubly important that he rise from this surprisingly comfortable bed, pull on his tattered robes and take off.

  They probably thought he was dead. And he would have been, if it weren't for Joanna. He'd seen no sign of her when the bandits first attacked, and he'd headed toward the prince, hoping she'd be safe. For some reason she must have come back. Must have found him, and brought him away from that place of death and betrayal.

  She'd saved his life, maybe several times over, first in getting him away from there, then in watching over him. And for what reason? A woman in her position couldn't afford to be sentimental over a penniless monk.

  He lifted his head and looked at her. She was exquisitely beautiful, with her heart-shaped face and soft, tender mouth. She was sleeping so soundly, surely she wouldn't wake if he moved. Just one brief kiss, a reward to himself for surviving. An indulgence, brief and bittersweet, and then he'd forget all about her.

  But nothing on this earth could stop him from leaning forward and putting his mouth on hers.

  * * *

  Chapter 16

  Elizabeth wouldn't have thought she'd be able to sleep, but she'd underestimated her capacity for exhaustion. No sooner did she close her eyes than she immediately fell into a deep, heavy slumber, lulled by the quiet and the warmth of the body that lay between her and the outside world, protecting her.

  When she awoke, all but one of the candles had burned out, and the final one was sputtering with the last remnants of tallow dripping onto the floor. And she was lying with her head on the prince's shoulder, his arms draped casually around her, his hand on her breast, and she felt warm, drowsy, sleepily aroused. And then reality set in.

  She shoved him off the pallet, away from her, kicking at him. "Get away from me!" she cried. "How dare you touch me when you promised…"

  He'd been sleeping quite soundly, and it was clear his rude awakening didn't put him in the best of moods. He moved so fast her accusing words were cut off midsentence, as he slammed her body back down on the thin pallet, covering it with his own, larger one, and put his hand over her mouth, silencing her. She tried to kick him, knee him in his privates, but he managed to trap her beneath him so she couldn't move, couldn't throw him off her, couldn't make him budge. She tried to bite the hand that covered her mouth, but his long fingers held her jaw frozen.

  He leaned over her, breathing deeply after the brief, fierce struggle, and she could feel tears of impotent rage fill her eyes.

  His breathing slowed, but she could still feel the heavy slamming of his heart against hers. It was a strange, almost otherworldly connection, her heart with his, both beating fast. It was almost as if the blood flowed between them, life flowed between them as she lay trapped beneath his body, unable to escape. Not wanting to escape.

  "Not the way to wake a man up, lady," he growled. "Not a man who's had more than his share of battles."

  She couldn't apologize, not with his hand over her mouth. Not that she would have. He'd been touching her. He was touching her now, heart to heart, breast to breast, hip to hip, and she could feel him. Hard. Aroused.

  But men always woke that way, or so she'd been told. It had nothing to do with her.

  "I'll move my hand, but if you scream again I'll snap your neck."

  He wouldn't, and they both knew it. Whether or not he'd killed other women was not the question. He wouldn't kill her.

  He moved his hand slowly, ready to silence her again if she cried out. She contented herself with glaring at him.

  "Get off me, you big oaf!"

  His sudden lazy smile was even more disconcerting than his anger. "Is that any way to talk to a prince of England? For shame, my lady. I know you were brought up in a household of barbarians, but I would have thought you'd learned polite address by now."

  "Get off me, my lord oaf," she said sweetly.

  "I don't think so."

  "You promised you wouldn't touch me!"

  "I promised no such thing. As a matter of fact, I distinctly remember telling you that this pallet was too narrow to sleep without touching."

  "You didn't have to touch my breast!"

  She tried to push him off her, but he simply caught her wrists in one hand and held them. Held her. "I was asleep. A man can't be held accountable for what happens when he's asleep. How do I know you didn't put my hand there, trying to seduce me, and then changed your mind?"

  She was speechless with rage, and she bucked up against him, trying to throw him off.

  "Now, that's a mistake, lady," he murmured. "If a man's lying on top of you he might take that as an invitation."

  "It's an invitation to dismount."

  He laughed. "We have a small problem here. You go out of your way to be annoying, and the only way I can silence you is to try to seduce you. You keep protesting that you don't want to be seduced, but if you truly did not you'd learn to be quiet and stop goading me. Every time you annoy me I think of more and more inventive ways to stop your mouth. I find you very tempting, but right now I really should try to keep my celibacy intact, at least until we arrive at Saint Anne's. I'm afraid I'm going to have to resist your offer."

  "Offer? The only thing I want to offer you is the sharp end of a sword."

  "No, you don't."

  "You are the most smug, contemptible man…"

  "And you want me. Oh, I admit, you probably don't even realize it. All this bickering and goading is just to mask your unrequited passion…"

  "You're teasing me."

  "No. I'm flirting with you."

  She stared up at him with awe and shock. "You are? No one's ever flirted with me before."

  "Now, that's not true. I've been flirting with you every chance I get. I will admit that this is the first time I've ever gotten a woman pinned and then started trying to seduce her, but I am infinitely adaptable."

  "Your notions of seduction are very strange." Her voice was a bit wobbly, but maybe he wouldn't notice.

  "No, they're not. I just decided you wouldn't respond well to traditional compliments. You're like a hedgehog, all covered with prickles if anyone tries to stroke you."

  "You aren't going to, are you?"

  "What?"

  "Stroke me."

  He smiled slowly. "I thought I'd start with kissing you."

  He leaned down and put his mouth against hers. And at that very moment the last candle flame flickered out, plunging them into darkness.

  With the light went her common sense. Alone in the darkness, with his mouth pressed against her, she was lost. Elizabeth of Bredon had been left behind somewhere in the forest. The woman lying beneath the prince's strong body was nameless, faceless, beautiful and desirable, and when his ringers touched her face, tugging her mouth open, she let him. Her body softened beneath his, and she was no longer holding her legs tightly together. He moved between them, and she could feel him up against her, the unmistakable shape of his e
rection, and she knew the soft little moan in the darkness came from her own throat.

  This time when his hands touched her breasts she knew it, and God help her, she liked it. His slid his fingers lightly over her hardened nipples, and the sensation was so exquisite she wanted to weep with the joy of it. He seemed to have no trouble at all unfastening the monk's robe, when she herself wasn't quite sure how to do it, and then there was nothing between her body and his hands but the thin chemise she'd clung to.

  This was unlike nothing she had ever felt before. She'd had a taste of it the night before, when he'd pulled her into the trees and kissed her, but this was magnified a thousand times. Her skin was hot, her stomach tied in a knot of desire, the fire between her legs surging and unquenchable. And she loved the darkness, his hands, his mouth, touching her, tasting her, making her arch her hips toward his in silent need.

  He put his hand between their bodies, touching her, and she couldn't speak as a shiver of something swept over her body. He pressed harder, sliding his fingers up against her, and he buried his face in her shoulder as he stroked her, stroked her as he'd warned her, promised her he would.

  And still she wanted more. When he slid his fingers inside her she cried out, and he stilled her voice with his mouth, all the while his touch worked its dark magic.

  And then the sound of church bells floated into the room, and he pulled his mouth away, freezing.

  "Don't stop," she whispered, to her complete shame. "Please."

  But he'd taken his hand from between her legs, rolled away from her, moving as far away as he could, until he was up against the door to the cell, sitting there leaning against it, a dark, terrible look on his face.

  It was dawn—the rich darkness of the night vanishing. The cool breeze of morning brushed against her skin, and she realized she lay there almost completely naked, her shift pulled down low over her breasts, rucked up high around her hips.

  She pulled the thin linen back around her, with such force that it ripped, and she frantically reached for the monk's robe, which now lay discarded on the stone floor. She quickly donned it, tying the rope tightly around her waist. He wasn't looking at her. He was sitting on the floor, one knee drawn up, the other leg stretched out in front of him, a look of inexplicable torment on his face.

  It was, she admitted, a beautiful face. She should have kissed it while she had the chance, touched him before he'd come to his senses and realized he was trifling with a flame-haired giant whom nobody wanted.

  All cats are gray in the dark, they said, and he probably didn't care who and what she was. But the light had come, harsh and illuminating, and she knew he wouldn't make the mistake of touching her again.

  "Sweet Jesus," he muttered under his breath. "What the hell did I almost do?"

  If he expected an answer, none was forthcoming. He surged to his feet, not meeting her quiet gaze. "Stay where you are. I'll tell the abbot you're not feeling well and we decided to make an early start of it. They'll give us enough food to last for a couple of days—that should get us to Saint Anne's if we don't run into any more trouble."

  She didn't answer. He wasn't looking at her, as if he didn't want to be reminded of who she was. "Do as I say for once," he said in a harsh voice. And he closed the door hard behind him.

  For a moment Elizabeth didn't move. Shame flooded her body, shame and anger and deep, mortal pain. The pain was the strongest, and she curled up in a ball and pressed her fist to her mouth to keep from sobbing. It didn't work.

  Joanna's eyes fluttered open when his mouth touched hers. Her blue eyes stared up into his brown ones, as he barely brushed her lips. And then she put her hands against his shoulders and gently pushed him away.

  "No," she said.

  He held himself above her tor a moment, staring down into her beautiful face. And then pain shot through him, and he sank back with a groan.

  She sat up immediately, fussing over him. "You need to keep quiet," she scolded him. "Last night you were at death's door, today you're ready to start frolicking? I think not. Be still and I'll get you something to eat."

  "'How…?" His first words came out in a husky voice, and he cleared his throat, watching her as she moved around the tiny hovel. "Where are we?"

  "Near a tiny village called Beckham. I managed to get you this far while you were still partly conscious."

  He frowned. "I remember a little bit. I remember you left. Why did you come back?"

  A faint color stained her pale cheeks. "I have a sentimental streak. And there was a practical aspect to coming back. I have a great many sins to atone for, and saving a holy friar might balance some of them when I die."

  Now it was his turn to flush with the guilt of things unsaid. "I don't think you'll be judged that harshly."

  She smiled. "Then you don't know men, and God is, after all, a man."

  "But his mother wasn't."

  "True enough. You think the Holy Mother would have much sympathy for me?"

  "The mother of God has compassion for everyone. She knows anyone can be tempted."

  "As you just were, Brother Adrian," she pointed out coolly. "Don't let it happen again. I've done enough harm in my life—I wouldn't want to be responsible for the fall of a monk."

  He managed to sit up, stifling his groan of pain. He wasn't sure whether it was lessening or he was just getting more adept at enduring it. He only knew that watching Dame Joanna move around the tiny hovel made him forget everything.

  Except that she was right, he shouldn't touch her. He owed her his life—the least he could do was respect her wishes.

  "Eat this," she said, setting some bread and cheese on the cloth that covered him. He realized belatedly that it was her fine cloak, now torn and stained with blood. Presumably his blood. He looked at his shoulder.

  "You did a good job of bandaging," he said. "It looks like it's healing well enough."

  "It's too soon to tell."

  "I've always been a quick healer. We've got to leave this place as soon as I get dressed."

  "It's too soon for you to travel. We're safe enough here. The villagers who sold me the food and wine think I'm long gone, and they don't even know I had someone with me."

  "It's not the villagers who concern me," he said, biting into the coarse bread.

  "The bandits who attacked our party would have no reason to follow us. Neither of us would seem particularly wealthy—why would they bother?"

  He hesitated, considering. There were still lies he had to live, but he owed her at least some of the truth. She'd need it, if they were both going to stay alive.

  "To keep us silent," he said. "They would want no witnesses to their treachery. They weren't ordinary bandits, and they weren't after money or jewels. They were after the prince and all who accompanied him. If they suspect anyone survived who could tell the king what happened to his son, they'll do everything they can to silence us."

  "We don't know what happened to his son," she said. "Prince William's body wasn't among the fallen. He may have escaped, or they may have taken him prisoner."

  Relief flooded him. If she thought the prince had survived it meant that Peter had managed to escape the carnage. There was no way they could have captured him—he would have died fighting. Which meant he got away, just as the real prince had.

  "And the others?"

  "No sign of Lady Elizabeth. I was not that familiar with the rest of the party to know who was or wasn't there."

  "Which makes it even more important that we move from this place. If the prince escaped they'll be hunting for him, and we can't have them finding us instead." He finished the last bite of hard cheese. "Where are my clothes?"

  "I had to cut them off you. They're soaked in blood."

  "The color is dark—it won't show too badly."

  "Won't it look strange for a monk and a woman to be traveling alone?"

  "We have no choice." He started to push the cloak away from his nude body, and she turned away.

  "You've already s
een this body, my lady," he said. "You've suddenly turned shy on me?"

  "You were unconscious. It's a great deal easier to deal with a naked man when he's not talking to you."

  "If you find me my robe I won't be naked."

  "I stole you some clothes." Her voice was so quiet he almost couldn't hear her.

  "You did what?"

  "I stole some clothes for you. I couldn't very well buy them—I told the people in the village I was traveling alone. But someone had done their washing, and it was easy enough to sneak in and take things off the line. I left them one of my brooches as payment—it was the best I could do."

  He stared at her back in wonder. She'd given up her jewelry for him, risked her life for him when she would have been safer far away from this place. She could have expected nothing in return from a poor monk, and yet she'd done it, anyway.

  "That was very wise of you, my lady," he said after a moment. "I'll simply look like your servant—"

  "I don't look like a fine-enough lady to be traveling with a servant," she said. "More likely brother and sister."

  "More likely husband and wife."

  Unwillingly she turned. He was sitting up on the bed, still covered from the waist down, but she blushed, anyway, jerking her face back. "I don't think—"

  "Where are the clothes?" he interrupted her.

  "At the foot of the bed. I put them on top of you for extra warmth."

  He dressed as swiftly as he could, ignoring the searing pain. She was incomprehensible—a modest whore, a shy leman.

  "Do you need any help?" she asked, her nursely concern overwhelming her reservations.

  "I'm dressed, my lady. And we need to go."

  She turned and blinked. "You look very different," she said finally.

  He glanced down at the rough garb. "Like a good peasant husband?"