Hidden Honor

by Anne Stuart

  "No," she said. "Like a man."

  She didn't sound pleased with the notion, and he wasn't sure he could blame her. She probably hadn't had much good from men, if Owen of Wakebryght was anything to judge by.

  "I've always been a man, my lady, monk's robes or no."

  "It's easier to forget when you're a monk."

  "And why should you want to forget? Why should it matter?"

  She wouldn't answer him. "Shouldn't you rest a bit before we leave? It's only been light an hour or two."

  He shook his head. "The sooner we're out of here the better." He pushed off the bed, rising to his feet. For a moment he felt a wave of dizziness, and then the world righted itself. "Let's be off."

  She looked at him for a long moment. And then crossed the room, putting her arm through his, adding her strength. "Where are we going?"

  "Where else? The Shrine of Saint Anne."

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  Elizabeth might almost have thought the prince was being solicitous of her during the endless hours of daylight. They walked steadily, without conversation, and she was just as content to stay several feet behind him, watching his tall back carefully to make certain she'd know when he stopped. She wasn't going to make the mistake of keeping too close and running into him. She wasn't going to make the mistake of getting near enough to touch him. Since he'd made it very clear that he had no more interest in touching her.

  They would stop to rest, to eat the tasteless bread the abbot had sent with them, along with a stern warning to avoid both sin and women, something he seemed to think were one and the same. They rested without talking, the prince closing his eyes, closing her out, until he decided it was time to move again.

  After her first burst of tears she was well past it, she told herself, moving steadily behind him. She had never been one for tears—it gave her annoying brothers too much pleasure to be able to reduce her to such a state. She hadn't even cried over Thomas of Wakebryght.

  And she wasn't going to cry over someone as worthless as a degenerate prince who toyed with her only out of malice. She was ashamed that she'd given in for a brief moment, but she told herself it was simply lack of sleep wearing down her reserves of strength.

  She glanced up ahead at him, surveying him as coldly as she could. He moved well enough in that rough monk's robe, almost as if he were used to it rather than the heavy robes of a wealthy prince. He was like some wild animal, able to blend into his surroundings.

  He had many gifts, she recognized that now. One of those was a wicked ability to lure even the most resistant of women. Those who knew of his reputation, knew the truth of his dark deeds and foul appetites, were drawn to him, anyway, lured by some strange power. As she had been, for a brief moment when she lay beneath him in the monk's cell.

  And that, of course, had been what he wanted. Not really her at all, but simply the knowledge that he could have her. Once he had her beneath him, weak, willing, he'd left her, smug in the knowledge that he'd bested her in the most cruel of ways.

  He wouldn't do it again. She was unused to the ways of men, at least in matters such as these. She understood belligerent fathers and annoying brothers, she understood stubborn soldiers and worried servants and even weak-willed men like Thomas.

  But she had never had a man's touch reach her, make her melt. And had never had a man use that power to hurt her.

  It wouldn't happen again, now that she knew what danger it could be. And, having succeeded in demoralizing her, he would have no need to repeat that action. His only reason in touching her had been to weaken her, hurt her. It should have come as no surprise—he was a man known to find pleasure in hurting women.

  At least she'd survived, virginity and life intact. Even a depraved soul like Prince William had no real desire for an overgrown, flame-haired, useless female.

  "We'll stop for the night soon," he announced, slowing his steady pace and glancing at her over his shoulder. She nodded, keeping her head down, keeping the hood pulled low. She'd kept it that way since he returned to the cell, just in case her eyes were still red and swollen. He didn't need any more proof that he'd managed to hurt her. She didn't need any more shame to scorch her soul.

  He seemed to expect an answer, so she simply said, "Good," waiting for him to turn away.

  Instead he halted. It was near dark, though at least the night was warm. If they were to sleep in the woods she wanted no excuse to move close to him—she'd freeze to death before she'd accept even a tiny bit of body warmth.

  Not that he was offering. And no one would be freezing to death on such a balmy spring night.

  "You've been unnaturally docile all day," he observed. "Aren't you going to ask me where we'll spend the night? Aren't you going to threaten me with dismemberment or at the very least castration if I put my hands on you?"

  "•No."

  "I think I like you better when you're insulting me," he said.

  "I think I don't care," she replied, goaded. He smiled at that, and she could have cursed. She didn't want to give him anything, even the knowledge that he could make her angry whenever he truly wanted to.

  "There's a small farmhouse not far from here. It's empty, but I expect it's still in good-enough shape to provide shelter, and a stream runs nearby."

  "Where are the people who lived there?"

  "Dead. They had an outbreak of the fever here some ten years ago, and whole families were wiped out, including the ones who lived in the house."

  "But what makes you think someone else hasn't moved in, brought his family with him? People don't just leave houses abandoned and vacant."

  "They do this one."

  "Why?"

  "Ghosts."

  Maybe he thought to scare her into once more making a fool of herself, but she wasn't about to let that happen. She'd happily face a thousand bloodthirsty ghosts than turn to the prince for safety or comfort.

  "Good," she said. "I expect I'll prefer the company of the dead."

  She could sense his smile, and she pulled her hood lower to keep from seeing it. "Are we going to stand here forever? The sooner we arrive the sooner I can retire."

  "As you wish, my lady." She couldn't blot out the amusement in his voice. He moved forward, and she followed him, slowly, knowing she had no choice.

  She half hoped the farmhouse would be filled with people, just to prove him wrong, but of course it wasn't. It was a small building, neat enough for an abandoned space, and the thatched roof looked to be in good condition. She could hear the sound of rushing water through the row of trees behind the building, and the setting sun cast a warm, benevolent glow on the place. Like the smoldering embers of the flames of hell, Elizabeth thought grimly.

  "How did you know of this place?" She hadn't meant to initiate any unnecessary questions, but her curiosity got the better of her.

  "The monks told me of it."

  "Father Pillion? I'm surprised he hasn't claimed it for his own abbey."

  "It's too far away. We've walked a long way today. But it was the monks accompanying the… accompanying me to the shrine who told me of it. It was suggested as one place we might stay on the way to Saint Anne's."

  "How far are we from the shrine?"

  "On foot, perhaps another day and a half. On horseback, merely a few hours."

  "But we don't have any horses, do we?" She didn't wait for an answer. "I'm going to the stream to wash some of this travel dirt from me. Don't come anywhere near me." It wasn't a request.

  "I'll try to control my insatiable lust," he said.

  She was not amused. "And I'll be sleeping in a separate room. I find I prefer crawling vermin to your company."

  "What about ghosts?"

  "Come near me and you'll join them."

  "Yes, Brother Elizabeth," he said in humble tones, pushing his hood back onto his shoulders.

  Elizabeth stared up at the elegant lines of his coolly beautiful face, stonily unmoved, leaving her own hood in place. A day and a half
of travel, at the most. Which meant one more night on the road.

  He should be happy, William thought as Bishop Martin pronounced his absolution. His confession had been detailed and entirely fictitious, and the good bishop had blessed him and announced him shriven. No one would want to kill him while his soul was unblemished—they would wait until he was caught sinning. With any forethought, he could avoid that, continuing his role as a miraculous survivor of an ambush, and no one would ever know better. That is, if Gervaise did as he was bid and managed to track down the stragglers who had unaccountably managed to escape the butchery of his well-trained men.

  He was fairly certain Adrian was dead, and the doxy had run off before the battle even started. She would have nothing to tell, if by any chance she man-aged to slip through the net his men had drawn about the countryside.

  Peter was another matter. He knew the land well—it had once belonged to his family, and he would doubtless know of a dozen hiding places. And he had the girl with him, who'd be slowing him down as well as complaining. In some villages they drowned scolds. If he got his hands on her maybe he'd cut out her tongue.

  He wanted to kill Peter himself, have the pleasure of feeling his blood on his hands, but in the end his death was all that mattered. He could always take his frustration out on Gervaise once they were gone from this place. After all, the delivery of pain was a universal pleasure.

  All was in place, if they could just make certain the others were dead. He would wait two more days, enjoying the frugal hospitality of the good sisters, listening to Bishop Martin prate on and on, and he'd be sweet and humble. Once his men brought back word that there were no more witnesses, he could take back his life.

  He should have asked Gervaise for a souvenir. Peter's head would have held a certain charm, but keeping it hidden might have been too difficult. Perhaps a hand. Or even more fitting, that which he'd deprived his prince of. That which makes a man. Taken while he was still living.

  And he would not be there to witness it. William kept his face blissful and innocent as he pouted in-wardly. Someone would have to pay for depriving him of his fun. And that someone would have to be Gervaise.

  The stream was shielded from the house by a high riverbank and a copse of trees. Which meant that the prince could sneak up on her if he so desired, and she wouldn't be able to see him coming. But he'd have no reason to do so, no reason to try to torment someone he'd already managed to vanquish. And if he appeared when she was bathing, so be it. She didn't expect the sight of her naked body would somehow be more irresistible than it had been in the dark hours of morning when she lay beneath him.

  But he wouldn't follow, and she knew it. She needed to wash herself clean, to wash the dust and the dirt of travel from her skin. But more important still, to wash the touch of his hands, his mouth, from her flesh.

  She stripped off her clothes and folded them neatly on the riverbank, setting the knife on top of them, before moving down to the water. She climbed out onto a large rock and looked down into the deep, clear pool. Into her reflection.

  Her face looked pale, sorrowful, unlike her usual self. The features were still the same—eyes that were large and green and far too direct, a forehead that was too high, a chin too stubborn, a mouth too large, an insignificant nose. All surrounded by a heavy fall of devil's hair.

  She couldn't change the mouth, the eyes, the chin or the nose. She couldn't shorten her long legs, or widen her narrow hips. But she could rid herself of what had drawn taunts and stares and whispered mutterings of witches all her life.

  She went back and fetched the knife, then returned to her perch on the rock. Never in her life had she sat around completely nude, and she should have felt shy, uncomfortable, exposed. She reached up for one thick hank of hair and began to saw away at it.

  When she was done she sat there for a moment, watching the heavy strands darken and sink in the water, then be carried away with the current. She felt strange, light-headed in the most literal of ways, and she reached a hand up to her shorn head. She'd cut as much off as she could, and what was left was very short, curling above her ears, rough and uneven, shorter even than most men's hair. It was fitting. In this world she was of no use as either a man or a woman, and getting rid of her hateful hair gave her a freedom that she'd never felt before. And watching the heavy strands float down the slow-moving stream, she started crying.

  It was almost dark when she climbed the riverbank and made her way back through the copse of trees to the house. She felt numb—the cost of the icy-cold water and too many tears. She'd finally stopped bawling like a babe. She hated her hair, she'd always wanted to get rid of it. What in heaven's name was she doing crying over it? No one was ever going to see her bare head again—she would keep the monk's hood over her head until they reached the shrine, and then she'd be welcomed into holy orders, with a veil and wimple to cover what in other women would be vanity. But the more she tried to stop the more she wept, and it wasn't until she just let go that the tears finally halted.

  He was standing outside the door, leaning against the rough building, watching her as she made her way back. She didn't see him for a moment, the heavy weight of the hood blocking her vision, and when she did she almost jumped. In the darkness he looked like neither monk nor prince. Just a tall, silhouetted shape, waiting for her in the shadows.

  "I almost came after you, my lady. Surely you weren't that dirty? I was afraid you might have run away."

  "Where would I run to? You know the way to Saint Anne's, not I."

  "You could always ask directions. Most holy brethren travel in pairs, but it's not unheard of for one to make a lone pilgrimage."

  "An excellent point, now that you mention it," she said. Her voice was husky from weeping, but clearing her throat would make it even more noticeable. "I'll meet you at the shrine." She started to turn away from him, but his cool voice stopped her.

  "Don't even try it. I said you might be able to make it on your own, I didn't say I'd let you go. I've set out food for you and made up a bed."

  "One bed?" There was no way she could avoid the question. The answer would determine which way she would go—to the house or into the woods.

  "I intend to keep guard most of the night. When I need to rest I'll rouse you and let you take over. Does that set your mind at ease?"

  "Yes." It had been a foolish question to ask. That too-short tussle on the pallet had been an aberration. He must long to return to court and the women there. Beautiful, wanton women.

  "There's no need to keep your hood up," he said. She didn't need an unrestricted view to feel his eyes upon her. "There's no one else around, and I already know you're a woman."

  Do you? For one horrified moment she thought she'd said the words aloud, then realized for once she'd kept her tongue silent when it ought to be. "I like it," she said flatly.

  "Suit yourself. Eat something and then go to bed. You won't be getting a full night's sleep if we're to take turns keeping watch. You may as well take full advantage of the bed while it's yours."

  "And where will you be?"

  "Availing myself of the stream, as well. Unless you prefer me travel-stained?"

  "I don't prefer you at all." That came out wrong. "I mean, it makes no difference…"

  "I know what you meant. When I come back to the house I'll expect to see you sound asleep in bed. Is that understood?"

  She managed to wake one last ounce of defiance. "I haven't needed a nurse to tell me what to do since I was six years old."

  "You haven't had anyone tell you what to do. That doesn't mean you haven't needed someone."

  "I don't need anyone."

  There was dead silence, and she was afraid she'd pushed him too far. Instead he simply moved away from the house, passing her without touching. "Eat your dinner and go to bed," he said over his shoulder.

  The empty house was surprisingly neat. No animals had made their homes there, no vagrants had moved in. Maybe the ghosts had scared them away.

/>   It hadn't scared people from taking whatever furniture had once been there. All that was left was a rough table, with the meagre offerings they'd brought with them. Bread, cheese, the sour wine of the abbot's, and some dried meat.

  She wasn't hungry, but her stomach was growling, and tomorrow would be another day of hard traveling. Fainting was not an option. She ate slowly, forcing herself, and then went in search of the bed.

  She found it in the adjoining room. He'd cut cedar branches and laid them down for protection from the hard dirt floor, and the sweet smell hung in the air, reminding her of the monk's cell. Not that she needed any reminding. He'd tossed a blanket over the branches, and it looked comfortable enough. At that point she was so weary she could have slept standing up. But she didn't need to—he'd made his point—he had no more interest in her. She would sleep unmolested until it was time to take over the watch.

  She wasn't sure what wearied her more, the hours of walking or the helpless crying. Her chest and throat still hurt from the tears, and she pushed the hood onto her shoulders so that she could feel her shorn head.

  She could feel her eyes begin to sting once more, and she pulled the hood back up over her, covering her face.

  She lay down on the bed, closing her eyes. Right then a ghost would be a welcome diversion from her own thoughts.

  But there were no ghosts. Instead sleep came, and she embraced it gratefully.

  He wasn't going to think about her, Peter told himself. He was going to plunge his body into the coldest water he could find, cut himself bloody if he must, anything to drive the devouring monster out of his heart. The devouring monster of lust for an innocent.

  His soul was still ravaged by what he had almost done that morning, under the very roof of the monastery, just as prime bells were ringing. He'd run as fast as he could, not from her, but from his own dark needs.

  Seven years of celibacy, seven years of never even looking, and now he was brought low by an overgrown colt of a girl with hair the color of autumn leaves, who looked at him as if he were a monster.