Hidden Honor

by Anne Stuart

  Which he was. Both as the deviate prince of England, and the philandering monk who'd thought to attain forgiveness for acts too horrendous to contemplate. He knew now that he was beyond hope, beyond redemption. The very best he could hope for was to keep true to his task. To protect the innocent.

  Watching over Prince William had been the antithesis of that vow. A murderous deviate, the prince might already have been cleansed by a miracle, by the grace of Saint Anne.

  But Peter wasn't holding out much hope. Some men's evil went so deep that even God couldn't reach it. And rather than let William harm another innocent, Peter was entirely willing to commit cold-blooded murder once more.

  Such a noble sacrifice, he mocked himself. Kill the ravager of innocents, while he himself ignored his vows and despoiled a virgin on her way to a nunnery. He was as deluded as the most sinful of creatures.

  The icy water did little to cool him. He kept thinking of Elizabeth in that same water, her body pale and beautiful, her breasts surprisingly full, peaked with dark, hard nipples that he'd wanted to suckle…

  He wouldn't even wake her. He didn't need sleeps—he was impervious to physical needs such as sleep, food and warmth.

  The only thing he wasn't impervious to was Elizabeth of Bredon's beautiful green eyes, her soft, damp mouth, and the eternal damnation her sweet body promised.

  And he'd take it, gladly embrace an eternity in hell for the price of lying between her long legs.

  But he wouldn't take her with him. She'd either go to heaven a virgin nun or a wife and mother. But she wouldn't go to heaven despoiled by a celibate monk with the souls of hundreds on his conscience.

  He made his way slowly back up the path to the house. She would be asleep by now, or at least pretending to be. If he'd been more deluded he might almost have thought his pulling away from her had hurt her. Even if she had wanted him for one brief moment, wisdom and disgust had to have set in. It was little wonder she kept her distance, her head down, her voice low. She had gone past dislike for the dark prince to deep, abiding hatred for a seducer, a man who had nearly raped her in a monastery.

  His hand had stopped bleeding. He'd slammed it against a broad rock at the edge of the water, hitting out in helpless frustration. A single strand of her long red hair had shone in the moonlight, and the sight of it had him instantly aroused. Only the pain and blood had cooled him, and now he was beginning to curse his foolhardiness. At least he'd had enough sense to strike out with his left hand, not his right. He still needed to be able to fight. To wield a sword if he must.

  To kill the prince of England. If he must.

  * * *

  Chapter 18

  Adrian gained strength as he walked. It came as no surprise—he was young and strong and he'd always healed quickly. By noon he'd begun walking on his own, without any assistance from Joanna. It had been a hard choice—the warmth and feel of her by his side had given him a strength far out of proportion to what she'd been able to provide.

  But it was a drain on her own reserves, and he slowly weaned himself from it, taking more and more of his weight onto his own body, until he released her arm and walked on his own. At her insistence he used a walking stick, but he didn't need it. The day was sunny and bright, he was getting stronger by the minute, and he had, inexplicably, impractically, fallen in love.

  She was older than he was, and by anyone's standards, soiled goods. She'd been married twice, she'd told him, and he hadn't asked how many lovers she'd had. She hadn't volunteered that information.

  She fancied herself a Magdalene, a fallen woman, but he saw her more as a sorrowful Madonna. Or perhaps neither—just a woman, real, flesh and blood.

  A woman he wanted, not just with his body, but with his heart and soul.

  She wasn't ready to hear that yet. She'd been horrified when he'd kissed her, and she doubtless thought he was simply an innocent, smitten monk. And it wasn't his place to tell her otherwise.

  His mother would have a fit. Until she got to know Joanna—his mother was strong-minded but ultimately fair and loving, and she would recognize Joanna's goodness. And even if she did not, she'd love Joanna because her son did. Mothers were like that.

  "You're smiling, Brother Adrian," Joanna said as they walked down the narrow road. Together they had chosen to take a more public route to the shrine—less chance for ambush, less chance for improprieties.

  "You'd best call me Adrian. Or husband," he replied, secretly pleased at the notion. "Someone might hear us."

  She glanced around at the wide fields newly planted, but there was not a soul in sight. "I still think we should be brother and sister."

  "We don't look alike."

  "Many siblings do not."

  "I can protect you better as your husband. I know not where we're sleeping, but there would be no reason for a brother to lie with his sister. A husband would be by your side, keeping away strangers."

  She opened her mouth, to protest, he was sure, then shut it again. She could hardly argue with the wisdom of his words.

  Finally she said, "Do you truly think we're in any danger? Why should they have been anything but bandits, seeking out any hapless group of travelers?"

  "For a number of reasons. Even bandits and outlaws, if they are not religious, are at least superstitious. They avoid attacking holy orders, for fear of their immortal souls. Second, we were not a wealthy caravan. Monks, knights and soldiers, all dressed plainly, with no apparent wealth. Our most prized possession was the prince himself, and he was in disguise."

  "Disguise?"

  He was still bound by his oath. "'He was dressed much more simply than his usual wont." That much, at least, was true. "Add to that, robbers seldom attack such a heavily armed group without good reason. The men who came were well armed, well mounted, and they came to kill, not rob. Which makes me believe that they won't stop until they finish their task. They'll want no witnesses left alive to proclaim the truth as to who and what they are."

  "But I have no idea who they are. I ran, like a coward," she said.

  "Like a wise woman. If you'd remained you'd be raped and dead. And I have a very good idea who they are. I recognized one of them."

  "And?"

  "It would be safer if I didn't tell you. If by any chance we're set upon, your only chance would be ignorance."

  She halted, turning to look at him with a stern expression that almost reminded him of his mother.

  "I've been through a great deal already, and you and I both know that they wouldn't let me go no matter how innocent I proclaim to be. Who do you think attacked the prince's caravan? The family of the girl he murdered, yes?"

  "No." There could be no harm in telling her of his suspicions. "The prince's men themselves."

  She drew in a hiss of breath. "Why? Why would they kill their master and slaughter the rest of us? It makes no sense. Surely you're mistaken."

  "What makes you think the prince is dead? You didn't see his body, nor that of some of the monks, is that not so? I think Prince William had arranged this very thing. He hated having to go on pilgrimage, despised having to live frugally and chastely, even for a fortnight, having to answer to priests for everything. I think he planned to have his men kill us all, and then he'd show up at the shrine on his own a few days later, full of tales of his miraculous escape."

  "You have a very wild imagination."

  "I know men," he said.

  "So do I. Far better than you, I expect."

  "I expect," he echoed in a nonjudgmental voice.

  "And I looked into Prince William's eyes. He could no more do such a thing than he could fly. To be sure, he is a man of violence. He's killed too many times to make peace with it—that leaves its mark on a man. But he's not the deviant creature people make him out to be, and he could not have planned such a foul betrayal."

  He couldn't very well explain the truth of the mat-ter, or that she was wiser than she even imagined. He could only guess at the horrors Brother Peter had lived through, an
d even committed. But a man like Peter would strike cleanly, in defense of his life. Never a sneak attack on someone pledged to protect him.

  And Prince William was most definitely a coward. A coward with a small army, which made him very dangerous indeed.

  "Perhaps you're right, my lady," he said. "Even so, I cannot dismiss the feeling that we're still in danger."

  "I agree," she said softly, to his amazement. She glanced around her, at the open fields, the narrow road out ahead of them. It had rained the night before, and the road was muddy and rutted beneath their feet, but there was no mistaking the sound of a rough cart headed in their direction.

  "Should we hide?" she asked.

  He considered it only for a moment. He was much stronger, but they would have had to run for it, and he might not be able to make it. He shook his head. "We've agreed to try it this way. Perhaps we'll be able to find directions to the next village, a decent meal, even a bed for the night."

  "Or perhaps we'll find the end of a sword."

  "It's a cart and two horses, not a group of armed men," he reassured her. "Have faith."

  She looked at him, and he wanted to kiss the doubt from her blue eyes. He kept his own face impassive. "I do," she said after a moment. "In you."

  If the cart hadn't appeared over the rise behind them he might have kissed her after all. It was as he expected, a farmer's rough cart.

  The driver, a grizzled old man with a friendly smile, pulled to a stop beside them. "You and your woman headed toward Beckham?" he asked. "There's no work there, but you'll at least find a good meal and a bed for the night. Climb on the back of my cart and I'll give you a ride the rest of the way."

  Adrian was ready to refuse the offer, politely enough, when he cast a sideways glance at Joanna. As he'd grown stronger she'd grown paler, and he realized she probably hadn't slept much at all during the time she cared for them.

  "My wife and I thank you, friend," he replied, using the soft, slurred tones of his southern cousin's farmers. "We're pilgrims, on our way to the Shrine of Saint Anne. We're hoping the holy saint will bless us with a child." He put a possessive hand on Joanna's flat stomach, and she jumped, nervously, then held still, managing a nervous, wifely smile at him.

  "That's not the way to make babies, lad," the farmer said with a chuckle. "And so your father should have told you."

  "Spare my wife's blushes, good sir," Adrian said smoothly. "We've tried everything."

  The farmer shrugged. "Then praying to the saint will do no harm. Lying with her under the moon beneath a rosemary bush on the first day of the month did the trick for one of my sisters. She gave birth to a fine baby boy not nine months later. You might want to look for some rosemary."

  Adrian didn't dare look at Joanna, afraid he might laugh. "We'll be sure to try it."

  The back of the cart was high off the ground, and he had no choice but to put his hands on Joanna's waist and lift her up. She was light, and her waist was small, and if he moved his fingers just a bit he'd be able to feel the swell of her breasts. He behaved himself, as he knew he must. For now. Playing the part of husband in front of an audience would give him the perfect excuse to touch her, to kiss her.

  But it would be a lie, with her thinking him a celibate monk, and it would cause her nothing but pain. He'd touched her, kissed her, as much as he could dare allow himself. From now until they reached the Shrine of Saint Anne he must remember he was truly Brother Adrian, a gentle monk, and not a knight bent on making his way in the world. A knight pretending to be a monk pretending to be a peasant. A man in love pretending to be a celibate monk pretending to be a tender husband.

  If they didn't arrive at the shrine soon he might very well go mad. Not with the lies and confusion. But with the wanting of what he must not have.

  "We've found no trace of them, my lord," Rufus said, eyeing his prince with a wary expression. He had run afoul of the prince's temper before, and lost friends to it.

  Prince William pushed the woman off his lap and rose, fastening his hose. Few people would have dared bring a doxy under the roof of a holy shrine, but the prince was uncaring of such matters. "I'm certain I didn't hear you right, Rufus. We have four people wandering the countryside between the river and Saint Anne's, and you tell me there's been no trace of them? Who were you asking—blind men?"

  "M-my lord…" Rufus stammered. "I sent one group of men north, another to the east, but they could find no trace. You said we were to tell no one what we were searching for. so we couldn't very well ask questions of the peasants. Even so, no one mentioned seeing strangers. Gervaise's men are very thorough—I think they must have wounded them so grievously that they went off into the woods to die."

  "They're human beings, Rufus, not dumb dogs. They don't run away to lick their wounds, they go for help. And Gervaise's men weren't good enough, were they? Which is why Gervaise is now nailed to a tree back there and you're in charge of the men. For now."

  Rufus swallowed. He was a huge man, the kind who put fear into everyone who looked at him, who could snap necks with one meaty hand. The prince caused him to break out in a cold sweat. It wasn't so much he feared death. It was just that Prince William was so inventive about it.

  "You'll go out yourself this time, Rufus," the prince said softly.

  "I can't be in two places at once, sire," he said, desperation getting the better of him.

  "You could if we split you in half. Four ways might be even better—then you could go north, south, east and west in search of those you let slip by."

  "Sire…" he said desperately.

  "Don't whine at me, Rufus. Find me the holy brothers who managed to escape. I stabbed the young one, but I cannot be sure it was a killing blow, and the man who dared pretend he was me got away unscathed. Taking the woman with him, no doubt. The red-haired witch."

  "Wouldn't he have taken the pretty one, my lord?"

  "Brother Peter has no sense, and even a tool could see he was ridiculously enamored of the creature. You'll need to kill them both when you find them. And you will find them, Rufus."

  "Yes, sire."

  "Begone, then."

  The sweat was pouring off his broad forehead, this time with relief, and he began to back out of the room when the prince called out to him in a lazy voice.

  "Oh, Rufus."

  "Yes, my lord."

  "When you find them, kill the girl first. But take your time, and make certain he gets to watch. You understand? If I can't get the job done myself I'm counting on you to do it right."

  Rufus understood perfectly well. He had long since passed the point of feeling any pity for the helpless, and Elizabeth of Bredon's fate was a foregone conclusion.

  But that didn't mean he had to make it hurt. The prince would never be able to prove that it wasn't a slip of the knife that ended things too quickly. And he wouldn't kill a useful man over something like that. Probably.

  "As you wish, my lord," he murmured. And bowed himself out of the room as the young girl next to the prince gave a muffled cry of pain.

  Elizabeth lay sleeping facedown on the makeshift pallet. Peter told himself he had to check and make sure she was safe—she was, after all, his responsibility, at least until they reached the convent, where he could place her in the safe hands of the mother abbess.

  She slept soundly, on her stomach, still wearing the enveloping cape and hood. Still hiding.

  It was just as well. He could look at that sleeping form and tell himself it was just one of his brethren. Unlike others of his order, he felt no desire for his own kind, and he should be able to view the sleeping form on the bed with equanimity.

  He couldn't. He still knew what lay beneath the rough weave of the monk's cloth, could still taste the untutored sweetness of her mouth, feel the silken texture of her skin. Why did women have to have such gloriously soft skin? Why did they have to smell so wonderful? And why was he suddenly no longer immune?

  He turned away, forcing himself. In truth he doubted anyone neede
d to keep watch—they'd been circumspect enough that no one would be able to find them. He knew this land better than anyone—if he didn't want to be found he wouldn't be. And if the prince was dead, no one was going to care who was left behind.

  If the prince was dead. Somehow he didn't feel it was going to be that simple. That easy.

  He stepped outside into the cool night air. It was a waning moon, and the gilt sliver in the sky gave a faint light to the old house. It had belonged to one of his father's tenants, who'd been wiped out in the same fever that had killed his family and a goodly portion of the countryside. While he'd been off in the Holy Lands, oblivious.

  If he'd been home he would have probably died from the fever, as well. Which would have been a blessing for all concerned—in his single-minded haste to do God's business he'd done just the opposite.

  If any ghosts were to haunt him it wouldn't be the farmers who'd died of a fever, it would be the innocent souls of the murdered who would whisper in his ear. But superstition had no place in the life of a man of faith, his abbot had always said, and Peter agreed. There were no ghosts, there was no lingering sadness from the souls now departed. They had gone in peace, and were doubtless in heaven, not wandering through the countryside, terrorizing anyone who happened to stray near their old home.

  Peter sank down on a patch of grass beneath a pear tree just blossoming with the newness of spring. He could sleep anywhere, and intended to. By tomorrow, after a solid night's rest, perhaps some of his temp-tation might vanish. And Elizabeth would be back to her old, scolding ways.

  He dreamed, first of wanton things so powerful that he almost awoke with it. The night shifted and the nightmares came, the screams of the women as they died, trapped, and he could do nothing to save them. And then he realized the scream was not in his dream at all, but coming from the house.

  He'd left the door ajar, but he banged against it as he raced into the house, knife drawn, ready to kill if need be. The screams had stopped, as they always did, and perhaps it was already too late.