“You’re to become a holy sister, Lady Elizabeth?” Prince William asked in a slow, drawling voice. “Are you certain that’s your destiny?”

She looked up at that, startled. Merciful Saint Anne, he had the most wicked eyes she’d ever seen. All the bloody saints of Christendom! She didn’t want those dark, unsettling eyes on her. You could almost drown in them. If you were a susceptible female, which she certainly was not.

“Accompany me to my room, Lady Elizabeth,” he said suddenly, not waiting for her reply.

“I’d be happy to find you a comely serving wench—” she began.

“Come, my lady,” he said, his voice brooking no opposition.

The torches cast a flickering light over the darkened hallway outside his rooms. There was no one to rescue her, nothing but her own wit to set her free from the murderous prince. Maybe she’d become another of the dark prince’s victims, making her way straight to sainthood, skipping the convent altogether.

His grin was slow, wicked, dangerous. He put his hands on her bare shoulders and started to draw her closer. “If I weren’t atoning for my sins I’d be sorely tempted to drag you into my chamber and commit a great many more.” She couldn’t move, so she simply closed her eyes as he brought her closer, and his lips settled on her…forehead. Then he let her go, turned and disappeared into his room.

Not even good enough for a desperate lecher, she thought, the feel of his mouth on her forehead, taunting her.

Anne Stuart
Hidden Honor

Hidden Honor

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

1

Elizabeth of Bredon strode through the great hall of her father’s castle, keeping her pace determined and her chin high. Her heavy skirts flapped around her long legs, her unfortunate red hair was already escaping from the thin gold circlet that kept it in place, and her mood was far from hospitable. Prince William’s men were even more disgusting than the usual members of his benighted sex, and she’d already had to rescue two serving wenches and a scullery boy from their determined lechery. And she hadn’t yet come face-to-face with the notorious princeling himself. Probably off despoiling her father’s dairymaids. Or perhaps the cows themselves.

One more night, Elizabeth reminded herself, and then the safety of the household would no longer be her responsibility. The journey to the Shrine of Saint Anne was a mercifully brief one—no more than two nights on the road—and then she’d be free of men and their ignominious appetites for the rest of her life.

Well, perhaps not, she reminded herself, glancing at the huddled group of monks in the corner. The holy brothers didn’t appear to be much better than Prince William’s roistering knights, though so far they’d stayed away from the serving women and the livestock. There were six of them, ranging in age from a youth too young to shave to an ancient who moved with such slowness and pain that Elizabeth itched to try one of her herbal remedies on him. It had helped the complaints of Gertrude, the elderly laundress, and she had little doubt that it would ease the old monk. Little doubt he’d refuse to take anything from her hands, as well. In her experience men were unlikely to listen to her.

The remaining monks were in no way remarkable. Two of them were pale, soft, and ordinary enough. One seemed young and strong, clearly new to his vocation and the limits imposed by it. Only the sixth seemed the epitome of quiet, chaste brotherhood, from his demure, downcast blue eyes, his glossy blond curls and his soft, almost feminine mouth. He’d smiled at her earlier, the sweetest smile imaginable, and if there’d been men like him around, men not promised to other women or the church, then she might have reconsidered her long thought-out plans.

Ah, but that would have been a mistake. No matter how gentle, how pretty a smile or how soft a glance, once men became husbands, women became chattel. It was the way of the world and always had been, and Elizabeth was too wise to waste her energy railing against preordained fate. She merely intended to avoid it. She had no intention of devoting herself to a brief life of producing babies and dying from the effort as her mother had. She wanted solitude, strength and power, and a convent could provide just that for a woman unsuited to married life.

Still, Brother Matthew had a very pretty smile, one that almost made her rethink her decision. She had no use for men, but children were a different matter. And children with Brother Matthew’s sweet expression would be wonderful indeed.

“Daughter!” Baron Osbert bellowed from across the hall, and Elizabeth slowed her pace out of habit. The herbal concoction she’d discovered and slipped into her father’s wine may have dampened his carnal appetites, but it did little for his choleric disposition. Her only defense was to take her time, which helped convince her father of the imbecility of females in general and his only daughter in particular.

She stepped over a snoring body, skirted a flea-ridden dog and made her way across the hall, scuffing the rushes with her feet as she went. Her feet were too big—so everyone had always told her—but they went with her overtall body, and were very useful for kicking, as her five younger brothers and their assorted friends had quickly discovered.

Her father was sitting at the table, but not in his accustomed place of honor. He was off to one side, and not looking any too pleased about it. “You overgrown half-wit,” he said with paternal pride. “Where have you been?”

“Seeing to the comfort of your honored guests, Father,” she said in the patient voice she reserved for her sire. At this point in her life he was the only one who dared hit her, and she had no fond memories of his meaty hands. She stayed out of his way as best she could, and when forced to converse with him she kept the simple mien of a witless woman. It was what he expected, and far easier that way.

At times she found her own stratagems amusing. Her father was firmly convinced she and all those of her sex were half-wits, while she, of course, was certain the opposite was true. If her own family was anything to judge by, men were slow, spoiled and stupid.

“Seeing to their comfort, eh? Much ease a bag of bones like you would provide,” her father said with a snort.

“Were you wishing I offer our guests more personal pleasure, sire?” she asked in innocent tones.

“No one would want you. Besides, you’re promised to the convent. Best place for you, even if it’s costing me a small fortune I can ill afford. Worst mistake I ever made was to marry your mother. Skinny wench, and too damned smart for her own good. It’s not right for a woman to be clever. At least you were spared that burden.”

Elizabeth smiled sweetly. “Praise be,” she murmured softly. “In that one way I take after you.”

Baron Osbert had no notion he was being insulted, but there was a stifled laugh from the man to his right, the man in the place of honor usually reserved for the lord of the castle. Elizabeth had been doing her best to ignore him, but now she had no choice. She turned slightly, to get her first good look at the notorious Prince William.

She’d heard the stories, of course. His title was no more than a courtesy at that point. William Fitzroy was King John’s eldest son, but there’d been no marriage to sanction his birth. John Lackland’s first marriage had produced no children, only a divorce, but now he had a new wife, a French child he’d married when she was twelve. Three years later there was still no legitimate offspring, and people were beginning to wonder if William might be named the royal heir.

It would be an unfortunate day for England when that happened. The stories about William Fitzroy were legendary and disquieting. He was a spoiled lecher, a whoremonger whose current act of penance was occasioned by the accidental death of a young woman who shouldn’t have been in his bed in the first place, and so Elizabeth would have told her if she’d happened to have been there. Not that Elizabeth would have been anywhere near a prince’s bedroom herself, but she could always imagine what she might say.

In any case, it wasn’t the first unfortunate incident involving Prince William’s unpleasant habits. This time, however, the girl was of minor aristocracy, and her father, one of King John’s supporters, wasn’t as easily placated. So William was headed for the Shrine of Saint Anne to do penance, accompanied by an armed guard to protect the royal personage and a group of clerics to make certain he was cleansed of sin. And Lady Elizabeth had the dubious privilege of joining their party, to be delivered safely into the hands of the reverend mother.

She’d been wise to avoid the prince—she knew at first glance he was trouble. It was little wonder he’d managed to cut a swath of lechery across the countryside—what woman would have said no to him? Though apparently the problem lay in the fact that several women had done just that, and suffered the brutal consequences.

Sprawled lazily in her father’s chair, the dark prince was every inch the royal personage. He was long-limbed, she could tell that much, and his black hair was shorter than was the custom, though it curled about his strong face like a lover’s caress. His eyes were opaque, dark, almost black, and his skin was the golden color of a man who spent a great deal of time in the sun. Maybe he despoiled virgins in the light of day, Elizabeth thought critically.

He dressed in almost gaudy finery, with gold chasing on his tunic and his leather boots, a large ruby ring on his left hand, chains of gold hung around his neck, so many that a lesser man might bow beneath their weight. Not Prince William.

He didn’t have the mouth of a lecher. No thick, pink lips, no lascivious smile. It was a strong mouth in the midst of his clean-shaven face, almost stern, and she wondered if the spoiled prince ever smiled. He looked older than his years—old in the ways of sin, perhaps. He probably only smiled when he was molesting innocents.

“This is m’daughter,” Baron Osbert said, introducing her carelessly. “Not much to look at, but she’s quiet and biddable and won’t get in your way on the journey. Tell the prince what a great honor it is, to have his protection on your trip to the convent.”

“It is a great honor, my lord,” Elizabeth repeated dutifully.

But Prince William was looking at her with far too much interest. “Quiet and biddable, is she?” he murmured, and Elizabeth felt an unwelcome shiver run across her backbone. He had a deep voice, with a faint rasp to it that tickled her skin. “Just the way I like my women,” he added.

Baron Osbert hooted with laughter. “Not this woman, my lord. She’s hardly worth your time and attention.”

“All women are worth my time and attention,” he said in a slow, drawling voice. “Your name, my lady?”

All the bloody saints of Christendom! She didn’t want those dark, unsettling eyes on her, and she certainly didn’t want her existence to mar the even tenor of the prince’s self-indulgent life.

“Elizabeth,” her father answered for her. “Approach the prince, you dullard, and make your curtsey.”

Elizabeth had no choice but to do as she was bid, keeping her head meekly lowered. She’d perfected the gesture for a variety of reasons. Keeping her head low diminished her height, and it prevented people from reading the expression in her eyes. Even the dullest of her brothers would be unsettled if they realized just what their sister was thinking.

“You’re to become a holy sister, Lady Elizabeth?” the prince asked in his remarkable voice. “Are you certain that’s your destiny?”

She looked up at that, startled, and found herself meeting his gaze. Merciful Saint Anne, he had the most wicked eyes she’d ever seen. You could almost drown in them. If you were a susceptible female, which she certainly was not. She stared up at him, dumbstruck. There was no joy in those eyes, or evil. But there were ghosts.

“She hasn’t much choice in the matter,” her father answered for her once again. “She’s too tall and too slow to provide much use as a wife.”

“I’d never heard that wit was a desirable trait in a woman,” the prince murmured, watching her.

Her father bellowed with laughter. “True enough. But who’d want to warm himself with a bony creature like her? Give me a plump woman any day, one with curves and something to hold on to.”

“Whereas I’m a great deal more broad-minded. There’s untold pleasure to be had in the most unexpected of places, if a man has the wisdom to look.”

Enough was enough, Elizabeth thought, lifting her chin to risk the prince’s unsettling glance. “If I may be excused, Father? I have work left undone, and I wish to say goodbye to my brothers. God knows when we’ll see each other again—I don’t expect they’ll be traveling to Saint Anne’s to visit me anytime soon.”

“Not unless they’re forced to, and they’re too smart to get caught,” Osbert said carelessly, ignoring the fact that the powerful man beside him was at that moment paying the price for being caught. “I doubt you could find them. They’re healthy young animals, and tonight is a night for celebration, and I have little doubt they’re off enjoying themselves. They wouldn’t wish to be found by their elder sister. I’ll convey your farewells to them.”

“Celebration?” Prince William murmured.

“The honor you do our home,” Osbert said with unexpected smoothness. “And the departure of my daughter.”

“That bad, is she?” There was a thread of laughter under his deep voice and Elizabeth jumped. She’d always had a weakness for a man who laughed, but not at her expense.

She spoke up. “To give a child to the church is always cause for rejoicing.”

“Particularly when she’s no good for anything else,” her doting father observed.

“I’m not convinced of that,” the prince said, causing that shiver of unease to dance down her spine once more. His voice was almost worse than the intense gaze of his dark eyes. He made her want to squirm, to run away. To melt.

Running away was the most practical response. “I’ll just see to the brothers, then, and retire…”

“Which brothers? Yours, or the monks?”

“You’ve already assured me that my brothers are nowhere to be found, and of course you are right, Father,” she said. “I wish to make certain the holy friars are provided for.”

“Keep away from them.”

Prince William’s deep voice had lost its compelling edge. It was the voice of a royal, expecting to be obeyed.

And supposedly dim-witted or not, she didn’t dare countermand such an order.

Elizabeth sank into another curtsey. “As your lordship wishes,” she said demurely. She cast one glance over her shoulder, at the small group of monks in the corner of the great hall. Several had already stretched out on the rushes, sound asleep, but Brother Matthew, with the sweet smile and beguiling blue eyes, was still awake. Watching her.

“Perhaps you’re not that well suited to the convent after all, my lady,” William said slowly. “You seem to find certain men far too distracting.”

That made her jerk her head back in surprise. There was almost a touch of displeasure in his voice, as if he didn’t like the fact that she kept staring at the gentle monk. Surely a man such as Prince William didn’t have to have every woman fawning over him?

Apparently he did. “Accompany me to my room, Lady Elizabeth,” he said suddenly. “I find I’ve grown unexpectedly weary, and after your father’s fine wine I doubt I could find my way on my own.”

“I’ll be happy to find you a comely serving wench, my lord,” she began. In fact, she’d be happy to do no such thing. Entrance into Prince William’s bed was a dangerous thing, and she had no intention of sacrificing any of the women who would likely tempt his appetite, not even to save herself. And in truth, she couldn’t believe she was in any danger. Prince William was a notorious lecher, a connoisseur of beautiful women. She was hardly the sort of female to interest a man like Prince William.

There wasn’t time to dose him with her father’s herbal concoction—it took several days for it to take effect. It was a good thing she was safe from any stray lust on the part of the king’s son.

“A visiting prince deserves the company of the daughter of the house and no less,” he said, rising.

She’d been right, he was very tall indeed. Not as huge as some of her father’s best fighting men, nor as brawny. He had a lean, wiry grace to him, and he came around the table and took her hand in his, and there was nothing she could do about it.

“Come, my lady,” he said, his voice brooking no opposition. “Bear me company. You can tell me of the pleasure to be found in this uncivilized place.”

Her father was still sitting in his chair, dumbfounded. He hadn’t even had the sense to rise when his honored guest had done so, but remained motionless, openmouthed in dazed shock.

The prince’s hand was surprisingly rough in hers. She would have thought a prince would have soft, babied skin. But then, word had it that Prince William was a fighter, as well as a lover, and the long hours of training with weapons would toughen him.

He certainly didn’t lack for strength. Before her father could utter a protest, or more likely a warning for her to please his guest, he’d drawn her from the smoke and heat and light of the great hall, into a darkened corridor, out of sight of everyone.

“Which way are we going?” the prince asked in an even voice.

“Where am I taking you?” Her own voice didn’t waver, a small miracle when in fact she was as close to panic as she’d ever allowed herself to feel. The man beside her was bigger, stronger than she was, and he was known for his unexpected brutality. She had no interest in bedding a tender lover, much less a monster.

“To my rooms. Where you will leave me, to spend one more chaste night under your father’s roof before you throw your life away with the holy sisters. I mean you no harm, Lady Elizabeth.” She might have believed him if it weren’t for the irony in his voice.

The torches cast a flickering light over the darkened hallway, and she looked up into his face, trying to read his expression. The shadows playing across his skin made him look as dangerous as he was rumored to be, and she wasn’t reassured.

There was nothing she could do at that moment—his grip on her hand, while not painful, was determined. She had no choice but to lead him to the solar, and hope that something might distract him along the way.

“Of course, my lord,” she said meekly. She started forward, in her nervousness forgetting to take the small steps that were considered proper in a female. She covered ground quickly, and he kept pace with her long stride, moving with an almost leisurely grace.

She had little doubt the prince would command the best rooms in the house, the warm and well-appointed solar in the south tower. It took no time at all to traverse the long corridors of the castle, and there wasn’t a soul in sight to impede their progress. No comely serving wench, no mischievous brother, no disapproving monk. They moved through the halls unwatched, unheeded. There was no one to rescue her, nothing but her own wit to set her free. If she was, in truth, in any danger, which seemed very unlikely.

The door to the solar was closed, keeping the heat inside, and she halted, her mind working feverishly. She could topple to the floor in a faint, and despite his height he’d still have a difficult time hauling her limp body into the room. Though doubtless he’d have no trouble finding someone to help him. He was, after all, a prince, albeit one by courtesy rather than law.

She could kick him in the shins, surprise him into releasing her hand, and make a run for it. He’d probably move faster than she could, but she had the advantage of knowing her ground, and there were numerous hiding places in the castle where she’d spent all her life.

Or she could simply accept her fate. It wasn’t anything worse than most women had been enduring for centuries, and there were countless martyrs who’d been ravaged and murdered. Maybe she’d become another of the dark prince’s victims, making her way straight to sainthood, skipping the convent altogether.

For some reason the notion didn’t appeal. She was still trying to come up with some plausible means of escape, when he simply released her hand.

“I told you, Lady Elizabeth, you have nothing to fear from me,” he said, his deep voice curling down her spine. “I have no interest in raping you.”

She felt her face flush, but it wasn’t with the gratitude that she would have expected. How mortifyingly foolish, to think someone like Prince William would prove any kind of threat to a skinny, overgrown redhead with a tongue like a razor. She wasn’t even woman enough to appeal to the most desperate men in her father’s household—why in the world should a dedicated lecher want her when there was far more abundant pleasure to be found? And why was she feeling faintly aggrieved rather than gratified by her close escape?

Perhaps because it hadn’t been that close. She couldn’t quite summon the vacant expression she usually reserved for irritating men, but she nodded. “If you desire anything you have only to ask one of the servants,” she said, starting to move away before he could change his mind. Not that he was likely to.

But to her shock he reached out and put his hand on her shoulder, halting her escape. Strange, but the feel of his hand against her shoulder, bare flesh against bare flesh, had been oddly disturbing. This time the weight of his hand through solid layers of clothing was even more unsettling. Hands touched all the time during the course of the day. Seldom did people touch any other part of her body. Particularly tall, handsome males. And there was no disputing that Prince William was very handsome indeed.

“I won’t be needing anything. As doubtless you’ve heard, this is a journey of penance.” There was a faint distaste in his smile, though she wasn’t sure whom it was directed at. Himself, or the powers that had decreed he must atone. “You would be wise to seek your bed as well, my lady. We’ll be making an early start of it, and my guard tend to be impatient.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And the friars will see to themselves. They’ve taken a vow of poverty, remember? They’re perfectly adept at taking care of their own comfort. They don’t need you hovering around them.”

“I don’t hover.”

“You looked as if you wanted to,” he said. He hadn’t lifted his hand from her shoulder, and the weight of it was warm, heavy, spreading through her body in a most disturbing manner.

“I’m mistress of the castle,” she said. “That’s been my purpose in life, to see that my father’s guests are well taken care of.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’ll be putting your talents to something more useful,” he said. “Do I have your promise?”

She jerked her head up to look at him, honest surprise wiping every other consideration from her mind. “Promise, my lord?”

“To keep away from the great hall?” he said patiently. “To seek your quarters and stay there till the morning light? The men I’ve brought with me aren’t trustworthy when it comes to women.”

And you are? she wanted to ask, but she decided she’d already pushed her luck to extremes. And he was letting her leave, untouched. She should be wise and grateful.

It was easy enough to agree, when it was exactly as she had intended. “I promise, my lord. Though I must say you greatly overestimate any effect I might have on susceptible males. I have found that I am entirely safe from such things.”

His grin was slow, wicked, the complete opposite of Brother Matthew’s saintly smile. And far more dangerous. “I think you greatly underestimate susceptible males, my lady. And if I weren’t atoning for my sins I’d be sorely tempted to drag you into that room and commit a great many more.” He put his hand on her other shoulder, and he started to draw her closer, and she looked up into his dark, dark eyes, letting him do it, wondering if he would kiss her. She would have liked one last kiss before she took her holy vows, though she’d be much better off being kissed by Brother Matthew than the most dangerously lecherous man in the entire kingdom.

But no one else would want her, so it didn’t matter. She couldn’t move, she simply closed her eyes as he brought her closer, and his lips settled on her…forehead. A brief benediction, and then he let her go.

Not even good enough for a desperate lecher, she thought. Thank all the mercies of heaven for that. She stepped back, and if she didn’t know better she would have thought his release was reluctant.

“Sleep well, my lord,” she said, turning to leave, hiding her intense and totally irrational annoyance. “I’ll be ready to go whenever you wish. Have peaceful dreams.”

“I doubt it,” he muttered. And a moment later he’d closed the door of the solar behind him, leaving her alone in the hallway, with the feel of his mouth on her forehead, taunting her.

An hour later he was sprawled in a chair in the solar, watching the fire, when he heard the faint scratching on the door, the creak of the leather hinges. He allowed himself a stray hope that it was a certain tall, skinny, redheaded creature who wasn’t anywhere near as meek or as witless as she’d have everyone believe, and then relaxed when one of the monks ducked inside, closing the door silently behind him.

“Did anyone see you?”

Brother Adrian shook his head. “Not a soul. I already had an excuse ready—you were in need of spiritual counseling and my Christian duty was to aid you.”

“And I would have turned to the youngest monk in my retinue? Somehow it seems unlikely.”

Adrian flushed. “I didn’t think…”

“It’s all right, Brother Adrian. They would simply assume I’m extending my debauchery to those of my own sex. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Brother Adrian frowned. “But you wouldn’t. You don’t…” he faltered.

“I don’t,” the man said. “But Prince William does. Is the prince safely settled for the night?”

“He is.”

“No women anywhere near him?”

“None.”

The man sighed. “This is harder than I expected. Keep watch on him, Adrian. He cares nothing for atonement.”

“And you care too much,” Adrian was bold enough to say.

2

Elizabeth was up early. She’d always been impatient with too much sleep, and on the day she was to start her new life she could barely wait. Excitement bubbled in her veins, and even though her meager belongings were packed and her goodbyes said, she still rose before the first light, pulled her loose-fitting dull brown gown over her shift and laced it herself, and then sat by the window as the sun climbed over the eastern hills. It would be the last time she would see it from this window, and she wondered that she felt no twinge of sorrow. There would be other sunrises, in other places. She’d seen enough of this one.

She leaned her head against the cool stone wall and watched as the household slowly came alive. The milkmaids straggled into view first, and Elizabeth could tell even from that distance that the household guests had found amiable company among them. They were followed by the stable help and then the rest of the household servants, one by one, as they set about their duties. There was no sign of the visitors, either knights or monks, even as full daylight spread over her father’s keep.

It was an orderly, well-run household, despite her father’s slovenly ways, and she had always done her best to make it so. God only knew what it would look like when next she saw it—if she ever did. Even a small castle such as Bredon required a strong chatelaine to order the multitude of servants necessary. In the few years since her father had discovered daughters, even plain ones, had a use after all, she had been kept at a run, overseeing even the merest details of a household that required a small army to run. She seldom had time for her own interests, her study of the stars and the curative effects of roots and herbs. However, she’d become quite masterful at feeding and caring for the fifty or more members of her father’s household.

Who would see to them after today? With no woman to see to the running of the place it would most likely fall into disrepair and decay.

Of course, who was to say there wouldn’t be a woman? Once her father was free of the restraining effects of Elizabeth’s potion, he’d doubtless find himself married once more, and her younger brothers would doubtless follow suit. In truth, there would probably be too many women rather than too few. Another good reason for her to leave—she wasn’t the sort to peacefully relinquish what little power she had.

But that would no longer be her concern. She might never return, never see her family again, and while she’d miss her monstrous younger brothers, she wouldn’t mourn. She would have a new family once she arrived at the Shrine of Saint Anne. A new family, a new name, a new calling. And no regrets.

The first of their guests strode into the courtyard, and Elizabeth watched in astonishment as Prince William himself headed toward the stable. He was fully dressed in his elegant clothing, the gold chasing glinting in the early sunlight, but he had no cap on his head, and she realized with some amusement that he was prematurely balding. His dark hair had been carefully combed over his skull, but it only just covered the crown of his head. He was almost as bald as a monk. It was a good thing he was so tall—most people wouldn’t have the vantage point she had.

Then again, it probably wouldn’t matter if he was fat and ugly, as well as bald. He was the only son of the king, powerful and privileged, and no one would dare say no to him. She couldn’t imagine how he could have killed a woman, or more than one if gossip were to be believed. What woman would dare to resist him, even one of high birth?

She could watch him quite safely, hidden away behind the thick walls of the castle, and she indulged herself for lack of something better to do. He moved with surprising grace for a man so tall, and his long legs made quick work of the expanse of the courtyard. He’d either spent the hours in such debauchery that he hadn’t bothered to get any sleep, or unlike his fellow travelers he’d spent a chaste, well-rested night in the solar. He didn’t look particularly chaste—there was too much knowledge in his eyes, but there’d been no screams in the night, and she could only assume that everyone had made it through safely.

Even Prince William. He passed the stable, heading directly toward the small chapel, and then he disappeared inside.

Elizabeth leaned back, astonished. Prince William’s current atonement had been forced on him, and if even half the stories were true, he was a heedless, cruel man with little regard for man or God.

Though he hadn’t looked particularly cruel last night. And cruel men didn’t kiss plain women on the forehead, did they?

It made no sense to her, and she liked things to make sense, but in the end it was the least of her concerns. The household was truly awake by then, and more of Prince William’s entourage had appeared, looking a great deal less sprightly than the prince himself. It was time to go.

There was no member of her family waiting to see her off—only the servants. Gertrude, the elderly laundress, was weeping openly, and even Wat the stable lad was blubbering. She hugged them all, fighting back her own tears, and approached the weary nag that her father had grudgingly given her for the journey with only minor trepidation.

The men were already mounted. The monks were on particularly fine animals, a surprise. Most holy brothers rode donkeys, not high-strung chargers. Poor old Melange would have a hard time keeping up with even the slowest of them, but it was the best she could hope for. Wat dragged the mounting block over, but before she could move the dark prince spoke, startling her. She hadn’t realized he was so near.

“You’re not riding that pathetic old nag,” he said flatly.

She’d forgotten his voice. She looked up at him, and tried to remind herself that despite his eyes he was nothing but a horrible, wicked, balding man. “It’s the only mount I have.”

“I’ve seen your father’s stables. He takes better care of his cattle than he does his women.”

“Don’t most men?” she responded, then bit her lip. Being outspoken was always a failing, and she didn’t want his dark, unnerving eyes on her any more than necessary.

“Brother Adrian!” he called over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving hers. To her surprise, it was the youngest, baby-faced monk who slid off his horse and came running.

“Yes, my lord?”

“Find milady a better mount. If she tries to keep up with us on that poor beast she’ll be left behind in no time.”

“I don’t know if Baron Osbert would be willing—”

“Baron Osbert has no say in the matter. He would scarce want to inconvenience his prince, would he? He is singularly lacking in wisdom, but even he can’t be shortsighted enough to offend those in power.”

“Indeed,” Brother Adrian said, advancing toward Wat, who stood trembling in his manure-stained boots.

“I don’t know what I can give you,” Wat said in a wavering voice. “The baron has never let her ride much. She’s such a hopeless rider that he was afraid she’d ruin any of his decent horses.”

Prince William was still looking at her. “You really are a disgrace, aren’t you?” he said softly.

“So I’m often told.” She wasn’t about to defend herself. She would ride whatever they put her on, just as long as it took her to her new life.

“Bring her Anthony’s mount. He won’t be needing it.”

Elizabeth allowed herself a brief moment to worry about poor Anthony’s fate before she spoke. “I’m certain Melange will be fine.”

“And I’m certain she won’t. Are you planning on arguing with me?”

That was exactly what she wanted to do, but she thought better of it. One didn’t argue with the king’s son, particularly when he was known to possess an uncertain temperament. “As you wish, my lord.”

He nodded. “A sensible decision. I knew you were wiser than your father. We’re already late in leaving.” He should have moved away. His huge black horse was restless, breathing heavily in the early morning air, ready to jump ahead, but he kept the beautiful creature under control with almost imperceptible effort as Adrian returned with a freshly saddled chestnut mare.

Elizabeth eyed the creature warily. The horse was bigger than Melange, and much livelier. But she certainly wasn’t about to waste her time thinking she had any choice in the matter. Life wasn’t about choices, it was about making the best of what was forced on you.

Riding a strange horse was bad enough, but going through the awkward business of mounting with the prince’s dark eyes on her was worthy of argument. Until she glanced at him and knew he wasn’t going to budge.

The mare held still with surprising patience as she scrambled onto her back, a good sign. Melange, for all her torpor, wasn’t as well behaved. Elizabeth sent a silent prayer of thanks heavenward. If she hadn’t managed it she had little doubt the prince would have put his hands on her again, in front of everyone, and that was the last thing she wanted.

And then they were off, their cavalcade moving with stately grace through the early morning mist. Elizabeth looked back, one last time, at the assembled servants, the familiar shape of Bredon Castle, where she’d spent her entire seventeen years. And then she turned her back on it, facing her new life.

It was a matter of great pride for Elizabeth that she never cried. Not when her father boxed her ears, not when her brothers called her a maypole, not even when she’d overheard two of the women of the castle discussing her total lack of feminine attributes. Not even when her only chance at married life was destroyed before it even began, when the man she’d been betrothed to chose another. When she looked in a mirror, even in the wavering reflection she could see herself well enough. Red hair—a sign of the Devil. Pale skin that freckled and burned in the bright sun. Way too tall—she towered over most men. Way too skinny—her hips were narrow, not made for childbirth, so what good would she be to anyone? She had breasts, but their relative abundance was more of an inconvenience than a boon. They had no use but to get in her way and occasionally excite the attention of some idiot male. At least in the convent no one would notice.

She never cried, and she prided herself on her strength and resilience, but by the time the sun was high overhead she was ready to sob with pain and frustration.

In seventeen years she’d never traveled more than half a day away from the castle, and then only once, to her aborted wedding. Her mother had no family left to visit, and Baron Osbert certainly never sought out her company on his occasional journeys. But now she’d been in the saddle longer than she’d ever been in her entire life, and her body screamed at each step the horse took.

“My lady?” The soft voice penetrated her self-pity, and she lifted her head to look into Brother Matthew’s pale blue eyes. “Are you ill?”

She cast a nervous glance ahead, but Prince William was well in front of the caravan, almost out of sight. She gave the gentle monk a brief smile. “Just travel-weary,” she said with at least a modicum of honesty. In fact, she was so wretched she could scream from it, but it would do her little good. “You’re very kind to worry,” she added. “I’ll be fine once we stop to rest.”

Such a shame to have such a pretty face lost to a monastery, she thought absently when he smiled back at her. A few more sweet men like him in the real world would certainly improve the quality of life. Instead, most husbands were bullying brutes, and the thoughtful men were devoted to celibacy. As was she, she reminded herself swiftly.

“I’m not sure the prince has any intention of stopping before nightfall,” Brother Matthew said in a wry voice.

Elizabeth couldn’t help her tiny moan of despair.

“I can see to it that he does,” Brother Matthew said, eyeing her with great sympathy. “Just a word in his ear and I’m certain he’d stop. After all, he could hardly expect a frail woman to keep up this kind of pace.”

“I’m not a frail woman,” she said between clenched teeth. There was a time in her life when she would have given anything to be a frail, helpless flower of femininity. God had ordained otherwise, and she had no choice but to take pride in her strength and endurance. Even if it seemed to have abandoned her when she most needed it. “I’ll be fine. I’m just not used to riding such long distances.”

“The journey’s only just begun. There’s no need for him to set such a pace.”

“Perhaps he wants his penance over and done with,” she suggested, shifting around to try to get more comfortable. Her horse took her restlessness with comparative good grace. Melange would have made life pure hell.

“I would imagine he does,” Brother Matthew said. “Celibacy sits very hard on a man like Prince William. Be careful of him, my lady. It worries me that your father couldn’t even spare a kitchen maid to bear you company. As the only woman in this group of men it makes you very vulnerable.”

“I think they’ll manage to restrain themselves,” she said, tossing an escaping strand of red hair over her shoulder.

“I think you trust too easily. You must promise to come to me if you ever feel you’re in danger. I will do what I can to protect you.”

She looked into his pale, troubled eyes and melted. Why weren’t there men around like him? Peaceful, kind, handsome men with light, soft voices that soothed rather than disturbed? Why waste such a paragon on a monastery?

Blasphemy, of course, but at least she’d been wise enough not to speak it out loud. Who more deserving than the mother church? It wasn’t as if she herself weren’t taking the only chance she had. It was an honor to serve God.

Brother Matthew leaned over and put his hand on hers. Soft, beautiful hands, with a heavy gold signet ring on one finger. “Promise you’ll come to me,” he said urgently.

His hands were cold. Surprising, because the sun was bright overhead. Her own blood tended to run hot—a convenience in a drafty, ill-heated castle, but she knew she was unusual. It only made sense that a holy brother would have cool skin. Maybe the heat that plagued her blood would still and cool once she joined the holy sisters.

He had taken her hand and held it, forcing their horses close together as they rode forward. Brother Matthew’s mount was a great deal more high strung, and Elizabeth could feel her own horse’s distress at his closeness. An anxiety that mirrored her own, though she wasn’t quite certain why. She could think of no way to pull her hand away from the well-meaning friar, and she squirmed in her seat again.

“Brother Matthew!” The youngest monk had ridden up to them, his voice urgent.

Brother Matthew released her hand, slowly, reluctantly, and turned to face the young man with almost insolent leisure. “Yes, Brother Adrian?”

“Prince William wishes to converse with you.”

“We’ll have more than enough time to talk when we stop,” he said, still keeping pace with Elizabeth. “We can discuss atonement and sin at length over dinner.”

“He says now, Brother Matthew.”

Brother Matthew’s smile was exquisitely charming. “The prince will have to accept the fact that he is on a journey of atonement, not of pleasure, and his desires no longer come first. I will join him later.”

Brother Adrian wheeled away, clearly annoyed, and Brother Matthew laughed softly.

“Was that a wise idea?” Elizabeth asked. Just because she was unreasonably enchanted by his sweet smile didn’t mean she’d lost her good sense. “Prince William doesn’t seem the sort of man it is wise to defy, no matter how penitent he’s supposed to be. Isn’t that how he came to be on a pilgrimage in the first place?”

“Indeed. And part of his atonement should be to hear and accept the word no each day.”

“Are you in charge of his penance?” she asked, curious.

“That surprises you? It does me as well—a prince of the land should have his soul under the guidance of an archbishop at the very least, not a simple friar from a small monastery.” There was an unexpected tone of resentment in his voice.

“You must feel very honored.”

Brother Matthew’s opaque blue eyes swept over her, and his smile was angelic. “An honor I could well do without,” he said, reaching for her hand again.

She was a better horsewoman than anyone suspected, and it was a simple matter to make her horse skitter away as if she were poorly controlled by a clumsy novice. Out of reach of his cold, gentle hands and his melting smile.

And then she realized the others had stopped, and all those around her were dismounting. The wretched prince had decided he was human after all and in need of a rest.

There was no mounting block. In normal circumstances she was agile enough to slip down off the back of a horse, but her current mount was higher than Melange, her skirts were wrapped around the saddle, and her muscles screamed at the very thought of it. Maybe she’d just stay where she was. If she got down, she’d simply have to get up on this instrument of torture once more, and that was one thing she wasn’t certain she could do.

Maybe Brother Matthew could help. She turned, but he’d slipped away without a sound. And there was no mistaking who was advancing on her, tall and dark and oddly menacing.

No, there was nothing odd about his menace, she corrected herself. Prince William was a danger to all women. And all the predawn trips to the chapel and penitential journeys wouldn’t change that. Not if you looked into his eyes.

Brother Adrian accompanied him, and when Prince William slid off his horse with effortless grace he tossed the reins to the young friar and advanced upon Elizabeth. The horse skittered back, feeling her nervousness.

He reached out and caught the reins, putting his hand on the neck of her mount, soothing her with only a touch—an unspoken communication that made Elizabeth even more nervous. He must truly be an instrument of the Devil. She firmly believed that animals had better instincts than humans did, and yet her horse trusted him. If he could trick animals he could deceive anyone.

“Time to dismount, Lady Elizabeth,” he said. “If you stay too long in the saddle, you’ll stiffen up.”

Too late, she thought miserably. “I’m fine, thank you,” she said. “My lord,” she added hastily.

Her skirts were brushing against the fine wool of his cloak, and she could feel the warmth of his body, even through all those layers of clothing. She should have felt stronger, more powerful, looking down at him from her high perch. She didn’t.

“Get down, Elizabeth.” It was an order. No one was around except Brother Adrian, and he was trying his best to pretend he couldn’t hear their conversation.

If she tried, she’d fall at his feet. And she wouldn’t do that for any man. She looked down at him, wondering if a plain “no” would do any good. She had grave misgivings that it would.

“I don’t want to.”

“Get down.”

“I can’t!” she said finally. “If I try to climb down off this wretched animal I’ll fall on my face, and then there’ll be no way you can possibly get me back on her. I’m better off just staying here until we stop for the night….” The words trailed off in a whoosh, as he put his hands around her waist and lifted her down off the horse.

She was right, there was no strength in her legs. But he was holding her with just the power of his strong hands, so that she wouldn’t collapse, and slowly the trembling in her knees stopped and she could stand on her own. If only she could stop the rest of her body from shaking.

“She’s not a wretched animal. She’s a very fine horse, and you know it as well as I do,” the prince said in a mild voice that should have reassured her.

“You can let go of me now.”

“I don’t want to.” She wasn’t certain if she heard him clearly, since he released her even as he spoke and took a step back. She grabbed the horse’s reins for additional support, and ran her hand down her neck in apology before she realized she was touching her just as the prince had touched her. She pulled her hand away hastily.

“No, she’s not a wretched animal,” she agreed. “I’m just a bit…unused to riding for such a long period.”

“Indeed.” He nodded his head toward a stretch of woods. “You can go over there.”

“Why?”

“To relieve yourself,” he said bluntly. “Unless you’ve managed to control your bodily functions as well as you control your father’s household, you should be in need, and I doubt you want to join the men.”

She could feel a blush suffuse her face. Now that he mentioned it, she did need some privacy. “You could have put it more delicately,” she snapped. And then remembered to add “my lord” in a meek tone.

“You don’t strike me as particularly delicate, Lady Elizabeth.” He took the reins from her. “Go ahead.”

She’d overestimated her strength. She was fine standing still, but the moment she tried to take a step forward her knees began to buckle.

And the moment they did, his hand came under her arm, keeping her from falling.

He was closer now, much too close, as he had been the night before. “I beg pardon,” she said breathlessly. “I’ll be fine in just a moment.”

“Do you want me to carry you?”

“No!” The thought of the dark prince carrying her into the secluded woods was beyond unsettling. “I’m fine.” To prove it she pulled free from him and took a step forward.

Her body obeyed her. She managed a cool smile and headed for the patch of woods designated for her use, moving with all the grace she could muster.

Until she was out of sight, when she hobbled, groaning and moaning into the bushes.

She would have liked nothing more than to curl up in a ball and stay there, but she knew it was out of the question. If she tried it, he’d send his men after her. Or even worse, come and find her himself.

She had no choice in the matter. At least the day was more than half over. If she could just get herself onto the back of that horse one more time she’d survive the first day. Barely.

They were already mounted when she emerged from the woods. All of them, sitting on their horses, watching as she slowly made her way into the clearing.

She straightened her spine and approached the horse. No mounting block this time, and Prince William was on his own charger, holding the reins, watching her.

She never cried, and she wasn’t about to start now. Maybe if she managed to get her foot into the stirrup she could haul herself up that high…

“Give me your hand.” Prince William’s voice was peremptory. He was next to her horse, and she couldn’t quite see how he was going to get her on it from his high vantage point, but she held up her hand, anyway, blindly obedient.

It was a grave mistake. He pulled her up, effortlessly, and plopped her down in front of him.

His horse startled nervously at the added weight, but there was no question that the dark prince was an excellent rider, controlling him with seemingly no effort.

Controlling her, and she didn’t like it. Before she could squirm, protest, slide down, he’d moved forward, fast, the horse leaping ahead with restrained energy. The others followed, and any protest Elizabeth could have made was drowned out by the noise of the hooves on the dry road.

And the panicked racing of her heart.

3

This was not good, Adrian thought, keeping his head down to hide his doubts. There were few things he trusted in this chaotic life, but the strength and purity of Brother Peter’s vocation was one of them. He knew little of the details, only that something in Peter’s past made his need to atone all-consuming. It made no sense that he would flirt with danger like this.

In theory Peter’s plan had been eminently practical. Prince William was a man with many enemies, not the least of which were the powerful Baron Neville of Harcourt and his well-trained men. His only daughter had died at the prince’s hands, and while the king had done his best to help conceal his son’s brutality, in the end William was forced to face the consequences of his behavior. That those consequences were relatively trivial—a journey of repentance, a large tithe at the Shrine of Saint Anne, and then freedom to return to his debauchery—did not sit well with Baron Neville. If Prince William were to reach the remote shrine alive it would require more than an armed guard. It would require strategy, as well. And fortunately the monks at Saint Andrews had among their fold an excellent strategist.

Once they reached their destination they would all be safe enough. Prince William would be shriven of his sins, and no one, not even a vengeful father, would be fool enough to murder a man in a state of grace, thus ensuring his swift ascent into heaven.

No, Neville would wait until William sinned again, knowing the wait would not be long. But by then the prince would no longer be the responsibility of the monks of Saint Andrews, and if he met his bloody fate it would be no more than he deserved.

Brother Peter would admonish him for his lack of charity, Adrian thought, insisting that even the most unregenerate of sinners could be saved. Even if in his heart he knew that William had been lost to the Devil long ago, and no amount of penitence and prayer could bring him back.

Adrian looked ahead to the tall, straight back of the man leading the caravan. Brother Peter had the woman up in front of him, an arrangement that would fail to concern the others. But Adrian knew him better than anyone, and he knew what a struggle would be warring in Brother Peter’s heart.

He glanced back at the other monks, riding closely together except for Brother Matthew. He played his part well, Adrian thought critically. Anyone would be fooled by those chaste, downcast eyes and his sweet smile. Doubtless that was how he’d managed to get away with his wickedness for so long. All he’d need do was turn to his father, the king of England, and smile that dulcet smile, and all would be forgiven.

But not this time. And the only way to ensure that he stayed alive long enough to atone for his many crimes was to have him travel incognito, in the garb of a simple monk, surrounded by brothers of the strictest order in all of England.

And up front, tall and strong and commanding, rode Brother Peter, a moving target for any assassin out to end the prince’s life.

It had been Brother Peter’s plan, and the abbot had agreed with its practicality, even if he loathed the necessity. Before joining the order Brother Peter had been a knight, a trained fighter, a soldier of the Holy Crusade. He was taller than most, stronger than most. In a righteous battle there would be few who could best him.

With Brother Peter leading the caravan, the devious, charming bastard prince of England would live to sin another day. Perhaps kill another innocent. The knowledge of which would weigh heavy on Brother Peter’s soul.

But that innocent wouldn’t be Baron Osbert’s long-limbed daughter. Peter was making certain she was kept safe, as he’d pledged to protect all innocents. And it wouldn’t concern Adrian at all, if he hadn’t seen the look in Brother Peter’s eyes as they rested on the tall, skinny young woman.

They said red hair was the sign of the Devil, but Adrian didn’t believe in such nonsense. But looking at Elizabeth, he couldn’t help but wonder how such a plain girl could entice a determined ascetic like Brother Peter when he’d shown no interest in far greater beauties who’d thrown themselves in his way.

Or perhaps it was simply that Brother Peter was and always had been a mystery.

Either way, he’d never betray his vows. For all the ways his eyes lingered on Lady Elizabeth when she wasn’t looking, nothing would come of it. She would be delivered up to her convent, a bride of Christ. Prince William would be shriven, throw off his monk’s robes and return to his life of sin. And Peter, Adrian and the others would return to Saint Andrews, away from the temptations of the great wide world.

They were but a few miles from the household of Thomas of Wakebryght, one day closer to the holy shrine of Saint Anne. God willing, they’d reach journey’s end without disaster.

He could see nothing of Lady Elizabeth but the occasional flutter of her drab clothes or the occasional strand of devil-red hair. All would be well, he told himself.

But he was beginning to have a very bad feeling about this.

Elizabeth slept. She wouldn’t have thought it humanly possible—the gait of the horse beneath her was smooth enough, but bouncing around the countryside was hardly conducive to slumber. And the solid body behind her, the warmth of his breath stirring her hair, the feel of his legs beneath hers, the rise and fall of his chest, his arms around her, holding her captive…

She couldn’t bear to think of it. No man had touched her in three years, and that man had disillusioned her forever. The man holding her on this huge horse was far more dangerous. Lethal, in fact.

And still, she slept. When she woke it was growing dark, and every bone in her body was stiff and aching. She jerked awake as she realized where she was, and the horse beneath her startled, increasing her uneasiness.

The horse was brought under instant control with a brief murmur, and she remembered who held her. The dark prince, the Devil incarnate, with the mouth of a fallen angel.

“Be still,” he said, and she stopped squirming, more afraid of the fall from such a huge horse than the man behind her. Perhaps.

“Where are we?” She sounded breathless. Absurd, when she’d been sound asleep.

“ Where are we, my lord William?’” the man behind her corrected her in a lazy voice.

“My lord William,” she amended, silently adding, my scum-sucking, hell-spawn lord William.

“At our destination for the night. From now on we’ll be sleeping in the forest, but tonight you’ll be assured of a warm bed to ease your weariness.”

“Who says I’m weary? My lord,” she added hastily when she heard the sharpness in her own voice. The prince was not known for his tolerance, and he’d killed women before.

“You could barely stand. I’m expecting someone will end up carrying you to your bed.” There was a faint undercurrent of amusement in his voice, one that increased her annoyance.

“Not you!” she said before she thought better of it.

She almost thought he laughed, but she couldn’t twist in the saddle to see his face, and in the growing darkness it would most certainly reveal nothing.

“No, not me. I have servants who take care of menial details, such as carting argumentative women around.”

She stiffened. “Then why am I riding in front of you? Wouldn’t I be better off riding with a servant?”

“You’re no tiny flower, Lady Elizabeth. My horse is the only one capable of holding you and another man. Besides, I am inclined to be generous toward all. Part of my penance.”

She controlled her instinctive snort of derision, more afraid of startling the horse than annoying the rider. The man behind her was an enigma—she had no doubt he was a dangerous man, capable of violence. She had no doubt he was possessed of strong carnal appetites, strong enough that they even appeared to spill over onto a plain creature such as herself.

But he didn’t strike her as a cold-blooded killer, one to lash out in rage and brutality. But the plain, ugly truth belied her own instincts, and if she wanted to make it to the Shrine of Saint Anne in good order she needed to curb her random tongue.

Leaving the prison of her father’s house had lured her into thinking she had more freedom than in fact she truly had. She would be much better off reassuming the mantle of a faintly witless woman.

“Yes, my lord,” she said in the slightly breathless voice she used with her father. “And you’ll be truly shriven, by our Lady, and go on to live a life of peace and justice.”

He was the one who snorted with laughter. “You think so?”

“But how else could it be, my lord? My father has told me so, and a good daughter knows the wisdom of her parents.”

She wasn’t expecting him to put his hands on her. He transferred the reins to one hand and took her chin in the other, turning her face up to his. It was too dark to see him, too dark for him to see the banked anger in her dulcet gaze. “And you’re such a good daughter, Lady Elizabeth, are you not?” he said lightly. “A fine housekeeper, a dutiful child, with a gift for herbs and healing. You’ll fit well into a convent, serving our Lady and keeping a still tongue in your head.”

“A still tongue in my head?” she echoed nervously, still looking up at him.

“You’re aware that Saint Anne’s is a silent order? Devoted to meditation? Most days you won’t be allowed to speak a word that isn’t in Latin. You’d best get all your arguments out ahead of time.”

She turned her head away from him, and he dropped his hand. In truth, the feel of his long fingers on her stubborn jaw had been almost as unnerving as the information he’d imparted. An order of silence? Where her only conversation would be the words of holy orders? She’d go mad.

And trust Baron Osbert not to have apprised her of that fact. If he had even a particle of wit she’d suspect he’d done it on purpose, but her father hadn’t the brains for such treachery. Besides, she kept her conversation to a minimum in his presence—he wouldn’t think silence would be a particular burden. He tended to think all tongues should be stilled except his own.

It would have served him right if she’d poisoned him before she left. A miscalculation in his calming draft could do wonders.

She wouldn’t have done it, of course. No matter how great the temptation, her gift with herbs and remedies was only to be used for good, not evil. Tampering with her father’s carnal desires had saved the servant women, though unlikely as it was, some didn’t appear to want to be saved. Tampering with his life would be unforgivable, and no journey of penance would wipe the stain from her soul.

She would deal with life as it happened. She had every intention of becoming abbess of the small order in record time—with her wit, learning and fierce determination she had little doubt she could do almost anything she wanted. She would find a way to relax the strict rules of the order. Or start talking to herself in her cell.

“I have no arguments, my lord William,” she murmured in her best, placate-her-father voice.

He muttered something under his breath, and she almost thought he said “like hell,” but she must have misheard. The wind had picked up, the warm spring day was growing cooler, and the ramparts of the small castle loomed ahead, looking ominously familiar.

It couldn’t be. Thomas of Wakebryght’s home was in the opposite direction of Saint Anne’s Shrine. They would have had to spend the day traveling away from their destination in order to reach it, a detour that would make no sense.

No, many castles looked the same, built as they were to keep marauders at bay. And the shadows were growing long, making things hard to see. She’d only been at Wakebryght once in her life, on her betrothal day. The day her humiliation had been complete, and she’d sworn she’d never return.

“You might know this place,” the prince continued, unmindful of the thoughts racing through her brain. “It belongs to a neighbor of your father’s. Wakebryght Castle.”

“No!” She couldn’t help it, the word came out sharp and definite.

The man behind her seemed unfazed. “No?” he echoed. “I assure you, it’s most definitely yes.”

“Wakebryght Castle lies in the opposite direction of Saint Anne’s Shrine.”

“So it does. A little subterfuge for those watching who might wish to cause harm to the king’s beloved son.” There was a strange note in his voice. “No one will suspect us of doubling back. There’s no need to fuss, Lady Elizabeth. One day more or less won’t make a difference when the whole of your life stretches ahead of you, devoted to God and good works. And silence.”

“I won’t go.”

He seemed unfazed by her flat refusal. “I did rather doubt your vocation, but it’s not for me to question a father’s judgment. I suspect you’ll cause the good abbess of Saint Anne more trouble than you’re worth.”

“I mean I won’t go to Wakebryght,” she said flatly. “I’d rather die.”

“My dear Lady Elizabeth, neither choice is yours. We’re already here.”

They were at the front gate, and she could see the welcoming committee awaiting them. Including Thomas of Wakebryght’s harridan of a mother, Lady Isobel. Her reaction was instinctive, unwise and immediate. She tried to jump off the horse.

She’d taken the prince unawares, but he was still too quick for her. One moment she’d seen the ground looming up from a great distance, in the next she was pulled back against his hard chest, clamped there by strong arms, so tightly she could barely breathe. “Not wise, my lady,” he murmured in her ear. “Suicide is a mortal sin. Not to mention an overreaction. If you dislike your host so much you needn’t worry. His wife was entering childbirth when we left yesterday—most likely he’ll either be at her side or celebrating his new heir. The man is thoroughly besotted.”

She knew that, far too well. “Please don’t make me go,” she whispered. “I’d rather sleep in the forest. You don’t even need to leave anyone with me to guard me—as you well know I’m not the kind of woman to tempt men into dangerous behavior.”

She didn’t understand his sudden laugh. “You’ll sleep beneath Thomas of Wakebryght’s roof, my lady. And if you give me any more arguments I’ll have you tied to my bed.”

Not a pleasant proposition. Though if it made Thomas think she’d become the treacherous prince’s leman, then he might wonder at his own rejection.

No, he wouldn’t. As children they’d played together, betrothed in the cradle, good friends as they’d tumbled in the grass. But at age fourteen, when she’d been brought to marry him, he’d looked up into her green eyes as she towered over him and simply, flatly refused.

The bride gifts were returned. As was the bride, who traveled back to Bredon Castle in an uncomfortable cart, veiled to hide her shame, while Thomas of Wakebryght married his tiny, buxom, flaxen-haired cousin Margery.

And now she was back. “I’d rather be fed to dragons,” she said under her breath.

“Unfortunately there are none around. What have you got against Thomas of Wakebryght? Did he break your heart?”

She stiffened, saying nothing, but it was answer enough. She’d forgotten how unnaturally observant the dark prince was. “Ah,” he said. “Well, you needn’t worry about it. He’s unlikely to even realize you’re here. His wife’s confinement has been quite difficult, and she’s yet to be brought to bed with a living child. I imagine he’ll be too busy worrying, celebrating or mourning to pay any attention to you.”

“God willing,” she muttered.

“Then again, if he’s mourning this might be your chance. If his lady wife isn’t up to the task of delivering an heir, perhaps she’ll die in childbed and you can take her place. A happy ending for all.”

She looked up at him, but it was full dark by now and she could only see his silhouette against the night sky. “That’s a foul thought,” she said fiercely. “I would never wish misfortune to fall on an innocent.”

He said nothing, urging the horse forward into the brightly lit courtyard.

He was right—Thomas of Wakebryght was nowhere in sight. His mother, a sour-tempered shrew with an unlikely smile of welcome on her face, and Thomas’s uncle Owen were the only ones welcoming them. There was no way they could miss seeing her, trapped as she was in Prince William’s arms, but their eyes slid over her politely to settle on their exalted guest.

“You honor our household with your return, Prince William,” Lady Isobel said in her cool voice. “We had no idea we were to enjoy the pleasure of your company so soon. I regret that my son isn’t here to greet you. His wife is still suffering greatly. I’ve sent word, however, and he should join us for dinner.”

“There’s no need. Expectant fathers are extremely tedious.” The prince slid off the horse with surprising grace, then reached up for her. For a moment Elizabeth hesitated. If she grabbed the reins and drove her knees into the horse’s flank, he’d take off, carrying her away from this wretched place and the wretched man who’d held her and taunted her.

But that would require turning the horse, who’d doubtless be in a panic, or else she’d simply ride deeper into the courtyard, and nothing would be accomplished…

She didn’t have time to finish the thought. The prince put his strong hands on her waist and lifted her down, wresting her away from her grip on the saddle, her skirts flying up in an immodest fashion before he set her on the ground. He didn’t release her—a good thing, since she still wasn’t sure she could stand.

“You are already acquainted with Lady Elizabeth of Bredon, are you not?” he said smoothly.

Lady Isobel looked as if she’d seen a snake. “Of course,” she murmured. “Welcome to Wakebryght.” Her eyes went straight back to the prince. “I’m afraid we won’t be very festive—I expect by the time you leave we’ll be a house in mourning. Lady Margery is not expected to last the night.”

“And the child?” Elizabeth asked.

Not a snake, a garden slug. “The child will die with her,” she said. “There is nothing to be done.”

Lady Margery and her unborn child would die, and Elizabeth would be there, to comfort Thomas, to aid an unwilling Lady Isobel, to perhaps change her life to what it should have been. All she had to do was remain silent.

She could feel the prince watching her, and she had the uneasy feeling that he knew everything that went through her mind. She lifted her head, looking down into Lady Isobel’s hard, dark eyes.

“I have a gift for childbirth,” she said flatly. “I’ve helped the women of Bredon through many a hard labor. Take me to Lady Margery and I will see if I can be of any assistance to her.”

It wasn’t a request, but Lady Isobel looked as if she were about to refuse. Until the prince spoke.

“Take her to the poor lady,” he said. “I grow weary of arguing in a stableyard.” And he gave Elizabeth an obnoxious little shove.

Peter watched Lady Elizabeth disappear into the depths of Wakebryght Castle, her slender shoulders squared beneath the veil of bright hair that cascaded down her back. He recognized that cool posture—it was the gait of someone marching into a battle they weren’t convinced they wanted to win, but knew they had no choice but to try.

He knew, because he’d been in that very position too many times. Trapped in the midst of bloody battles for a land already awash in human suffering, and he was never sure for what. The desert was scorching and inhospitable, the wealth that had accumulated there of little value when measured against the lives of innocents.

A Holy Land, to be sure, but a Holy Land to all faiths. And he was no longer certain that his own God wished him to kill and plunder in order to wrest it from other poor souls who happened to follow a different God who, in the end, was not so unlike his own.

She would fight for Lady Margery and her unborn child, just as he’d fought for the Holy Lands. And she wouldn’t find her sword red with the blood of those who didn’t deserve to die.

The real prince was watching him with that faint, knowing smile on his pretty mouth, as if he could read Peter’s thoughts. He was a dangerous man who’d been free to roam and ravage for far too long. For as long as he’d known him, William Fitzroy had been a vicious, dangerous man. The Crusades had suited him well—slaughter was his great pleasure—and life back in England must have paled without infidels to butcher. He’d had to turn to English innocents. It was simple enough to see how he’d managed to get away with it for so long. His enchanting smile tended to make women forget the brutalities he was capable of, and his knowledge of human nature made him far too wise when it came to getting what he wanted. William would know what plagued him. And knowing, William would use it as a weapon.

Which meant that Peter needed to redouble his efforts to keep Elizabeth away from him. To his knowledge William had never touched any but the most comely of women, but he wasn’t fool enough to think that made Elizabeth of Bredon safe. She might not be a fragile beauty, but her very strength would be an affront to someone like William.

Adrian was watching him, a troubled expression on his face. In his own way he was just as knowing as Prince William—he could sense Peter’s unexpected weakness.

It made little difference in the end. Peter had no choice but to protect Elizabeth, and if being near her brought up unexpected, long-dormant desires, then it was nothing more than fit punishment for his sins. The more he wanted her, the more painful her presence was, and he was a man who embraced pain as a means to salvation. He would welcome the torment of Lady Elizabeth’s clever tongue, knowing he would never taste it.

In the end it wouldn’t matter. In the end Brother Peter suspected he would pay the ultimate price, and it was up to his God to judge him. The sin he contemplated was far greater than the sin he was avoiding.

He was afraid he was going to have to kill Prince William. Cut his throat and let him drown in his own blood, rather than let him live to murder another innocent. There were too many women and children weighing on Peter’s soul. If he had to give his up in order to save even one, then he would do it. If he must.

He would give him time to truly repent. There was always the chance that Prince William would attain a state of grace, though he doubted it would last long. Peter had killed before, so many times he’d lost count of the corpses that had lay at his feet. He’d killed innocents and villains, women and men, aging crones and young children. In war, death was impartial.

He would break his vow and kill the man he’d been charged with protecting, kill when he’d prayed never to kill again. He would do what he must to keep one more innocent from dying.

And God have mercy on his soul.

4

For the past three years Elizabeth had been unable to think of Margery of Chester, Thomas’s chosen bride, without bitter feelings. Margery was everything she was not—small, plump, blond, docile, with a silvery laugh and an enchanting smile and the intellect of a dairy stool. Thomas had taken one look at her and forgotten his duty, his promises, his honor.

Not that Elizabeth would have wanted him against his will. But it still smarted, painfully, and while she was determined to do her Christian duty and help Margery through the dangerous journey of labor and delivery, she didn’t have to like it or her.

There were no loud screams as the servant led her through the winding halls of the small castle to the room where Margery lay. Which was either a good sign or a bad one. Perhaps all was silent because the pain had lessened and things were progressing as they ought to.

More likely Lady Margery was probably too weak to make much noise. The servant pushed open the door and Elizabeth stood still, surveying the tableau. A fire was burning brightly, so that the room was miserably hot, and a crowd of people huddled around the bed so that the occupant couldn’t be seen. There were at least of dozen of them, maybe more, including Thomas of Wakebryght, and they were arguing noisily over the bed. The smell of blood was ominous in the room. Perhaps it was already too late for mother and child.

And then the crowd parted, revealing Margery in the center of the huge bed. She was no longer the great beauty that Thomas had chosen. Her belly was swollen, her face tear-streaked, puffy and totally without color. The ankles protruding from her shift were swollen, as well, and her blond hair was a dark, tangled mess.

There was no blood on the shift or the bed, praise God. The man who was presumably the doctor was bleeding her, only making matters worse. Before the night was through the lady would be losing more blood, and she was so pale she didn’t look as if she had much to spare.

“Get out of here!” Elizabeth said in her firmest voice. “The poor woman can’t breathe, and all this noise must be driving her mad. One of the women can stay, but the rest of you must leave.”

Thomas looked at her, his eyes shadowed from lack of sleep, and for a moment he didn’t seem to recognize her. “I won’t leave my wife,” he said simply, turning back to Margery.

He was holding her hand, looking down at her pale, wretched figure with total adoration mixed with deep fear. He knew he might lose her, Elizabeth thought. It might already be too late.

But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t try. “This is women’s work, Thomas,” she said in the kind of voice her nurse used to use with her. “She wouldn’t want you seeing her like this….”

“I don’t care! She’s beautiful to me no matter what!” he cried.

The beauteous Lady Margery looked like a sow in labor, miserable and bloated, and the last trace of bitterness vanished from Elizabeth’s heart.

“Of course she is,” she said in a kinder voice. “But you’ll be in the way. Go and get something to eat, and take the rest of these people with you. I promise I’ll send for you if…if you need to be here.” Tact had never been her strong point, but she couldn’t come right out and discuss the awful possibility that each childbirth brought.

For a moment Thomas didn’t move. And then he brought his wife’s pale hand to his mouth and kissed it, and Elizabeth could see the impressive ruby ring that had, for a few short hours, belonged to her. And then he set it back down on the bed.

“You’ll save her for me, Bethy?” he said in a pleading voice. He was the only one who’d ever called her that, and she had actually found it quite annoying, but now she simply nodded.

“I’ll do everything I can, Thomas. Just take these people out of here and let me work in peace.”

“I’m staying, my lady,” a stout, aproned woman announced in a forbidding voice. “She’s been in my care since the day she was born and I’m not leaving her now.”

“Have you any experience with childbirth?”

The woman laughed derisively. “Eleven of my own, all living, and I’m none the worse for it. And I’ve helped with countless others. If anyone can help my lady it’ll be me.”

“Let Berta help,” one of the other women spoke in a measured voice. “She has more wits than the rest of the household women put together.”

Elizabeth surveyed the woman who’d spoken. She was a stranger to her, a newcomer to the household since her aborted marriage, but judging by the fineness of her silken garments she was one of the family. Not in her first youth, and so beautiful she put Lady Margery, in her prime, to shame.

“She may stay,” Elizabeth agreed. “And you, my lady. You seem to be possessed of calm good sense, as well.”

The faint smile on the woman’s beautiful mouth was faintly sorrowful. “You’d be the first to say so, Lady Elizabeth.”

“I don’t think my mother would approve….” Thomas began, but Elizabeth interrupted him, taking secret pleasure in her ability to order him about.

“Your mother’s wishes in the matter have nothing to do with it. Between Berta and this lady we may just save your wife and child. But if we’re to have any chance of it, the rest of you need to leave here. Immediately!”

They scampered away like mice, some clearly relieved, some disappointed at missing the high drama. Thomas was the last to leave, and he stood in the open door, lingering.

Elizabeth went up to him, putting her hands on his arm and pushing him gently out the door. “I’ll do my best, Thomas,” she said. “Go and pray.”

“Save her, Bethy,” he whispered. “If it’s a choice between her and the babe, save her. I can’t live without her.”

Elizabeth didn’t blink. “We won’t have to make such a choice, Thomas. Go.” She closed the heavy door behind him, turning to survey the scene.

The room was bigger than it had appeared with all those people in it, but Margery lay pale and still in the bed, too weary to even cry out at the pain that was lashing her body.

“Open the window a bit, Berta,” Elizabeth ordered, stripping off her cloak and rolling up the sleeves of her gown. “We need fresh air in this place. If she’s cold we’ll layer more covers on her.”

She half expected the nurse to object, but Berta did her bidding without comment as Elizabeth approached the bed. “How long has she been like this?”

“In labor?” the well-dressed woman asked. “Two days. She stopped crying out this morning. I’m afraid the baby’s dead.”

Elizabeth put her hands on Margery’s distended belly, and felt the flutter of life within. “It’s not dead. I’ve seen worse than this and both mother and child survived.” Not many, but she wasn’t going to admit that. Her tiny army needed courage going into the battle.

“Then let us pray you’ll work your magic this time, as well,” the woman said.

“Not my magic. God’s,” Elizabeth said.

“That’s right, you’re on your way to becoming a nun,” the woman said in a cool voice. “I’m Dame Joanna. I belong to Thomas’s uncle Owen.”

“He married?” Elizabeth murmured in surprise. Owen of Wakebryght was a rough, lecherous man in his fifties who’d shown no inclination to marry in all his years.

“I’m his leman, Lady Elizabeth,” Joanna said calmly. “His whore. Would you rather I found someone else to help you?”

Elizabeth took a closer look at her. The dress was cut too close to her body, and jewels glittered on her hands and throat. She was well kept, very beautiful, with a distant look in her fine blue eyes that Elizabeth couldn’t quite read. And couldn’t waste the time trying.

“Take off your rings,” she said, stripping her own modest ones off her hands. “We won’t want them getting in the way of our work.” She half expected the woman to blanch, but Joanna simply stripped off the heavy rings as if they were tin and dumped them in the small bag tied to her waist.

“Tell me what to do,” she said, some of her distance vanishing. “I have a fondness for Lady Margery, and I’d as soon save her.”

Elizabeth looked down at the still, wretched figure. Margery had taken everything that should have been hers, but it hadn’t been her choice, it had been Thomas’s. And Elizabeth could have fought, but instead she’d simply run away, back to her father’s wrath.

She might be too tall, too clever, too tactless, and have hair like the Devil, Elizabeth thought, but she could save lives. She’d seen five stepmothers give up their lives bringing sons into the world, and she was determined to learn what she could to save those she could. And she would save this one, and the child within her, if she had to die trying.

It was a long night. Endless, it seemed, after the day Elizabeth had already endured. Margery emerged from her exhausted torpor to scream in unrelenting pain, and the three women at her side fought grimly.

“You’ll have to cut the baby free,” Berta said at one point, her eyes dark with desperation. “She’ll die, anyway, if you don’t, and this way you might save the baby. Some women survive such an ordeal.”

“Not many,” Elizabeth said. “I’m saving them both.”

“You said it was God’s will, not yours, my lady,” Berta admonished her.

“His will is that we fight for their lives and not give in,” Elizabeth snapped back. “If you have nothing more to offer you may leave.”

Berta subsided in silence. Joanna looked up at Elizabeth from across Margery’s thrashing body, and her expression was faintly amused. “God explained that to you, did He?” she said.

Elizabeth was too weary to watch her tongue. “I assume that God has the good sense to think as I do in these matters.”

She heard Berta’s indrawn breath of shock at such blasphemy, but Joanna only smiled. “We can only pray that that is so, my lady. The God I know is capricious and cruel. He would not think twice of destroying the only happy marriage I’ve ever seen.”

Not even a twinge, Elizabeth thought, marveling. It no longer mattered that Margery and Thomas were happy in their marriage. In truth, it made her only more determined that she shouldn’t lose this battle.

She almost thought she’d lost. It was dawn, the early light spearing into the room, and she was so weary she could barely move. The babe was coming, face down, feet first, and there was nothing she could do to turn it. The movements were getting weaker, Lady Margery had barely life left in her, and there was no choice but to try.

“Push, Margery,” Elizabeth ordered, but Margery simply shook her head, dazed with pain and exhaustion, not listening.

Joanna was holding tightly to her hands, Berta was at her feet, trying to help the baby, but the last of Margery’s energy had left her, and if she didn’t push there was no chance for either.

Elizabeth moved up to the top of the bed, bent down and whispered in Margery’s ear. “If you don’t deliver this babe and live I’ll take Thomas back and make his life a living hell. I’m a vengeful woman, and I’ll make him sorry he ever chose you.”

Margery’s eyes fluttered open to focus on Elizabeth’s determined face. In her exhausted state she believed her, and she summoned her last ounce of strength, rising up in the bed, gripping Joanna’s hands and pushing.

The scream that rent the air was awe-inspiring. Almost as much as the sound of a strong baby’s cry that followed. Lady Margery was delivered of a healthy baby boy.

Elizabeth gave the babe a swift glance. He kicked his tiny legs, as strong a baby as she’d ever seen, even after such a hard, long labor. God willing, Margery would survive in as good condition. There was no way to tell if the baby had torn her inside, beyond repair, or whether she’d survive in the same miraculous manner her child had. They could only hope.

Joanna was busy cleaning her up with a calm efficiency that belied her beauty, and Berta was cooing at her new charge as she washed the blood from him. Elizabeth turned back to look at the new mother, and saw a faint blush of color had begun to tinge her deathly pale face. There were tears flowing from her closed eyes, another good sign, and her lips were moving in silent prayer.

Elizabeth leaned closer, to make certain she wasn’t making her last confession or offering her soul up to God or some such nonsense, and her thick braid brushed against Lady Margery’s face.

Her eyes flew open, swimming in tears, but there was no spectre of death in their depths. “You can’t have either of them!” she whispered fiercely.

Elizabeth laughed, too tired to hide her feelings. “Your son and Thomas are yours with my blessing. Just stay strong enough to keep them.” And then she left the room, closing the door behind her and collapsing against the thick stone wall, closing her eyes as weariness washed over her.

They would make her get on a horse in a matter of hours. Perhaps she could find an open window and jump from it. Anything was preferable to another day riding, with no sleep, no rest to smooth her way.

The hall was deserted. Maybe no one would know where to find her, and she could just slump to the floor and sleep. Sooner or later someone would come in search of her, but right now they were probably all too terrified to hear what they were certain would be tragic news.

She closed her eyes, sinking back against the cold, hard stone. She could sleep standing up, like a horse, if no one came to disturb her. Just a few moments…

The door beside her opened, and she jerked upright to face Dame Joanna’s calm, beautiful face. “Let me take you away from here,” Joanna said, surveying her. “You’ll need to wash, and a few hours’ sleep wouldn’t come amiss. I’ll tell them you’re not to be disturbed.”

“You’ll tell Prince William? And you think he’ll listen?”

Dame Joanna smiled. “I don’t usually have trouble making men do what I want. Within reason. If need be I’ll offer him up a few hours’ distraction while you rest. Owen won’t object—he’s already shared me with lesser worthies.”

“No!” Elizabeth said, horrified. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I have to do it every night, my lady. And your prince is very striking. He would be if he were just a stable boy.”

“Not my prince!” Elizabeth corrected her, then realized how ridiculous that sounded. “And you wouldn’t want to bed him. Perhaps you haven’t heard, but he kills women for sport. During the act of love.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your party spent the night here before they went on to Bredon, and I had a conversation with the prince. There are men who equate pleasure with pain, both in the giving and the taking, but he is not one of them.”

“He told you so? And you chose to believe him?”

“He told me no such thing. You think a prince would confide in a whore? But I know men, my lady, far better than I would wish. Prince William is not the man people say he is.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “That is always a possibility, I suppose. I really don’t care to find out what kind of man he is.”

“Don’t you?” Joanna’s voice was faintly disbelieving. “I know women, as well. Don’t look at me like that, child. Concentrate on happier things. Such as how powerful you feel, having wrested Margery and her child from the grip of death.”

“It was God’s hand…” she began dutifully, but Joanna interrupted her.

“You and I both know it was your skill, and whether you choose to admit it or not, you’re filled with triumph. The convent will be good for you, my lady. You’ll be out of the reach of men’s stratagems, and you’ll learn to use your power.”

“But I don’t—”

“Don’t bother trying to argue with me, Lady Elizabeth, you’re too tired. You’re a clever girl, but I’m a wise woman, and right now you’re no match for me. Just come along and let me get you settled, and then I’ll tell Lord Thomas he’s a father. Unless you’d rather be the one who imparted that particular news? There’s old business between you and the two of them, though the gossips at Wakebryght Castle haven’t been as efficient as they usually are or I’d know all about it.”

“It’s not of much interest, even to gossips,” Elizabeth said. “And I’d be happy never to see Thomas of Wakebryght again.”

“Indeed,” Joanna said in an approving voice. “Thomas is pretty enough in a pleasant manner, but he’s nowhere near the man your prince is. I don’t blame you for choosing danger over safety.”

“I didn’t make any choices! And he’s not my prince!” Elizabeth said again, too loudly, ready to weep.

“But you’d like him to be, would you not? I know men, and I know women, and I think you’d gladly toss your habit to the four winds for him.”

Elizabeth managed a rusty laugh. “You’re mad. You’ve never even seen the two of us together.”

Joanna pushed open a door set deep in the wall, holding it for Elizabeth to precede her. “I don’t need to. I’ve seen him, and I’ve seen your reaction every time his name is mentioned. You’d quite happily bed the dark prince, wouldn’t you?” she said.

“Would she?” Prince William asked, clearly curious.

He was seated by the fire in the luxuriously appointed room, and Thomas’s uncle Owen was standing near the window. He was a heavyset man, and food stained his overly embellished tunic. He looked at the two of them in the doorway, and there was no missing the possessiveness in his small eyes as they roamed over Dame Joanna.

“Phaugh!” he said. “The two of you look like you’ve been to a hog butchering. I presume my niece is no longer on this earth. Are you planning to take her place, Lady Elizabeth, as you once longed to?”

If that was the first time the prince had heard of her previous connection to the household, he didn’t seem surprised. “Didn’t you hear your lady, Owen?” he asked lazily, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “It’s me she wants.”

Elizabeth was not amused. “Lady Margery was delivered of a healthy son.”

“Praise be,” Owen muttered piously. “Then maybe this household can get back to normal. If my lord will give me leave, I’ll bring the happy word to the rest of the family.”

Prince William waved a hand in airy dismissal, and Owen backed out of the room, a model of obsequiousness. He paused at the door, surveying his leman. “Go make yourself presentable,” he said—an order, not a request. “I’ve no great liking to see my woman drenched in the blood of childbed. I’ll join you as soon as our guests leave.”

Dame Joanna inclined her elegant head. “As you wish, my lord.” She bowed low, to both the prince and Elizabeth. “God speed, my lady. Prince William.” There was no missing the trace of deviltry in her voice that almost overshadowed the bleakness that had settled over her perfect features once more.

And she left the two of them alone in the small bedroom.

5

“You’re a pretty sight,” the dark prince observed lazily. “You look almost as bloody as a soldier at the end of a long battle.”

“I imagine I feel the same.” She was so exhausted she could feel herself begin to sway. Prince William lounged lazily in a chair, and he hadn’t asked her to sit. She should stay standing until he said otherwise. It didn’t matter—she sat down on the wooden bench opposite him, silently daring him to object.

He smiled at her—totally irritating. “Feeling dangerous, are you, my lady? Is it the blood of Lady Margery? Shall I wish you happiness?”

“What?” She didn’t care that she sounded stupid—her wits seemed to have vanished.

“Lady Margery took your place in this household, sending you back to the tender care of your father, according to the gossips. Your appearance here set their tongues free—until now I think you were fairly well forgotten. With Thomas’s wife dead you can assume your rightful place and marry him.”

“People have been far too busy informing you of my past.” Her voice was cool and measured. “I would think you had more interesting ways of passing the time.”

“Not particularly. This household seems unreasonably devoid of attractive women apart from Dame Joanna, and besides, as you doubtless haven’t forgotten, I’m on a journey of penance. Such occasions are not suited to lechery.”

“You strike me as someone always suited to lechery.” Again her unruly tongue betrayed her. “I beg pardon,” she added swiftly.

“Oh, don’t apologize,” he said airily. “I find your candor quite refreshing. I’ll miss it on the rest of the journey.”

“Why do you keep assuming I’m staying here? Lady Margery has delivered a healthy baby boy, and she herself is strong and recovering rapidly. I don’t doubt she’ll go on to present Thomas with a dozen offspring before she’s done.”

“That shouldn’t please you.”

“Why not?” She stared down at her bloodstained gown. She was a mess, and she had brought no other clothes with her. Once she reached Saint Anne’s she’d be wearing the clothes of the holy order, and there was no need to waste good cloth, her father had said. Her cast-off dresses would do for the servants. “I don’t know what they told you—if it was Thomas’s mother then she was doubtless unkind. She never liked me, and was well rid of me when Thomas changed his mind. In the end, it’s all for the best. I am better suited for the convent.”

He snorted with laughter. “I’ve yet to meet a lady less suited to the convent, unless it’s perhaps your new friend Dame Joanna. But you’re right, it’s for the best. The insipid Thomas would have bored you to tears in a matter of months, and I suspect you know it.”

She didn’t bother to argue—one didn’t argue with even a bastard prince of England. “I expect to be very happy and useful in the convent. I hardly have Dame Joanna’s…” She struggled for the right phrase, unwilling to say anything unkind about the woman who’d worked so tirelessly by her side. “I don’t have…Dame Joanna is a very…”

“Dame Joanna is a leman,” he said bluntly. “A woman who survives on her back. She’s also a woman who survives on her wits, and despite your attempts to prove otherwise, I do believe you’re a very clever woman. Dangerously so.”

She leaned back against the wall, the cold stone reaching into her bones through the thin gown, but she was too weary to move.

“I don’t feel particularly clever right now,” she said. “When do we leave this place?”

“When will you be ready?”

She glanced at him. “I cannot believe it will be my choice. But if it were up to me, the sooner I’m gone from here the better.”

He nodded. “You’ll want to wash up and change those rags of yours.”

“I have no other rags to wear, my lord,” she said.

“Then we’ll find you some. I’m not traveling with a woman smelling of childbed blood. It could draw wild boars to our caravan, and we have enough danger to contend with without the added complication of marauding animals.”

“And what if I were…” She stopped, horrified at what she’d almost said. If she weren’t so tired she would never have brought up such a blunt subject.

“If you were having your monthly courses?” he finished for her, unmoved. “We’d find ways to deal with it. I believe you are blushing, Lady Elizabeth. You seem so matter-of-fact and practical—I’m surprised that a natural bodily function would leave you tongue-tied.”

“It’s not something discussed with men,” she said sharply. “And I’m not! That is, the time isn’t right….” she added.

“You’re snappish enough that you might be. I know more of women’s bodies than you’d expect, my lady. I have an interest in medicine.”

She closed her eyes, settling against the cool stone. “I have no doubt you’re completely conversant with women’s bodies, my lord William. I find the medical interest to be less likely.”

“Are you accusing your prince of lying?” His voice was so mild she was forced to open her eyes, to ascertain whether or not she’d finally gone too far. If she’d said half the things to her father that she’d said to a bastard prince of England, she’d be whipped.

But Prince William looked unperturbed. “There are a great many things about me that would surprise you.”

In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought. “I prefer not to discover them.”

His smile was faint. “You really should watch your tongue, my lady. Most men are not so forbearing as I am, and I would hate to see you run afoul of someone inclined to brutality.”

“As opposed to you?” The words were out before she could stop them, but she had the sense to quickly apologize. “I beg pardon, my lord. I’m too tired to realize what I’m saying.”

“You’re too tired to stop from speaking your mind, my lady. You still know exactly what you’re saying. Shall we have Lady Isobel attend you, bring you one of her dresses?”

“No! She’s half a foot shorter and a great deal rounder than I am. And she hates me—she’d probably drown me as I tried to wash myself. Any servant girl with reasonable height will do. She could probably get the blood out of my dress and use it for her own, and while worn, the cloth is quite fine. I oversaw the weaving of it.”

“You have all sorts of hidden talents, my lady,” he said. “But I think I won’t travel with a lass dressed like a serving wench. It would be bad for my reputation. And no, you needn’t point out that my reputation is beyond saving. Dame Joanna is of a fair height, though not so lanky as you, and while her hips are more generous than yours, you both seem equally well-equipped in the chest. Her clothes should do, and be more suitable.”

She was beyond objecting at this casual appraisal of her physical attributes. After a moment all she could manage was a faint protest. “Lord Owen ordered her to wait for him.”

“I had the impression that Dame Joanna would be just as happy to be excused from whatever Owen of Wakebryght has in mind.” He rose, looming over her, and a belated sense of propriety forced her to try to scramble to her feet.

It was a waste of time. He put one big, strong hand on her shoulder and pushed her back down on the bench. In the two days she had known him he had touched her more than any other man. His hand lingered on her shoulder for a moment, and she must have imagined the slight squeeze that was almost a surreptitious caress.

“Behave yourself, Lady Elizabeth. Prince William is not known for his patience. Watch your tongue when others are around, or you’ll force me to do something I’d rather not do.”

And what would that be? she thought, but she managed to keep silent. “Good girl,” he murmured in an approving voice. And to her utter astonishment he leaned down and gave her a soft kiss on her lips. He was gone before she had time to react.

She touched her mouth. No one had kissed her mouth since Thomas had experimented, and she hadn’t found his passionate attempts to be particularly stirring. Whereas Prince William’s chaste salute…

No, his kiss was anything but chaste, despite its brevity and softness. For such a brief, offhand kiss it carried with it a wealth of suggestion, and Elizabeth could feel an odd tightness in her stomach. Lack of food, she told herself firmly. And if Prince William had no interest in the women of Wakebryght Castle, then he’d hardly deign to waste his energies on a sharp-tongued woman on her way to becoming a nun.

Still, it would have been reassuring if there’d been at least one other woman traveling to Saint Anne’s with them. Someone to bear her company and keep her out of the prince’s clutches. His interest in her made no sense—it was simply lack of anything else to occupy his mind, when in truth he should be thinking about the error of his ways. Perhaps Thomas’s mother would be so overjoyed that she both had a grandson and that Elizabeth was leaving forever that she might spare a serving woman to accompany them.

She leaned back again and closed her eyes. She could still feel his hand on her shoulder. Still feel his mouth brushing against hers. Sweet Jesus, the sooner she was locked away in the chaste safety of the convent the happier she’d be.

She must have fallen asleep. The next thing she knew it was full daylight, her entire body was cold and stiff, and Dame Joanna had returned, freshly washed and coiffed herself, carrying an armload of rich clothing. “I’ve had them fill a bath for you, my lady,” she said. “Your prince requested I bring you something to wear, but most of my garments are unsuitable for an innocent such as yourself. Neither are they particularly useful for long journeys on horseback, but I’ve done what I can.” She tossed the armload of clothes onto the table, then turned to face Elizabeth.

Once more Elizabeth was stunned by her beauty. Dame Joanna was possibly a full ten years older than she was, with a mature, elegant body and a sad, wise smile that didn’t quite reach her beautiful blue eyes. Her hair was a golden blond, rippling down her back beneath her simple headdress, and her cheeks and lips were touched with a color at odds with her pale, unblemished skin. She smiled, and even her teeth were perfect. “You look half asleep,” she observed. “The prince wishes to leave by midday, and the monks are already grumbling about the delay. That gives you an hour. If it’s not enough, I can tell them you’re unwell.”

“And then they’d leave without me. Abandon me here with Lady Isobel.” Elizabeth couldn’t control her shudder. “She hates me.”

“She’s never been overly fond of me, either. Lucky for her I’m to accompany you to Saint Anne’s.”

Elizabeth jerked her head so abruptly that she slammed it against the hard stone wall. She rose, rubbing her scalp. “You are?”

“Prince William decided you needed another female along to keep you company. I’m to spend two months at the convent, repenting of my sins, and then return to start sinning once more.” She shrugged, seemingly untouched by it all. “I’m just as happy to get away from Owen for a bit. He’s fast and rough and far too demanding. A brief respite from the needs of men would be a blessing.”

For a moment Elizabeth was unsure what she should say. The company of another woman was a gift she hadn’t dared hope for, and from the moment she met Dame Joanna she’d felt an odd kinship with her. Nevertheless, she couldn’t subject anyone to the dangers of the notorious Dark Prince. At least Owen of Wakebryght had never killed a woman. “Are you certain there would be no…new demands from our escort?” she asked.

Joanna moved behind her and began helping her pull off the bloodstained gown. “I confess it was my first thought, and warming Prince William’s bed would be less of a chore than most, despite the danger. He’s a very handsome man.”

“He’s killed two women. At least.”

Joanna shrugged. “There are worse ways to die,” she said philosophically. “But in truth, Prince William has no interest in me as a lover, nor is he bringing me for the other men, if I am to believe what he said. And oddly enough, I do. I’m there for your sake and nothing else.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” Elizabeth muttered as she pulled off the plain worsted dress that was little better than a servant’s garb. “I’ve yet to meet anyone who cared about my well-being. Besides, I’ve been doing my best to keep out of his way. He’s the one who keeps appearing wherever I am.”

Dame Joanna laughed softly. “I think it makes perfect sense. You’re very young, aren’t you? You’ll understand when you’re older. Though if you’re immured in a convent perhaps you might never need to learn.”

She helped slip the gown off Elizabeth’s shoulders, so that she stood there only in her plain linen chemise. “Your father did dress you like a serving maid, didn’t he?” she said. “I think you’ll find my chemise a little more to your liking. The fabrics are very fine.”

“I shouldn’t be taking your clothes,” she protested as Joanna herded her toward an adjoining room and the tub filled with steaming, scented water.

“I have more than I need, and I can easily acquire anything I want. Besides, in truth I have little need of clothing in my chosen profession. Don’t blush, little one,” she added in amusement, stripping the shift over her head so that she stood naked by the tub. “It’s the way of the world.”

Growing up in a household of brothers, Elizabeth was unused to having people see her nude body. She practically leapt into the tub, splashing water onto the floor and the hem of Joanna’s dress as she quickly sank up to her shoulders in the blessed warmth. “You can’t call me little one,” she said after a minute. “I’m taller than you are.”

“You’re taller than everyone.” The words were matter-of-fact, devoid of insult. “But in many ways you’re still a child.”

Elizabeth resisted the impulse to argue. The warmth of the water was too soothing to her aching muscles, and she liked Joanna. “Older and wiser than you think,” she said, ducking her head under water and letting her long, thick hair swirl around her.

“So very old and wise,” Joanna said softly when she emerged. “Fortunately you’ll be out of harm’s way soon enough, so I won’t have to enlighten you as to the true nature of most men. And in the meantime Prince William has made certain that you’ll have the best possible protection.”

“Prince William has no interest in protecting me. No interest in me at all,” she protested. There were dried rose petals floating in the water, perfuming the air.

“And we’ll keep you believing that as long as possible,” Joanna said. “Would you like a serving girl to help you with your hair?”

Elizabeth remembered the contemptuous maids of Wakebryght Castle far too well. They’d clearly deemed her unworthy of their lord, and in the end he’d agreed. No, she didn’t want any of them coming around her, mocking her.

“I’m used to dealing with it myself,” she said. “I prefer privacy.”

“In that case I’ll await you in the other room. The maids are busy enough packing clothes for my journey. I suspect when I return some of my favorite pieces will be missing. It will give Owen the perfect chance to buy me more.”

“He likes spending money on you?” Elizabeth asked. Her father had always bemoaned even a farthing spent on his wives or lemans.

“When he spends money on me he knows he can expect something in return. It gives him a way to win my gratitude, and he always takes full advantage of it.”

“I don’t understand. Aren’t you obliged to do what he tells you to do, anyway?” she asked, unable to hide her curiosity. It was one of her besetting sins—one she would no longer be able to indulge in a convent.

“Up to a point. But there are certain things a man like Owen of Wakebryght enjoys that I can refuse. I’m a courtesan, not a whore. If he wants to do something painful or degrading he has to pay for it.”

“But wouldn’t that make you a whore?” Elizabeth said, confused. And then realized the severity of what she’d said. “I beg your pardon, I shouldn’t have…”

“Out of the mouths of babes,” Joanna murmured. “You’re right. In the end that’s what I am. I simply have more say in whom I bed and what acts I perform. And I do it on linen sheets, not in a stableyard.”

Elizabeth cursed her unruly tongue. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’ll be spared such an existence. And it’s not without its benefits. I dress well, eat well, sleep well when I’m left alone. It’s better than being locked in a convent.”

“I think I’d prefer being locked in a dungeon to spending time in Owen of Wakebryght’s bed,” she said with a shudder.

“Then be glad you’re spared. You only have a few short days before you’re locked behind those safe walls, and if we can keep you away from the prince all should be well.”

“The prince has no designs on me!” Elizabeth protested for what seemed the hundredth time. “He just wants to finish his pilgrimage, get rid of me and the monks, and go back to his life of debauchery.”

“If you say so, my lady,” Joanna said softly. And she closed the door behind her.

6

It took Elizabeth longer to dress in the unfamiliar clothes than she had ever taken in her entire life, something she attributed to lack of sleep and physical exhaustion. She’d spent the previous day bouncing around on a horse, the previous night wrestling for Lady Margery’s life, and she was facing another day of grueling travel. It was no wonder she stood and stared at herself in the wavering reflection of the looking glass, too dazed to decide what to do about Dame Joanna’s dress.

It was made of rich green cloth, and brought the green out in her eyes. Her flame-red hair looked blessedly dark when wet, and she’d plaited it in two tight braids, then had to loosen them as the pain in her head increased. The second time she simply twined the damp hair into one thick braid and tossed it over her shoulder. It hung past her waist—in the convent they would cut it off, wouldn’t they? She’d always hated it—it would be a blessing to be shorn.

But even with the demon hair darkened by water and tamed behind her back, there was still the problem of Dame Joanna’s dress. It was a bit too snug in the chest, a fact that Elizabeth found deeply disturbing, since Dame Joanna’s bountiful breasts were far too noticeable. If Elizabeth were even more generously endowed, it could garner the wrong sort of attention.

The fine cloth swirled around her long legs. The soft linen undergarments caressed her skin, and for a brief moment she stared at her reflection and imagined what it would be like to be a beauty. To spend her nights in the bed of a man who worshipped her.

She shook her head, her long plait whipping around, and common sense returned. All the fine clothes in the world wouldn’t make her anything but what she was. A plain young woman unsuited for the world. Too smart, too outspoken, too impatient, too tall for the likes of men.

The dress exposed far too much of her chest, but her lack of hips made it hang down enough to cover her long legs. That was another failing, of course, as her father had often told her. Women needed broad hips for childbearing. But Elizabeth would be bearing no children, and after a night spent listening to Margery’s full-throated screams she could only bless that fact. No matter that the arrival of Thomas’s red-faced, squalling heir had brought her to unexpected tears. The arrival of a child always affected her that way—a bittersweet joy that was more powerful than anything else she’d ever experienced.

That was one reason she’d become proficient in serving at childbed, learning from the midwives at Bredon Castle. If she couldn’t have children herself, and she was illogically fond of them no matter how annoying they could be, then she could at least assist in their delivery. Besides, she had little interest in easing the suffering of mankind—most of their ills were well deserved. But women needed all the help they could get.

After all, the child had come from an act that only men enjoyed. And while the mother would find joy and pleasure in the love of her children, in the meantime she had to put up with some huge, sweaty man invading her body, then months of discomfort as she grew larger and larger, followed by excruciating pain and more often than not, a bloody death. All for the sake of a man’s pleasure.

There were ways to avoid conception, of course. She’d learned that from the midwives as well, secrets passed among women. If the church knew of such things it would be to court eternal damnation.

But the church was run by men. And if the good sisters at Saint Anne’s were ignorant of such precautions then it made no difference.

Perhaps she’d still find ways to put her healing talents to work once she joined the holy sisters. Most orders divided their time in meditation and good works, and Saint Anne’s was bound to include healers. With luck Elizabeth could continue on as before, bringing children into the world, without having to answer to her father or any overbearing man. And no man would ever have the right to force himself upon her in the name of marriage or any other excuse.

Bedding Thomas of Wakebryght wouldn’t have been so horrible. He was handsome, kind and gentle, and so lacking in imagination that the act would be over quickly. And in the end there’d be children.

But that was no longer her lot in life, and if she had any sense she’d rejoice in the release from such carnal duty, rather than bemoan the loss of home and children.

Though if Thomas saw her in this green dress he might start to regret his rash decision. Lady Margery was none too pretty at the moment, with her swollen eyes and pale face. And Thomas had always had a weakness for pretty women.

She turned away from her troubling reflection. There was no question that she looked the best she ever had, despite lack of sleep. Perhaps if her father had seen fit to clothe her decently she might have found a husband. Be married to some coarse baron who spent his passion on her body and then left her in peace.

No, that wasn’t what she wanted. She was happy with her future, and even the rest of the journey seemed less daunting with Dame Joanna for company. No one would look twice at her with the sublime Joanna at her side. Not even the dark prince with his deep, brooding eyes.

She glanced around the room for her cloak, but she’d left it in Lady Margery’s bower. She would go fetch it herself, rather than send a servant. It would set her mind at ease to check on Lady Margery one last time, and to ensure the babe was thriving. And if she ran into Thomas at the same time, and he looked at her in her inappropriate, beautiful dress and found himself regretting his rash decision three years ago, then so much the better.

She glanced out the window before she left the room. The men gathered in the courtyard were her recent companions—she could see the angelic Brother Matthew among them, sitting on his fine horse a few paces away from everyone else. His head was down, and she couldn’t see his expression, but she could well imagine it. The sweetness of his smile, at odds with Prince William’s faint mockery. The gentleness in his soft hands as he held the reins.

Elizabeth gave herself a little shake as she turned away. Leaving her father’s house had surely addled her wits. She was a woman who knew what she wanted in life to make her happy, and to be distracted by memories of Thomas and new thoughts of saintly Brother Matthew was not part of her plan.

Though both were preferable to the memory of Prince William’s mouth brushing against hers.

He’d kissed her twice in as many days. The first on her brow, the second on her lips. If things continued as they had been, she’d be horrified to see where his next kiss landed. Or whether it would be nearly as chaste as the first two.

And she was making a fuss over nothing. Prince William was a devil—he’d only kissed her to disturb her, and he’d succeeded full well in doing so. In the future, though, he’d doubtless find distraction with Dame Joanna far more appealing, even if he truly planned to spend the journey in celibate penitence. After this morning, he would barely notice Elizabeth of Bredon, and she could breathe a sigh of relief. Surely she could.

She had to ask for directions back to Lady Margery—when Joanna had first brought her away she’d been too tired to pay attention to her path. The door was closed to keep in the heat, and she pushed it open without knocking, secure in the knowledge that Lady Margery had no secrets from her erstwhile midwife.

She stopped just inside the room, in shock. Thomas of Wakebryght lay curled up beside Lady Margery, holding her hand, looking at her pale, bloated face with such unquestioning adoration that it was painful to see. The wet nurse sat in the corner with the young heir, coaxing him into feeding, but Thomas had no eyes for anyone but his decidedly unpretty wife, and all Elizabeth could do was stare in astonishment.

He must have felt her eyes on them, for he looked up, and a beatific smile swept across his handsome face, a face she’d once thought she’d die for. Now she realized that his chin was a bit weak, his nose too pretty, and his brow without resolution. She would have led him a merry dance if he hadn’t abandoned her for his wife.

He jumped off the bed and rushed over to her, and she braced herself, not sure what she was expecting. Certainly not his powerful embrace.

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