by Anne Stuart
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HIDDEN HONOR
By
Anne Stuart
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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
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"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.
Hot even good enough for a desperate lecher, she thought, the feel of his mouth on her forehead, taunting her.
* * *
Also by ANNE STUART
INTO THE FIRE
STILL LAKE
SHADOWS AT SUNSET
THE WIDOW
Watch for a brand-new romantic suspense from
ANNE SWART
BLACK ICE
Coming May 2005
from MIRA Books
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MIRA
ISBN 0-7783-2065-0
HIDDEN HONOR
Copyright © 2004 by Anne Kristine Stuart Ohlrogge.
www.MIRABooks.com
Printed in U.S.A.
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Chapter 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 promi
sed 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, rny 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 s
tretched 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.