Hidden Honor

by Anne Stuart

  "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 h
er 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.

  * * *

  Chapter 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 Ulan 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 tine."

  "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.