by Anne Stuart
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 o
dd 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.
* * *
Chapter 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.