by Anne Stuart
"No more questions or complaints? Good." He seemed unmoved by her sudden silence. "Then let's keep moving. I don't want to travel much after dark."
He turned and kept walking, not even stopping to see whether she followed or not.
She would have given ten years off her life to let him go on his own. But it would probably be more than that—it would be the rest of her very short life that would be forfeit if she let her pride get in the way of her better judgment.
He was right—she had no choice. She scampered after him, cursing beneath her breath.
He was dying, he knew it. His shoulder was on fire, his body in flames. He was alone in the darkness, the thick, blanketing darkness, and he was dying.
He had no idea how he got there, or even what had happened to him. His last memory was the horsemen descending on them, the noise and blood of a pitched battle. He'd done his duty, gone to protect the prince, only to face the end of a knife from his very hands.
Somewhere in the dream he remembered Joanna, with the sorrowful smile and the cool hands. It felt as if she'd brought him here, but it couldn't be. She wouldn't have been strong enough, or cared enough, to see him safe.
Someone had brought him to this dark, hot place. Perhaps he'd stumbled there on his own, but he was going no farther. His strength had left him, and he was burning up with fever. He would die here, alone in the dark, and there would be no one to mourn him. He would die alone and unshriven, and no one would ever weep for him.
He drifted off, deep into the warm dark place that awaited him. Someone was crying for him after all—he could feel the drops fall on his skin, and he half expected them to sizzle with the heat of his tortured flesh. There was a glow beyond his closed eyelids. Either the night had passed and day had come, or the golden light of heaven was beckoning him. Or the fiery flames of hell.
There were weights on his eyelids, heavy weights, and he couldn't open them. Even though he knew he must. He tried to move, but he was too weak, and he felt cool, strong hands against his flesh. His bare flesh, skin to skin.
"Stay still," a voice whispered.
He could smell the tang of yarrow. The sharp bite of cheese, and something flowery, feminine.
Definitely heaven, not hell. There would be no cheese in hell, and no flowery females.
Not heaven, either, since heaven wouldn't offer his soul such temptation when his body couldn't act upon it. He managed to open his eyes, just a crack, to see Dame Joanna, framed in firelight, leaning over him. Tears on her face.
"You should go," he said. Or at least, that's what he tried to tell her. The words came out in little more than a tangled groan.
"Hush," she said, stroking his forehead. "Hush, love."
Love, Adrian thought, closing his eyes again. Perhaps he might decide to live after all.
* * *
Chapter 14
I he bishop had warned him, Peter thought. One of his many sins was his pride, and he'd been so sure he was immune to the blandishments of females. In truth, he was. He just wasn't immune to the charms of a flame-haired Amazon with the prickly nature of a hedgehog.
He slowed his stride imperceptibly. He didn't want her to think he was making any accommodations for her—it might get her to thinking that the dark prince had a heart, or at least a speck of human feeling.
It would make life so much simpler if he could tell her the truth. That he was nothing but a poor, cloistered, celibate monk, and that sweet-faced brother she'd been so protective of was actually the fiend from hell he'd been charged with escorting.
But he'd been disobedient enough. It was another failing—he'd been on his own for so long that submitting to the rule of the order had been a sore trial. One of the reasons he'd sought out the most punitive of monasteries in all of England.
No, this task was not meant to be easy. And, in fact, he should look on the presence of Elizabeth of Bredon as simply a variation on the punishment he deserved. Though he wondered how God could have devised such a cunning, irresistible torment like her.
God, or the Devil.
"I'm going to drop," she announced.
"Then I'll have to carry you." That shut her up, as he knew it would. Putting his hands on her was a much greater threat than abandoning her, and yet he wondered if she had the faintest idea why.
He'd never met anyone quite so innocent, quite so deluded and unknowing, while at the same time so clever. Her knowledge was wide-ranging, outstripping that of most of the monks he knew, and rivaled Brother Michael's, keeper of the library. And yet she was absolutely untutored when it came to the simple facts of life.
She knew how to bring a baby into the world, even the most troublesome of deliveries. She would know how those babies were made, even if she'd never known the touch of a man. But all her wisdom about the nature of human beings and their passions was based on theory, not experience.
She'd been brought up in a household of men, and while Peter knew there'd been stepmothers, they had each died so rapidly that she'd had no time to learn from them. Knowing Elizabeth, she probably hadn't wanted to. Her ignorance was a comfortable one—she'd lived in it all her life—and she wouldn't want her safe world shaken up.
She was no Madonna-like beauty like Dame Joanna. She was no tiny cherub like Margery of Wake-bryght. She was no elegant whore of the court nor sweet virgin of the countryside.
She was too tall, too thin, her hair was the color of the Devil, and she had freckles scattered across her nose. And for the last two days he'd wanted to kiss every freckle, and then see if there were more scattered over her long, coltish body. And kiss them, as well.
No, she wasn't pretty by most standards, she was right about that. But to the right man, she was hauntingly beautiful.
To the wrong man, as well, he reminded himself sharply, picking up his pace. She hadn't found the right man, and she was unlikely to do so in the safety of a convent. All that tamped passion would be spent on learning and good works, and she would die a virgin nun, most likely heading straight to heaven with no unfortunate stops on the way.
And he'd be in hell, where he belonged, because no atonement was enough. Not when he continued to sin in his heart, every time he looked at Elizabeth of Bredon.
He glanced back at her through the gathering dusk. There wasn't much to see—the hood was pulled low over her face, the robe was enveloping, and she was struggling with the sandals, tripping over the long hem.
He stopped and turned, but her vision was obstructed by the hood, and she barreled into him, the solid heat of her smaller body bumping against his. He controlled his instinctive reaction.
"The robe is too long," he said as she hurriedly stepped back from him.
"I'm a maypole, not a giant," she replied.
"And you can't see when you wear the hood that way."
"I thought I was supposed to be properly hidden."
"We don't want people to see your face and know you're a woman. That doesn't mean you aren't allowed to see things yourself. I'll show you…" He took a step toward her, but she backed away skittishly.
"I'll be fine," she said.
"Don't annoy me, Brother," he said. Calling her that should have cooled his ardor a bit. After all, that was how he should view her. Woman or man, it should make little difference to a celibate.
"You're easily annoyed."
"Not really." He took another step toward her, catching her shoulder as she tried to escape. "Hold still."
She did as he told her, for once, holding herself rigid. "You can shorten the robe by pulling it up over the rope around your waist." He caught the rough weave and showed her.
His hands were too near her breasts, and he knew it. So, he expected, did she. He concentrated on the loose folds of fabric, arranging it just so. He didn't dare step back to survey the effect—she might not let him get close enough again. "There," he said. "That's the way some of our shorter brothers deal with it."
"I wouldn't have thought I'd be one of the shorter brothers,"
she muttered.
"You're tall enough for a woman," he allowed, "but there are a great many men taller than you are."
"Like you."
"Like me," he said, reaching for the enveloping hood. Dangerous ground, and he knew it. He was too close to her, and pushing the hood back on her head was curiously intimate, as her eyes and mouth came into view. She was looking up at him, that vulnerable, unhappy expression on her face, and if he kissed her she'd stop frowning. There was no telling what she might do, despite the fact that they'd already kissed. She might hit him, kick him in the shins, scream at him.
Or she might kiss him back.
She'd probably do all of those things, but in the end it would be mouth to mouth, skin to skin, sweet, dark sin that would condemn them both.
He saw the sudden darkening in her eyes, and he knew what brought it, just as he knew why she bit her lip, why her breathing suddenly became labored, as the silence between them stretched and grew, and he leaned forward, to touch her mouth with his, when the sound of a starling's cry broke the stillness of the dusk-laden forest.
He stepped back hastily, almost as if burned by the fires of hell that awaited him if he gave in, and she reached up and defiantly pulled the hood back down around her face.
"Suit yourself,. Brother Elizabeth," he said. "Just keep an eye out and try not to walk into me. That wouldn't be good for either of us."
She didn't ask him why, a wise thing, because he would have been tempted to show her.
Sweet Jesu, he thought. This had started out as a pilgrimage to cleanse the soul of a hopeless monster, and instead it was turning out to be a pilgrimage of his own. If he survived the hourly pain of being near Elizabeth without touching her again, if he brought her safe to the convent in as virginal a state as she set out, then he might just be redeemed himself. Surely the temptation he was going through right now, and managing to resist, would be worthy of sainthood at the very least. Entrance into heaven wouldn't be too much to ask.
He could hear her stomach rumbling. He was used to fasting, but she wasn't, and he ought to at least hand her a hunk of bread while they walked. But that would be a kindness, opening the door to other kindnesses, and he didn't dare.
They were almost in sight of the Abby of Saint Bartholomew, and safety for the night. A night spent among holy brothers would set him straight, and he and Elizabeth would set out tomorrow anew. He would have the added strength of the brothers' piety, and she would have the added strength of a good night's sleep.
And they'd be one day closer to Saint Anne's.
He could always confess to the abbot who and what he was, and even more important, who Elizabeth was. He needed to discover the fate of the real Prince Wil-liam, and the sooner he passed Elizabeth off into safe hands the sooner he could go in search of him.
But his vow of secrecy extended to other clerics, as well. And the brothers of Saint Bartholomew were a notoriously rigid bunch—they allowed no women travelers beneath their roof, and few male travelers, as well. They would turn them away if he told them the truth about his companion.
No, he had no choice but to continue with his original plan, bluff it through, and move on in the morning with the holy brothers no wiser as to who had passed the night beneath their vaulted roof.
He could hear the bells of vespers on the evening air, and he stopped once more. This time Elizabeth was paying attention, and she halted in time to keep from slamming into him.
"We're almost there."
"Almost where?"
"The Abbey of Saint Bartholomew. Pay attention, and for once don't argue with me. We are two traveling monks, on pilgrimage to the Shrine of Saint Anne."
"Why don't we say we're going somewhere else?" she interrupted.
"Because Saint Anne's is the logical destination for this route, and one should never lie when the truth would serve just as well. Stop arguing. We're two mendicant monks on pilgrimage. You're merely a novice, and you've taken a vow of silence. As well as obedience to your superior."
"But…"
"You may as well start practicing that vow of silence right now. You're Brother Thomas—"
"No! Any name but that."
"Stop arguing. No one likes a scold. I'm Brother Peter." Using his own clerical name was probably a mistake—it was always possible he might find someone who knew of him—but it was a chance he was willing to take. At least if someone called him by name he would be likely to answer.
"Ha! I've never seen someone who looked less like a 'Brother Peter' in my entire life. They won't believe you're a monk. You don't look like one, don't talk like one, don't act like one."
For some reason her words stung. "We'll leave that for the abbot to judge, shall we? In the meantime, keep your hood down and your voice still, and I won't have to tell them you're fasting as well as silent."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
"I really hate you."
Music to his ears, he thought. "Come along, little brother. And try not to sway your hips like that. Feminine monks are nothing new, but you carry things a bit too far."
"I'm not feminine!"
He hid his smile. She actually believed that. And it was far from his place to prove her wrong.
"Silence!" he thundered in his most princely voice, moving onward toward the old abbey, leaving her to scramble behind him.
The wisest, kindest, smartest thing to do would be to find her a good man, instead of letting her throw herself away on a convent. Not that the cloistered life wasn't a blessing, but she was particularly ill suited to it, and besides, she didn't even know what she was giving up. Therefore the sacrifice would be far easier, too easy in fact.
No, she needed a strong man to withstand that wasp tongue, one who could show her what her strong, beautiful body was made for. One who could give her love and babies and everything else she deserved.
And finding that man for her would be such a torment for him that it far outstripped any hair shirt he might find.
He would do it. She would only be a lay sister for the first year—he could find someone and send him to Saint Anne's and let nature take its course.
And spend the rest of his life in torment, thinking he should have been the one.
Elizabeth would have thought a monastery would offer some sort of protection, a haven from the elements and the danger of being alone with the dark prince. After less than an hour she was seriously considering climbing out one of the unshuttered windows and making her way alone.
The brothers of Saint Bartholomew were an unpleasant lot. They weren't fond of bathing, and clearly they'd missed the lesson that cleanliness is next to godliness. How a place so sparsely furnished could be so filthy was beyond Elizabeth's understanding.
She sat at the table next to the unlikely Brother Peter, eating dried bread and drinking sour wine. She could smell the roast meat from the abbot's place at the head of the table, but apparently it was reserved for members of the order, not travelers.
It was not an order devoted to silence, though Elizabeth decided that it would have been a gift from God if someone could still the old abbot's grating voice. Eating his rich supper didn't slow him down—he talked through his food, through his wine, he probably talked in his sleep. Fortunately Elizabeth would never have any reason to find out.
They'd been welcomed grudgingly, and her enveloping hood made it impossible for her to tell if they'd had any suspicions about her real identity. The prince was astonishingly convincing as a monk—they seemed to accept him at face value.
"Brother Peter!" The abbot's voice thundered down the length of the table.
"Yes, Father Fillion?"
"What do the brothers of Clauvern Abbey think of women? Are they of the same mind as we, or are they weak?"
"The brothers have taken a vow of chastity, as have all monks," he said in his smooth voice.
"I'm talking about more than vile fornication," the abbot said. "Their very presence spawns the seeds of evil."
&nb
sp; Do seeds get spawned, Elizabeth thought, not feeling particularly evil herself at the moment. Though her opinion of Abbot Fillion was none too charitable at the moment.
"At Clauvern Abbey we consider women to have their uses," the prince said smoothly. "They are excellent laundresses and scrub women, and while men make the best cooks, women are adept in the kitchen. Surely even the most wretched of God's creatures have something to offer mankind?"
"We do very well without. Better to endure a bit of God's good dirt than risk eternal damnation by contaminating ourselves with the presence of women."
Elizabeth made a choking noise, and the prince kicked her under the table. "Amen, Father," he said piously. "Was there any reason to bring up the subject? I ask because clearly there are no women here, and haven't been for a long long time."
"The last woman to stain these hallowed halls was here more than ten years ago. She was nothing more than a whore, about to give birth to a bastard spawn of Satan. We put her out in the snow."
Elizabeth had just taken a sip of the awful wine, and she choked again, casting a surreptitious glance up at the man presiding over the head of the table from beneath her enveloping hood. He was an ugly little man, with mean eyes and a thin, harsh mouth. His robe, made of much finer stuff than the rest of the monks', was stained with the traces of his excellent meals, and his rounded stomach attested to his appetite.
"I imagine she repented of her sin when faced with the winter air," the prince said smoothly.
"She died. We had the trouble of burying her and her stillborn brat, and the ground frozen solid. Had I any doubts about the uselessness of women, that convinced me. She actually had the gall to ask for shelter! A household of men, to assist her in the disgraceful business of childbirth.'"
"And yet, without that disgraceful business none of us would be here," the prince said smoothly, and Elizabeth suddenly felt more in charity with him than she had in days.
"You are a fool, Brother Peter," the abbot intoned. "You might as well glorify fornication, for without that none of us would be here."