by Anne Stuart
"Ah, fornication," said the man next to her, moving his leg under the table to rest against hers. She jumped, but there was nowhere else to go other than the lap of the unsavory monk sitting next to her. "A dreadful thing, to be sure," he continued, as he slid his foot under her robe. He was wearing sandals as well she, and she could feel his skin against her bare leg. She set the rough chalice down with shaking hands, folding them in her lap as she tried to kick him away. "And yet even our mothers were guilty of it."
"But not the Holy Virgin!"
"No. But then, we're not Christ, even if we wish to be."
The silence in the room was shocking—so complete that she fancied they could hear the sound of his leg rubbing lazily against hers.
"You come from a very lax order, Brother," the abbot said sternly after a long moment. "We do not tolerate laxity here."
Elizabeth held her breath, waiting to hear how the prince might respond. "Indeed, Father, I can see how dangerous such tolerance might be. I rejoice to know that I'm in a place of such strict order, and I hope I may learn from your faultless example."
The irony in his voice would have been clear to a man less steeped in his own ignorant importance, but the abbot merely nodded.
"And train your young novice well. Beat him often, to teach him humility and obedience."
"Oh, I have every intention of doing just that. Brother Thomas has a willful streak that sorely needs taming."
"If you wish, you may send him to me for the night. I've broken many a larger man's selfish spirit. Strip him down and give him a few lashes—that would do the trick." He licked his thin lips, clearly even more interested in that notion than the roast pheasant in front of him.
"I could not allow you to take on my burden," the prince said smoothly. "He is my responsibility—I'll be the one to teach him obedience, as unpleasant a task as that might be."
The abbot nodded, not bothering to hide his disappointment. "God's peace be with you then, Brother. Join us for compline, and then Brother Adolphus will see you to your cell. You will share, of course. The pallets are not large, but the two of you should do well enough."
Elizabeth's instinctive squeal of protest was swal-lowed by yet another cough. "Even the rudest shelter would be an honor, Reverend Father," the prince said smoothly. And slipping his hand under the table, he calmly stroked her thigh.
* * *
Chapter 15
The boy was getting worse, and there seemed to be nothing Joanna could do about it. No. he wasn't a boy—in the few hours she'd become familiar enough with his body to know that he was fully a man. Men's bodies cad never bothered her—they were astonishingly simple machines that responded universally, at least when it came to women, and she'd used her knowledge efficiently.
But Adrian was another matter. She bathed his fevered body in cool water, she dripped more on his parched lips, she coaxed bits of food down his throat, all the time wondering whether insanity had truly taken hold of her usual level head.
She'd meant to leave him. She'd had every intention of doing so, telling herself that she'd stop at the first village she came to and send someone to help him. He might be dead by then, or he might not—it would be God's will and none of her own.
But the tiny village was nearer than she expected, and the people friendlier. Stripped of ornament, she looked only slightly more prosperous than one of the villagers, and they believed her story quite easily—that she was a serving woman separated from her traveling party. And they'd given her bread and wine and herbs in return for the gold ring Owen had given her when she'd first pleasured him with her mouth. She'd been sick for days, and the very sight of it brought back her illness. She had a piece of jewelry for each time she served him thus. Bribery had been better than force, she'd told herself. Knowing what it made her.
When she left the village she'd been fully intending to keep heading west, toward the sea and the next big town. She must have lost her direction in the woods, because the next thing she knew she was back at the tumbledown shack, running across the last bit of field to race inside, terrified that she'd find him dead.
He'd been out of his mind with fever, and she told herself he wouldn't survive the night. Told herself it was a waste of time—she couldn't save him, and it would only make her difficult life harder. And then she rolled up her sleeves and set to work.
It was an endless night—he was alternately burning with fever or shivering from the cold. She packed the wound with the yarrow she'd bartered from the herbalist, bathed his fevered skin, covered him with her cloak when he shivered. He was only a man, but she didn't want him to die. For some reason it had become of the utmost importance that he live.
Near dawn he grew very still, his endless thrashing finally quieted, and she knew that no matter what she did, how hard she prayed, he was out of her hands. Death hovered near.
She knelt by the bed, exhausted, feeling the help-less tears stream down her face as she brushed the dark curls away from his high forehead. He seemed so young, when in fact he was probably not that far from her own age. Too young to die, that much was certain.
"Sweet boy," she whispered, "I can't save you and it's breaking my heart, and I truly thought my heart had broken long ago." She leaned forward and kissed him softly on his parched lips. Her tears dropped on his skin, and she half expected it to sizzle in the heat of his fever. But he didn't move, still as death.
She put her head against the side of the bed. He was going to die, but no one should have to die alone. And she climbed up onto the bed beside him, pulling his still, frail body against her own, and slept, holding him against her breast.
"We're going to what?" Elizabeth demanded in whispered fury.
"Hush! You've taken a vow of silence," the prince muttered under his breath as he shepherded her down the long, dank hall of the abbey. They were following in the abbot's footsteps, and the monks up ahead were chanting plainsong. They were off-key—not the finest voices in the land—and it had been a matter of great shock when the fake monk beside her had joined in, his own voice deep and rich. The voice was her first shock, though it shouldn't have surprised her. After all, his speaking voice was warm and sinfully beguiling, just one of his many dangerous charms.
But what was far more astonishing was that he knew the chant. The words, the melody. It made no sense at all—he was hardly the kind of man to have spent time in a monastery unless compelled to.
But perhaps he'd grown up in one. It wasn't unheard of to have well-connected bastards raised by the church. It kept them safe and protected and out of sight, and away from mothers who might cause trouble. Doubtless that was how Prince William was raised, but the holy influence had failed to do much good, apart from a knowledge of plainsong.
At least it made his absurd masquerade more believable. And she had to admit that it had been a wise decision to make her a mute penitent. She might have been able to manage the deep voice, but memorization had never been her strong point, and she would have had to fake it with the Latin. She had to do a little skip to catch up with her companion, but fortunately they were at the end of the procession, and no one could see her. It was enlightening being in this household of men, such as they were. For one thing, she realized she wasn't as freakishly tall as she thought she was. There were at least half a dozen of the monks present who were taller than she was. In her father's household she'd been a fluke—the men were short and the women were shorter. Apart from Father Bennett she doubted there was one person taller than she was, with the possible exception of Will, the gatekeeper, and he was so bent over with age it was hard to tell how tall he'd once been.
The man beside her was quite possibly the first man she'd ever seen who managed to tower over her. Even Thomas had barely reached her own height. It was little wonder that she would react as she did to the dark prince. It was unsettling to finally have to look up at someone. Unsettling to know that she was no longer an overgrown freak—at least by the prince's standards. Little wonder that she
…
Where in the name of sweet Jesus was she going with that thought? She skipped again, catching up with him, and she could feel his sideways glance from beneath the enveloping hood. The man was a monster, for ail his charm. The fact that she'd actually liked his kisses, the feel of his hands on her body, only proved that, in fact, she was an entirely normal, healthy female, albeit a tall one. Had she been small like the rest of the females of her acquaintance she would be married and a mother by now. .
Married off to a dolt of her father's choosing. And perhaps she would have been placid and happy.
Somehow she didn't think so. Somehow she didn't think she would have even been happy with Thomas of Wakebryght, even though he'd been a childhood friend.
She was tired from the endless day, frightened of the future, irritated by the man beside her, disgusted by the monks and their lack of cleanliness, and totally without any kind of security at all. She didn't know if they'd ever make it to Saint Anne's, and she wasn't sure what she'd do once they got there. She could thank the prince for one thing—she'd learned there was a dark, disturbing pleasure to be had between men and women. Though perhaps it was only someone as dark and wicked as the prince who could summon those reactions.
Lord, she was mad! Too much had happened in the last few days—birth and death and friendship and loss. And all she could think of was the man beside her as they sang their way through the filthy halls of Saint Bartholomew, and what the night would bring.
The procession stopped at a small doorway, and the abbot beckoned them forward. "Behave yourself," the prince hissed beneath his breath.
She had no choice, though she was sorely tempted to throw back her hood and expose her wicked hair and her unacceptable gender. Too bad there wasn't a snowstorm so they could put her out there as they had the poor, pregnant woman they'd murdered…
No, perhaps she wasn't suited for a life of cloistered obedience, she thought dismally. She was far too questioning, far too opinionated. But if she wasn't to become a nun, and no man wanted her, what was to become of her?
The prince took her arm with unnecessary roughness and pulled her into the small, cold room, taking the branch of candles from one of the sour-faced monks. She could have done without the illumination. The room was small, with two narrow pallets on the floor and a narrow window to the outside. It had begun to rain, and a wet wind was blowing through. There didn't appear to be any way to shutter the window, and it was going to be a cold, chill night. At least there were two pallets and enough space between them.
It would have been a waste of time to protest. If they weren't there they would have been alone in the woods together. At least in the abbey someone would hear if she screamed. The prince would keep his distance—even he wouldn't break his penance by forcing her under the very dirty but still holy roof of the abbey.
And she didn't fancy sleeping outside in the rain, or anywhere else in this filthy place. The prince would provide some sort of protection.
"We'll see you both at prime," the abbot announced. "May God keep you from dreaming."
She waited until the door closed behind them. Waited until the sound of their chanting faded away in the distance. And then she threw back her hood, stepped away from the false monk, and said, "I'm not sure I'm going to spend the night with you in this tiny room."
"Don't be tiresome, Brother Elizabeth. You know perfectly well you are. It's that, or out in the rain with you. The abbot wouldn't take kindly to being fooled by a sinful, unclean woman, and he might be tempted to retaliate."
"If anything is unclean it's this monastery."
"That's because there are no women to clean it," the prince said cheerfully, tossing back his own hood, as well.
"Men can clean as well as women," she said.
"Perhaps they prefer to spend their days in prayer."
"Perhaps they prefer to spend their days eating," Elizabeth replied. "I've never seen such a corpulent bunch."
"Then you haven't seen many monks. They tend to be well rounded. If they can't indulge in carnal pleasures, they have to make do with other fleshly joys."
"Another reason why you're the least likely monk I've ever seen."
He merely smiled. "Which side of the pallet do you want? Beside the wall or on the outside?"
She froze. "There are two pallets here. One for you and one for me."
"Indeed. And I intend to sleep on that one, with or without you." He nodded toward the pallet on the left.
"Then I'll sleep on the other one."
"With my blessings," he said- "But you'll be sharing it with bugs you won't soon be rid of. I can see them from here. Difficult as it might be for you to admit it, I really am preferable to lice."
She looked at the pallet in horror. She hadn't the best vision in the world, a sore point, but even she could see the movement against the rough weave of the blanket. She shuddered.
"What makes you think that one is any better?" she demanded.
"At least there's nothing crawling on it. And it smells like cedar—nothing better for discouraging bugs than cedar."
She stared at him. "How would you know that? How would you know plainsong? How would you know such things?"
"I have many talents," he said smoothly. "I'd be more than happy to demonstrate them, but I expect you'd rather I swear to keep my hands to myself if we're going to lie down together."
"We're not going to lie down together!"
"Then you'll sleep standing up." He stretched on the pallet, looking altogether too comfortable.
"What makes you think the bugs won't migrate over there?"
"You were the chatelaine of your father's castle—you must know better than I do that they won't come near the cedar, no matter how enticing warm new flesh might be."
She thought of his skin beneath the rough weave of the monk's robe. Was it warm and enticing? Was such a thing possible?
"Why do you look at me like that?" he said. "Have I suddenly grown horns?"
The candlelight wavered as a gust of wet wind blew in the open window. In the shadows he was no longer the dangerous prince, no longer the false monk who did far too good a job of pretense. In the murky light he looked both warm and dangerous, and she didn't know which was the louder call.
"Move over," she said in a cross voice. "I'd feel safer sleeping on the outside."
"Nearer the bugs."
"The inside," she amended, slipping off her sandals. The rope was still tied tightly around her waist, and she considered loosening it, then thought better of it. It kept the fabric bunched up around her body, which in this case was a wise thing.
He lifted the thin blanket, making a place for her between his body and the wall. Too narrow a space, she thought, but she didn't have any choice.
"I'm leaving the candles burning," she warned him as she stepped over his recumbent body.
"As you wish."
"And if you touch me I'll scream. I don't care if they toss me out into the rain, I won't tolerate you putting your hands on me."
"It's going to be more than my hands. The pallet is too small."
She slid down beside him, trying to make herself as narrow as possible, lying on her side facing him. She would have rather had her back turned to him, rather have faced the wall than his dark, knowing eyes, but she didn't feel safe turning her back on him.
"You swear I can trust you?" she asked in a tight little voice.
He was so close, so big, so warm. Maybe she should scramble out of bed and see if she could sleep sitting up. Maybe she could make friends with the tiny creatures that infested the other pallet. A thousand tiny itches might be better than the deep, incomprehensible need that clawed away at her.
"You can trust me, Brother Scold," he whispered, closing his eyes. "Just as far as you want to." And she had to make do with that.
The birds woke him. Adrian was usually fond of birdsong, but this time their cheerful singing made a horrendous din, and he wanted to shut the noise, the bright light away,
and sink back down into the soft, blessed darkness that had enveloped him.
But the light was prickling at his eyelids, the birds kept up their relentless twittering, and though his shoulder still felt like tire, it was no longer blazing, but merely a sullen glow of pain.
He opened his eyes slowly, grudgingly. A beam of light speared directly onto his face, blinding him, and he shut them quickly again. But not before he'd seen what lay pressing against him far too comfortably.
Joanna. He thought he'd dreamed her. He'd been dying, he was sure of it, and he'd warned to tell her all sorts of things, but the words wouldn't come past his parched lips, and no matter how often Joanna had pressed a damp rag to them he'd been unable to speak.
But he wasn't dead after all—the sweat covering his body told him that his fever had broken. And Joanna hadn't been a dream, though he still couldn't believe she'd wept over him, kissed him.
But then, she was here, wasn't she? And someone had taken care of him. He realized with a sort of disjointed surprise that beneath the blanket he was naked. At least she lay on top of the blanket, curled up so peacefully by his side.
He opened his eyes again, more cautiously against the blinding sunlight. If he'd had any doubts about her tears, the sight of the salt stains on her pale cheeks convinced him. What was she doing here, taking care of him? How did they even get here? He could remember the horrifying, hungry malice on the real prince's face as he'd sunk the knife into him, and then everything became disjointed.
He shifted, ignoring the pain that shot through the left side of his body, and she stirred, murmuring something. She'd stripped all the ornamentation from her gown, and loosened it to sleep. From his vantage point he could see the rise and fall of her perfect breasts, and he wanted to bury his head against them. He didn't move.
She looked exhausted, and he wondered if she'd slept at all. How long had he been suffering from the effects of the knife wound? How long had he been lying there, doing nothing, when his duty was abandoned? He needed to rouse himself, find his monk's robes and see about getting to Saint Anne's. He had no idea who had survived the massacre, though he had little doubt that the prince had made his escape, pausing only long enough to stab one of his guardians.