by Anne Stuart
That had changed once she joined their journey. And every moment he spent with her only made his desire stronger. A desire he had every intention of indulging as soon as he could.
But for this night he lay side by side with her in a narrow room at the miller's house, with barely enough space to move, and he closed his eyes and thought dark thoughts and tried not to think of the woman who lay pressed up against his side, sleeping quietly.
It would have been simple enough to roll on top of her. He might have bled afresh, but he was a quick healer, and once he'd given her pleasure she'd probably forgive him for breaking his promise not to touch her. He was good at pleasuring women—he never took half as much joy in the act of loving if his partner didn't enjoy it, as well.
The more experienced a lover, the easier it was. Women who'd known men knew what they liked, and most of them would tell him, after a little coaxing if they were shy. Once he got Joanna stripped and on her back it would be easy enough. There was a bund between them already, even without the joining of their bodies. He could feel it, and he knew she could, as well, though she'd deny it if asked. It probably scared her.
He needed to concentrate on keeping them safe—there would be time enough for pleasure once they reached the holy shrine. In the meantime he slept with Joanna, like some ancient knight and his lady upon a tomb, chaste and untouching.
With luck, by late tomorrow they'd reach their destination. His shoulder would be one day better, his body would be one day stronger.
And he would take Dame Joanna in a soft bed with warm covers and clean water. Take her under the saint's very nose, take her all night long. And in the morning he would love her again, until he blotted out the memory of any other man who had touched her.
It wasn't that he was jealous, or condemned her for her past. It was simply that he was her future, and the sooner he claimed her body and made it so, the better.
She'd be skittish. Resistant. Then eventually pliant and loving. The minute he left the service of the prince, he'd take her back to Longacre.
If he was really lucky, the prince would be dead. The outlaws were truly just that, or else sent by the father of the girl he'd murdered, and the prince's last act of spite had been to try to kill one of the men set guard over him.
With any luck he was dead, his body discovered and brought back to the shrine for holy burial.
And he'd have nothing more to do but concentrate on loving the woman lying next to him.
Even if the prince still lived, it wouldn't take long to find him. If he didn't repent sincerely, then the rest would be up to his increasingly annoyed father. King John was far more interested in his child bride, and he would probably simply banish him.
Either way, Adrian would be free to return home.
With Joanna by his side.
* * *
Chapter 20
Peter stood by the riverbank, fastening his robe around him as he watched Elizabeth. They'd gone a few feet down the river and found a calm spot where they could bathe peacefully. He'd taken her every way he could think of, until he was certain her body could stand no more, was certain his body wanted no more. And then she put her mouth on him, and he wanted her all over again.
Oddly enough, she was shy when he first woke her, embarrassed at what had passed between them, her asp-tongue momentarily stilled. He'd brought in cool water and bathed her, but somehow his ministering efforts had quickly turned to something else, and this time he coaxed her into climbing on top of him and finding her own pleasure, with him inside her.
It had only made his own response stronger, feeling her body milk his as she cried out in wonder. He had to hold her as he finished it, before he let her collapse like a boneless doll on his sweat-soaked body.
Each time he took her he told himself it would be the last. Each time he found himself hard and wanting her, all she had to do was look at him with that shy, wondrous look and he was gone.
The cool water should have cooled their ardor, and he stretched out on the spring grass while she soaked. Her poor body was unused to such blissful punishment, and it was only her suppressed moan of discomfort that had stopped him from taking her there in the river. She hadn't liked him setting her firmly away from him, but she'd said nothing, turning her back on him and diving under the water.
She could swim—something he wouldn't have suspected when she nearly drowned. He wondered how she'd managed to escape supervision long enough to do so. He sat on the bank and watched her long white body glide through the water, keeping his mind free of regrets and despair, content in the pleasure of watching her. There'd be time enough for those later.
There'd been one difficult moment, when she'd seen his back. He couldn't know for certain, of course, but he could well imagine what it looked like, and her gasp only reminded him. The scimitar scar that ran diagonally across his back from his shoulder to his buttock was long healed and logical enough—she knew he'd been on crusade. But there were newer scars from the whip, and a myriad of tiny scratches from the hair shirt he'd only just abandoned.
"What happened to you?" she gasped.
"I fell afoul of an Arab sword, but I survived."
"I don't mean that. I mean the marks. Someone's hurt you. Someone who wanted to inflict as much pain as he could."
She was far too close for comfort, but he couldn't tell her he'd inflicted that pain himself, to drive the Devil from his body. And that he'd failed.
So he made do with the faint smile he'd perfected as Prince William the deviate. "The giving and receiving of pain can bring an intense pleasure unlike anything else. You have to be careful not to go too far. or people might die. but if you judge it correctly it can be quite… delightful."
Her expression of horror was just what he expected, and yet it still pained him. "Do you want to hurt me?" didn't want to know. He suspected if his hands were on her, his cock inside her, then she'd let him do just about anything. But she didn't need to know that about herself.
"That's a more advanced study," he said smoothly. "You're still on baby steps."
Her eyes widened, and he half expected her to lash out at him. Instead she turned and dove away from him, and he walked out of the water, knowing that for one brief moment he'd done the right thing.
He had dressed quickly, only to realize she was watching him from the water, surveying his nude body with unabashed curiosity. When he caught her looking she turned away with a haughty gesture, and he almost had to smile.
He must have dozed off in the hot sunlight—little wonder given his active night. The sound of the water woke him, just in time to see her emerging from the river like a pagan goddess, the water dripping off her breasts, down her flat belly, nestling in the red curls between her legs.
She walked slowly, taunting him, and then stopped, reaching for the discarded robe before he could move. At one point last night she'd put the chemise back on, and he'd torn it off her, rendering it useless. He hoped the rough weave of the monk's robe wouldn't be too harsh on a body already scratched from the feel of his unshaven beard.
He rose, grateful for the disguising nature of his own robe. He could tell by the way she moved that she was mad at him, as she had been through most of their acquaintance, and he told himself he was glad.
"We need to be away from this place," he said as she came toward him. "If we keep moving we might reach the shrine by nightfall. The sooner you're among the good sisters the better."
"Why?"
"Because you have no other place to go," he said flatly. "Unless you wish to return to your father."
"What makes you think the nuns will accept spoilt goods?"
"Because I'll pay them enough to take you." He put it more cruelly than need be, but it was nothing less than the truth. They would take her, no matter what shape she was in, because of the hefty dowry her father had paid, and as a favor to the man who had given his entire holdings to the church. Peter de Montselm.
She had pale skin to go with her red hair,
but it turned whiter at his cruel words. He had no choice, he told himself. She would hate him soon enough—why delay the inevitable?
"Are you ready? I find I'm weary of delay. This entire journey has been one disaster after another, and I can't wait until I'm back in court." He wasn't sure if he was overdoing his part, but she seemed to swallow it.
She took a step away from him. "You'll make better time if you go on alone," she said in a flat, unemotional voice.
Yes, he had overplayed his part. "I thought I made this clear days ago. I'm not leaving you behind."
"Why not? I'm more than capable of finding my way to the shrine, and you walk faster than I do. No one will interfere with a mendicant monk, even if he travels alone, and you appear to have had your fill of me. We'll both be much happier traveling alone."
"No." He had no idea why he insisted, when in truth he could make it to the shrine in half the time without her in his company. In time to send someone back for her, in time for him to have already gone in search of the missing prince.
And if she ever need speak of the last few hours, she would blame Prince William, and that would be the last of it. Prince William wouldn't be held accountable for the rape of a nun—it would be the least of his crimes. Assuming the man was still alive.
Except that Peter was certain he was. William came of an evil too old and powerful to give up life easily, and the world would feel lighter once he had left it. Right now it felt as heavy as lead on his shoulders.
"What if you're with child?" he asked suddenly. "How are you going to explain that?"
"A virgin birth?" She said it to shock him, and he almost had to smile. He was a hard man to shock. "Or I could say I was set upon by bandits and cruelly raped, but that I managed to escape. The subject is unlikely to come up, however. It's the wrong time for me to get pregnant."
He blinked. "Is there ever a right time?"
"I am skilled in midwifery, my lord. Have you forgotten? I know about birth and conception, and I know a woman is most likely to become pregnant midway between her monthly courses. I just finished mine, and am therefore relatively safe. And why aren't you turning green? Most men do when women discuss their womanly functions."
"I'm strong enough to withstand the idea," he said lightly. "In that case, there is no reason why I shouldn't see you safely to the shrine. There'll be no proof that I amused myself with you."
He'd gone too far then, and he knew it. He'd hoped she'd dissolve in silent tears. Instead her green eyes flashed fire.
"Amused yourself with me, you foul-minded, indolent, rapacious son of a bitch!" she cried. "Where the hell is my knife?"
He'd already scooped it up from the riverbank, a wise precaution since he had every intention of making her angry. Not, however, this angry.
"Behave yourself, lady," he drawled. "What more did you think it was?"
She came at him like a charging boar, so fast he barely had time to fend her off. She kicked at him, but since she hadn't put her sandals on, it did little good. She tried to knee him, but he managed to stop her, catching her wrists, turning her and pinning her against a tree. She was crying, certainly, but they were tears of rage, and she moved her face down and bit his hand, as hard as she could.
He didn't release her. Didn't dare. "If you don't calm down I'll truss you up like a plucked chicken and leave you here."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you? Leaving me helpless. Well, I'd rather you do that than spend another moment in your royal-pain-in-the-arse company. Let go of me!" She tried to kick him again, and he had no choice but to pin her against the tree with his entire body. Making her fully aware of the state of his arousal.
She looked up at him mid-spate, shocked and suddenly stopped fighting him. He leaned his forehead against hers. "Sweet scold," he whispered. "My foul-tempered angel, I'll never get my fill of you. But I have no choice—I have to take you back there. And the more I touch you, the harder it gets."
He'd stopped holding her wrists, and she reached down and put her hand around him. "Yes," she said, pulling on him lightly, so that he almost spilled in her hand. "The harder it gets."
He couldn't help it. He shoved the robe she was wearing aside, pulled his up and lifted her, bracing her against the tree as he filled her with one deep thrust.
She came immediately, tightening around him with a hoarse cry, putting her mouth against his, kissing him as she rode him. He could feel the hardness of her nipples through the rough cloth, and the ease with which he'd entered her told him she was as aroused as he was.
She surged up, then sank down on him, riding him, riding the wave of pleasure, and when the peak came she sank her teeth into his shoulder and bit him, hard, through the heavy fabric.
The sharp pain was the finishing touch, and he let go, pressing her against the rough bark of the tree, filling her with his seed, shocked at the way her body clung to his, drawing him in deeper, jealous of every bit of him.
They stayed that way, her legs locked around his hips under the enveloping robe, her arms around his neck, his body within hers, as their breathing slowly returned to normal. He was going to say it, and nothing on this earth could stop him, even though the words would only make things worse.
"Sweet Elizabeth," he whispered against her ear. "I love—"
"Ahem!" The voice was like an explosion in the forest, and Peter jumped back, the enveloping robes falling around him, to turn and face the apoplectic expression of someone he knew far too well.
"Brother Jerome," he said in a resigned voice. "How did you find us?"
Elizabeth had sunk back against the tree, decently covered by the robe he'd thrust aside so eagerly. How long had the men been standing there? They'd been so caught up in their rage and lust that a small army had approached and they'd been completely unaware.
There were a dozen armed men accompanying Brother Jerome, as well as horses snorting in the warm air. "We've had search parties out for the last day. The prince also sent his own men, but Bishop Martin insisted on sending a guard, as well, and we were the first to find you." His eyes narrowed as he peered at Elizabeth. "That's not Brother Adrian," he said in a suspicious voice.
Elizabeth reached up and covered her head with the hood of her robe, hiding her face, and Peter resisted the urge to touch her, turning instead to the newcomer. If Brother Jerome hadn't realized Elizabeth was a woman, what in Christ's name did he think they were doing locked together like that?
And then his words sank in. "Bishop Martin is at the shrine?"
Jerome nodded. "As is your charge. It was nothing less than a miracle, Brother. The prince managed to escape those cutthroats and find his way through the forest alone. God must truly bless his pilgrimage to have spared him from the carnage. Of course, the robbers had no idea the prince was posing as a lowly monk, but that didn't seem to stop their slaughter. Thank heavens you managed to escape, as well."
"Thank heavens," he echoed faintly. He couldn't see Elizabeth's face, couldn't be sure she'd taken in all that she was hearing. He should have told her the truth himself. Long ago, before he'd touched her. But then, there was no good way for her to find out he'd been lying to her all this time.
As if wanting to drive a final nail through him. Father Jerome said in a cheerful voice, "And I see you've already managed to get back in your proper garb. It must be a blessing to be free of such an imposture, Brother Peter. I warned Bishop Martin when you first suggested such a tiling. You were the obvious man to take the prince's place, but the risks were too high. We can only thank God you've been returned to us safe and sound."
"Yes," he said in a muffled voice. "Safe and sound."
"And who is this young man?" Brother Jerome was trying his best to sound avuncular.
There was no way around it. "This is Lady Elizabeth of Bredon. She's to join the sisters of Saint Anne."
Jerome looked between the two of them. Peter met his stern gaze fearlessly. "I see," he said, and the sorrow in his voice was sharper than a sword. "We've onl
y brought one extra horse. We thought you were alone. Lady Elizabeth can ride with one of the other men."
He didn't object. Brother Jerome held out his hand. "My lady?"
Elizabeth stepped forward, keeping her head down as she moved past him, careful not to let even the hem of her loose-fitting robe touch him. She looked smaller, somehow, not like the long-legged goddess who strode through life bringing babies into the world and cursing him. Her narrow shoulders were slumped beneath the robe, and she looked small and defeated. And if suicide were not a mortal sin he would have cut his own throat there and then.
Instead he simply followed after them, head bowed low.
Adrian woke abruptly. He looked out the small, unshuttered window, trying to gauge the time. It was dangerously close to daylight. The village was already awake, but full light would make escape even more difficult. He could hear the sound of bridled horses-horses that could only mean Prince William's men had reached the village. For the sake of their hosts they needed to be gone, with no trace of them, no word as to which direction they were headed.
But of course, that would be obvious. The only place they would be safe, Joanna would be safe, was the Shrine of Saint Anne. They just had to make it there while avoiding Prince William's hunting party.
He looked down at the woman sleeping by his side, about to wake her, when he paused for a moment. She looked so peaceful, so serenely beautiful, that he regretted disturbing her. She lay on her back, still and silent, and he was reminded again of the tomb of his grandfather. He and his wife were depicted in marble atop the crypt, lying side by side throughout eternity, in stone and bone, and for the first time he began to understand the legendary bond that they'd held between them. The peaceful, calm knowledge that they would never be separated.
He shook himself. Now was not the time to be distracted by sentimental thoughts, any more than by lust. Now was the time to run.