by Anne Stuart
It was more difficult than she had imagined. He settled down on top of her, as gently as possible, pulling the rough sacks over them before resting his arms on either side of her. The sacks smelled like flour and honey—they blotted out the light, enclosing the two of them in muffled darkness. She could feel him stretched along the length of her body, even though he was doing his best not to put his whole weight on her. The position was miserably uncomfortable, with her face in his shoulder, trying not to breathe in the intoxicating scent of his skin.
They rode in silence for a bit, and when he spoke his voice was very quiet in her ear. "I hesitate to say this, my lady, but we'd fit better if you moved your legs."
She had her knees locked tight, up against his legs. "To which side?"
He simply put his knee between her legs and pried them apart, setting his legs more closely against her. She wanted to squirm away, but she was trapped in this boxlike space, with nowhere else to go.
"This is not a good idea," she whispered.
"What else do you suggest? There are layers of clothing between us and a driver within a foot of us. Between the two it should manage to keep us relatively chaste, We can lie here in pious reflection, thinking pure thoughts."
He was lying. She could feel him against her, the hard flesh that couldn't be mistaken, pressing against her intimately. The motion of the carriage rocked him against her, and a little shiver ran over her body. She closed her eyes in the enveloping darkness and tried to pray.
Bump… bump… bump… The friction was gentle but insistent, and he seemed to become bigger still, harder, and she knew it wasn't her imagination. The rhythm of the wagon was setting an age-old rhythm in their bodies, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
She put her hands on his shoulders, pushing at him. "You need to get off me," she whispered. "This isn't right."
Bump… bump… bump… She was shivering, not quite sure why, cold and hot at the same time. She had no idea what was going on with her body, only that it was sinful and wicked and out of her control. Bump… bump… bump__
"Hush, love," he whispered in her ear. "Just let go-"
She couldn't. She could hear the noise of a village now as they passed through, and if she moved, said anything, it would give them away. All she could do was lie there and feel the strange, clutching fire move from her breasts to her loins, to the spot between her legs where he was pressed.
It was growing worse, far worse, and she tried to shift him, but he covered her like a second self, only that one part of him was so different, so demanding. And she wanted to slide her hand down between their bodies and touch him. Which shocked her far more than it would shock even a gentle monk.
Bump… bump… bump… She couldn't stop shaking. She was past speech, her heart was hammering against her chest, her breathing so labored she thought the world could hear.
He put his long fingers over her mouth, to still her. "Don't cry out," he whispered. His own voice was strained, and no wonder. Any other man would have spilled his seed on her. Any other man would have lost control long ago. Bump… bump… bump…
"Bite me when you come," he whispered. "That way no one will hear you."
"What?"
"It's going to happen whether you like it or not. Go ahead, love. Find your pleasure."
She couldn't find the words to tell him he was mad. That he didn't know what he was talking about. But his fingers silenced her mouth and she could no longer speak and bump… bump…
Her body went completely rigid beneath his, as a thousand tiny sparks of light raced beneath her skin. She tried to cry out, but his hand kept her silent. It seemed to last forever, and then she went limp beneath him, afraid she might faint.
He took his hand from her mouth, turned her head to face his and kissed her mouth. And for the first time in her life, without thinking, she kissed someone back.
* * *
Chapter 22
"Lady Elizabeth." The true Prince William rose from his seat at the table and came toward her. "You do me great honor. I cannot express how sorry I am about the dreadful deceit thai was forced upon me. Not for the world would I have you be the victim of such a lie, but alas, these things were out of my control. I had no choice but to obey the monks, and Brother Peter insisted." He took her hand in his soft one and brought it to his moist, soft lips. "I crave your forgiveness."
She'd forgotten the melting sweetness of his smile, the dark warmth of his eyes. She'd been so besotted by the tall, dark-eyed man that she'd failed to remember her instant attraction to kindly Brother Matthew. Not the kind of attraction that tricked and betrayed her—no, she was drawn to his gentleness.
A gentleness that must be in question, if he had done all that they had said he had done. But then, who could she trust to be who they said they were?
She removed her hand, gracefully, and dropped a polite curtsey. "I am sure it was no fault of yours, my lord. And there is nothing to regret—I'm here, safe and sound, and so, praise God, are you."
"But alas, so many other people died in the slaughter. I saw the young monk, Adrian, butchered before my very eyes. And the lady…" He shook his head. "It was a sad, sad day, my lady, and I rejoice that Brother Peter knew to desert his charge and save you."
The urge to defend him came unbidden but failed to reach her lips. Maybe finally, at long last, she was learning discretion. "Brother Peter was… most helpful."
"I imagine he would be. But let's not talk of him, my lady. Come join me in a cup of this house's excellent wine, and we will decide what we'll do with you."
She took the goblet and the seat beside him, wondering why she felt so uneasy. The hall was crowded, though of the good sisters only two were present, Mother Alison and the mother abbess with her sharp, disapproving stare. And herself, of course. The group of men eating in the corner were loud and boisterous, and the prince followed her gaze.
"My father sent some of my men to bring me home in my newfound state of grace. They have been out looking for you and Brother Peter, but the abbot's party found you first."
She took a sip of the wine, smiling at him faintly. He smiled back, but for some reason the warmth didn't reach his pale blue eyes. "I've got more men combing the countryside for any trace of Adrian and the doxy. I doubt they survived, but it would only be right to bring their bodies back for Christian burial. After all, they died on pilgrimage. Perhaps even the leman's sins will be washed clean."
"You're certain they're dead?"
"Quite," the prince said firmly. "There is nothing more we can do for them but say a prayer for their souls. In the meantime, we have more important things to speak of."
"We do?" she echoed doubtfully. "My lord," she added hastily.
"Those garments ill become you, my lady. You were not made to wear drab gray."
She looked down at the plain habit with its loose surplice and ornate cross. "A holy sister does not spend time contemplating which colors are best, my lord."
"Indeed. Which makes me think you are ill-suited for the cloister. You've seen little of the world, my lady. Before you decide to eschew it completely you should at least have a taste of it."
"I think I've tasted enough," she said.
"Traveling with a penitent? A holy, passionless monk? I think not. You will bear me company back to court, where my father can thank you himself."
"Thank me for what?" Her unruly tongue hadn't been completely tamed.
"For helping to bring me safely to this house of God where my soul has been washed clean. The mother abbess has given her permission, albeit with reservations. She agrees with me that a vocation tested is a stronger one. We'll leave in two days' time. Long enough for them to find suitable clothes for you—you can hardly attend my father's court dressed like a nun. And you will see whether or not you find the world worth living in."
She cast a nervous glance toward the waiting mother abbess, but the stern-faced woman merely nodded her acquiescence. Mother Alison looked less certain,
but she simply bowed her head, accepting the inevitable.
As she must do, Elizabeth thought. After all, the prince was everything a royal son should be—charming, handsome, considerate and strong. He wasn't a true son of the king, only a bastard, and rumor had it that the young queen had become pregnant once more, and this time they were hoping it wouldn't be terminated too early by an unexpected fall, or stillborn with no warning.
If she were in the king's court she could see to it that this time the babe would be born safe and whole. The king's gratitude would be boundless, and there was no telling what might happen. Perhaps even marriage to a royal bastard. Her bloodlines were good enough, extending back to the first wave of William the Conqueror's men, and even if she were too tall and too red-haired, one man had found her enticing.
She quickly drank another deep gulp of the wine and turned to look into the prince's melting eyes. She was taller than he was, but then, she was taller than a great many men. If she wished to find a husband tall enough for her, then her choices were limited indeed, and the only tall man she knew was out of the question.
But she could be married, she knew that now. Another man could touch her the way… he had touched her. Another man could bring her pleasure and make her fall in love with him as easily as her deceitful companion had.
Oh, not that she was in love with him. She'd been fascinated by him, that was all. Deep inside she must have sensed the conflict and lies beneath that enigmatic exterior, and it had weakened her usually strong defenses.
It wouldn't happen again. When she found another man who made her feel as he had, then she would take him.
"I would be honored to accompany you, my lord."
And William took her hand in his beringed one and kissed it, slowly, lingeringly.
A strange shiver ran down her spine, far removed from delight. She wanted to snatch her hand away from him, tell him she was staying here, where she belonged. And then she felt his eyes on her.
She looked up. Peter stood at the far end of the great hall, and her eyes met his for the first time since she'd found out who he was.
There was nothing there. No regret, no passion, no anger, no love. He might well have been a statue, with eyes carved out of stone.
She turned back to the prince, giving him her most bewitching smile. "I will count the hours."
"There's no sign of them anywhere, my lord," Rufus said. William had seen Rufus kill men bare-handed, had seen him sack and pillage and rape with the kind of brutality that only he could admire. It always amused him that he was the one person who could terrify Rufus. He wasn't afraid of death. Death was easy. Dying was hard.
William looked at him slowly. "You mean you couldn't find any sign of them, don't you? Sir Adrian is not that good at subterfuge, and he has a lady with him. A doxy, who'll doubtless whine and complain every step of the way. And yet you say you can find no trace of them?"
"Jenkins thought they might head Low aid the sea rather than circle around this way," Rufus said somewhat desperately.
"And who, pray tell, is Jenkins?" he said in his most dulcet tone. The one calculated to make Rufus turn even paler.
"One of the men, sire."
"And is he gifted with the sight? Did the Holy Virgin come down and tell him where my enemies have gone?"
"No, my lord. It was just a guess."
"I have no great fondness for guesses, Rufus. And no great fondness for wagging tongues. You will go back out, into the rain, and find them. They will try to approach this place—your Jenkins might have his doubts but I do not. They will approach this place, and you will kill them. You'll kill them quickly—now is not the time for leisure in such matters—but you will cut off his head and bring it to me, so that I may be certain his tongue will never betray me."
Rufus started backing toward the door, almost tripping over his huge feet.
"And Rufus?"
"Yes, sire?"
"You wouldn't make the mistake of failing me again, would you? I've managed to convince the good sisters that I'm a reformed soul. We wouldn't want anything to suggest otherwise until we're well away from here."
"We, sire?" Rufus knew perfectly well that the prince would never deign to include his men among his pronouns.
"I'm taking the girl with me. The overgrown one with the red hair."
"Begging your pardon, my lord, but she scarcely seems the kind of woman you fancy. Wouldn't she be more trouble than she's worth? The good sisters wouldn't like it if anything were to happen to her."
"The good sisters won't be able to do anything about it. Anyway, I'm not particularly interested in her one way or the other. She's merely a means to an end."
"Sire?"
"Brother Peter. Saintly, judgmental Peter de Montselm will come after her, because he knows just what I will do to her if he doesn't get there soon enough. And I'll be able to finish what I started. I've owed Brother Peter a debt for seven years, and it's past time I paid it."
"My lord?"
"None of your business, Rufus. Go and find me that wretched knight and the whore, and be quick about it. You do have a sister, last I hear. It would be tragic if anything were to befall her."
Rufus disappeared, practically falling in his haste to leave. William leaned back, toying with his jewel-handled knife. He had nicked the blade when he struck Adrian, probably hitting a rib. Which meant that it hadn't been a killing blow, more's the pity. If it had, his men would have already found the body, and that of the woman, as well.
They'd almost reached saintly Peter and his strange whore, as well. In the end, he was glad the abbot's men had forestalled them. There would be little pleasure in simply hearing of Peter's death. He wanted to be there, to watch. To deliver the killing blow.
He rubbed his shoulder absently. It still hurt him, the skin stretched taut over his body. So long ago, and yet he would never forget. Other men had been burned in the fire that engulfed the seraglio, with less severe consequences, and they had died, anyway, some by their own hand, unable to bear the pain. Crusaders should have been made of sterner stuff. But then, they hadn't had hatred to keep them alive.
William had chosen to live. To heal. The ruined half of his body was well hidden by his clothes, and very few knew how deep the flame had burned. Destroying his very manhood, so that his only joy was in the granting of pain.
And he knew whom he could thank for that particular gift. The man he'd gone on crusade with, the man he'd fought with, the man who'd pushed him off the building where he'd been watching the conflagration. The man who pushed him into the fire. Peter of Montselm.
All the remorse in the world wouldn't wash Peter's soul clean, but it somehow galled William that he saved all his guilt for other things. When he set his eyes on the king's son he betrayed no emotion at all.
But then, what could he expect from the man who'd set the fire in the first place? Burning hundreds of women and children to death.
In another instance William might have applauded the act. Peter had stood on the adjoining roof of the sultan's palace, his face blank, as the flames were mirrored in his eyes, and the screams rose to heaven.
He'd moved suddenly, turning to the man who stood watching in silence. "We have to stop it," he'd said in a ragged voice. "We can't kill them…"
"That is your holy charge," intoned the priest who'd blessed the firing of the building. "Let them burn now—they will burn throughout eternity in the fires of hell reserved for the unbelievers."
"We can't…" he'd cried, drawing his sword, and everyone drew back. Sir Peter de Montselm was taller, stronger, and a far better fighter than most of them. To meet his blade was to court death.
But William had no such fear. Hadn't he gone through the Crusades without a scratch on him? His father had sent men to look out for him, and he seldom put himself in harm's way, but the heat and noise from the flaming building was too delicious to stop.
"Get back, Sir Peter," he'd said calmly, drawing his own sword. "What's done is done."
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He was totally unprepared for the savagery of Peter's attack. Within moments he was flat on his back on the roof, his golden, jeweled sword broken like a toy. "Anyone else?" Peter had said in a hoarse voice. "Or will you help me save who I can?"
From his vantage point on the ground William could see them wavering, and even the priest could not influence them the way Peter always could. They were going to do it, he thought. They were going to take the coward's way out, put a stop to the fire.
He moved so quickly no normal man should have heard him coming. He grabbed the jeweled scimitar he'd taken from a fleeing infidel and brought it down on Peter's back, slashing into skin and muscle.
He whirled around, and William staggered back. It was supposed to be a killing blow, but he barely seemed to slow down. He took another step backward, still clutching the bloody scimitar.
"Don't come any closer!" he'd cried in a high-pitched voice. "Or I'll cut your head off."
The screams were fading now, fading into the dull moan of the dying. "I would advise against trying it," Peter had said, advancing on him.
He would have run, but he couldn't look like a coward in front of the others. He'd already made the mistake of attacking Peter from behind, and they frowned upon such things. Peter would never kill him—of all things he was loyal to his uncle and, by default, his father. It would be safe enough to charge him.
Or so he thought. Peter knocked the scimitar from his hand with his own sword, and the blow swung William around. In the next moment he was flying off the roof, through the air, like some doomed bird, crashing into the center of the burning seraglio.
Rufus had gotten him out, though not in time. Dragged him, half dead, over the charred bodies stacked ten deep.
But he had survived. And it had taken seven years. seven years while Peter locked himself in a monastery and bewailed his sins, but revenge was almost at hand.
It was almost time to leave.