Hidden Honor Page 10

  She started toward him across the rough ground. No one seemed even remotely aware of either of them. The monks and Dame Joanna slept, the knights were drinking and talking, oblivious to their charge. And he was watching her, she knew it. If she had any sense she'd take a sudden quick turn and dive for the bushes, pretending she'd been heeding a call from nature.

  She was heeding a call from nature, but an altogether different sort. The closer she got to him the more clearly she could see him, and he didn't move to meet her halfway. He simply stood in the shadows of one of the towering trees, watching her, waiting for her.

  Like a hunter with a baited trap, waiting for a foolish rabbit to wander into the snare. And she could no more resist than she could fly.

  Adrian lay on his side, watching, afraid to move, afraid not to. Brother Peter had given him his charge, and he never questioned him. Pie was to lie next to the false Brother Matthew and watch him at all times, not even daring to sleep. It was far too dangerous to turn your back on the true bastard prince of England, far too dangerous to even close your eyes. Not when there were women around.

  Women, he thought with a silent groan. All this would be so much easier if there were no women. He could see Lady Elizabeth walking quietly toward the man she thought was a dangerous murderer, walking into peril without a second thought. God preserve him from a clever woman who thought she was impervious!

  And God preserve him from a wise and beautiful woman who lay sleeping far too close to him, a Madonna and a Magdalene rolled into one. Every time he thought of Dame Joanna's sorrowing smile or the scent of her hair his body reacted in a predictable manner. The way she moved, the soft swell of her breasts…

  He knew his duty—why was he letting himself be distracted by a beautiful woman? Even worse, why was Brother Peter allowing himself to be distracted by a flame-haired maypole?

  Lady Elizabeth was walking toward Peter, her skirts flowing with her long-legged stride, and he was making no effort to turn away. The moonlight was bright, and no one was watching, and danger was thick in the air. Move away from her, Adrian thought. She is a greater danger than you realize.

  Peter would laugh at him. Peter would declare himself immune. But he'd seen the hunger in Peter's eyes. and he knew the same hunger in his heart when he looked at Dame Joanna.

  And he knew they were all doomed.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  Peter stood very still as the girl approached him. And she was a girl, despite being past the age many women would have married and become mothers. She had an unblinking innocence that absolutely terrified him. She would stumble into danger without thinking, just as she was striding toward him on those long legs of hers, the flow of her gown moving with her, and if he had any sense at all he'd dive into the bushes to avoid her.

  But he was just as foolish as she was, and if danger was going to come to him on a quiet, moonlit night, then he was going to stand and wait for it.

  It wasn't supposed to be easy. And he hadn't thought it was. He'd always been a man of strong sensual appetites, and he'd chosen the strictest order he could find. Not for him the well-fed monks of the Cistercian Order. He'd devoted himself to the strictest rule he could find, a life with unceasing toil, constant penance and the most Spartan of living conditions.

  But he had just returned from crusade, and the living conditions couldn't have been worse. The penance was deserved and endless, and the work kept him from going mad with it.

  He'd even spent time in King John's household, surrounded by the sight and the scent of beautiful women. Women who found the notion of bedding a monk to be a challenge. The kind of woman he'd taken in the past, gladly and well, leaving them as breathless and pleasured as he had been.

  And he hadn't touched them. He'd let them flirt, and smile, and put their soft hands on his arm, and he'd been steadfast and resolute. So why should a long-legged, flame-haired colt of a girl suddenly break through his fierce abstinence?

  Sin was easier to resist if you avoided it altogether, and Peter never took the easy way out. It was his only just deserts, to suffer being around Lady Elizabeth, to think of her mouth, to think of the innocence in her eyes and what he could make her do…

  He'd been leaning against a tree, watching her approach, but at that thought he stood up straight, half-tempted to bolt. Perhaps he couldn't resist her after all. Perhaps the vapid beauties were the easy ones. The heartbreakingly innocent ones almost impossible to deny. Except that he'd never met a woman that touched him the way Elizabeth of Bredon did.

  "You're an idiot," he said in a companionable voice when she was within a few feet of him.

  She halted, momentarily confused. Her wicked hair had come loose from her braid, and it was blowing softly around her like a veil. He wanted to wrap himself in her long, sumptuous hair. He didn't move.

  "I beg your pardon, my lord?" she said, slightly breathless. So she must know as well as he did just how dangerous her midnight foray was.

  "Go back to bed. You shouldn't be out wandering alone in the forest. There are wild beasts. And there are dangerous men."

  Her eyes were so clear and unflinching in the moonlight. He wasn't used to looking directly into a woman's eyes. It wasn't that she was tall enough to meet his gaze. It was that she was open and honest enough. Just the sort of thing to lead her into complete disaster.

  "You're the only dangerous man I'm aware or," she said.

  "As I said, you're an idiot. Or have you the bizarre notion of becoming a sainted martyr? Trust me, if I rape and kill you you wouldn't become a martyr, you'd simply be buried and forgotten. Find some other way to reach holiness."

  "You wouldn't rape and murder me," she said with a calm assurance he found annoying.

  "Why not?"

  "I'm not the kind of woman who inflames men into dangerous, murderous passions."

  "I will say it a third time—you're an idiot. And trust me, you're annoying enough to bring out murderous tendencies in the most gentle of souls."

  "I don't bring out murderous tendencies in Brother Matthew," she said.

  Peter glanced upward in exasperation. He'd asked to be tested, to be punished, and God seemed willing to be doing just that. "How old are you, Lady Elizabeth?"

  "Seventeen."

  "Then you should be old enough to know that men are not always what they seem."

  "I've lived my life surrounded by men. They seem to me to be very simple, obvious creatures, and I'm a very good judge of character."

  "Are you indeed? Then why are you standing alone in the moonlight, talking to a man who's known to have killed women? That seems to show a particular lack of insight on your part. Unless you think the world is mistaken about me, that I'm really a gentle, harmless soul and all those stories are wicked lies."

  A mistake. She took another step closer, and he couldn't back away. She had absolutely no idea she was playing with fire, and she looked up into his eyes with her steady, observing gaze. He didn't bother putting up the usual mask that he wore to keep people from seeing his inner torment. He let her look her fill, into the very depths of his heart, so she could know what a monster he truly was.

  She shook her head, and a silky strand of flame-colored hair settled on her shoulder. "I can see darkness," she said. "Terrible things, terrible pain." She sounded dazed by the knowledge, but she didn't move away from him. Instead she reached out and put her hand on his arm, almost instinctively, and he wanted to groan.

  "Then run away, lady," he said. "Keep your dis-tance from dangerous creatures, be they bastard prince or lowly monk. None of us are safe."

  "Are you warning me against Brother Matthew?"

  He wanted to curse her acuity. He knew women well enough—to tell her to keep away would merely convince her to move closer. "I'm warning you against everyone," he said in a tense voice.

  "You think Brother Adrian hides a lecherous nature?"

  "Don't worry about Brother Adrian—he is a man who keeps his vows no matter what t
hey be."

  "And Brother Matthew is not? I looked into his eyes as well, my lord, and I can see the pure goodness shining through. There are no shadows of guilt and remorse there—he has a guiltless soul."

  "But is he guiltless because he has committed no sin, or because he refuses to take responsibility for it? The Devil himself would be unlikely to be plagued with guilt."

  "And now you're telling me that Brother Matthew is the Devil himself?"

  He wanted to take her by her slender shoulders and shake some sense into her. He had no doubt she could look into his eyes and see the darkness there, but it galled him that she could be so blind to the real Prince William's madness.

  He wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell her exactly who and what he was, and what her saintly Brother Matthew had done to Baron Neville's daughter, the atrocities he'd committed with no remorse whatsoever.

  But he couldn't say a word. All he could do was to keep her safe until they arrived at Saint Anne's.

  "What do you want from me, Lady Elizabeth?" he said in a weary voice, looking pointedly down at the hand that still rested on his arm. She wore no jewels on her hands. Even the mother abbess at Saint Anne's sported heavy rings. "Were you looking for a taste of danger before you seclude yourself in the convent? There are any number of men here who are far safer than me." And who would know better than to go anywhere near her. The monks and the knights had full knowledge of who headed this pilgrimage, even if they didn't know his true identity, and no one would dare question his decisions.

  "That's what Brother Matthew is. A man far safer than you are, my lord. Can you deny it?"

  At that moment, standing so close to him that he could smell the scent of flowers in her hair, she was in far more danger than from a sleeping monk with a bodyguard. No one was watching. He'd put his mouth on her skin twice—once on her forehead, once on her lips. He wanted to kiss her again, all over her body, he wanted her mouth, her thighs, her breasts, her very soul.

  He put his hand over hers and removed it from the sleeve of his tunic, releasing it without the slightest show of reluctance. "What do you want, Lady Elizabeth?" he asked in a bored tone. "Surely you must have some reason for traipsing over here in the middle of the night, and it can't be to talk about Brother Matthew."

  "I did want to talk about Brother Matthew," she insisted. "I don't understand why you're so harsh with him, and I want you to stop it."

  He just looked at her. "You want me to stop it?" he echoed in disbelief.

  "You're on a pilgrimage to cleanse your soul of your sins, my lord. Arrogance and bullying won't help."

  He hadn't been called arrogant in a long time. Arrogance had always been a besetting sin, one he'd worked hard to cleanse himself of. Apparently he'd failed.

  He wasn't sure if he wanted to beat her or kiss her. He would do neither, of course. He was beginning to develop an even stronger devotion to the monastic life, free of maddening creatures like Elizabeth of Bredon.

  "If all you want is to defend saintly Brother Matthew, then consider me properly chastised. And consider this—if you go off alone with him again I'll have you bound and gagged for the rest of the journey."

  The expression of shock on her face was almost worth it. "You wouldn't dare!"

  "You think not? Who are you talking to? Am I a man who carries through with my threats?" She said nothing, as he expected. "And now, if you're finished, go back to lie with Dame Joanna and stay out of the way of the men."

  "I'm not finished." She didn't move, and he had to admire her tenacity, if nothing else. Though in fact he admired her courage, her brains, her innocence, her mouth, the sweep of her long neck…

  "Continue." His voice was cold.

  "I need a knife."

  She'd managed to surprise him after all. "Don't you have one? How do you cut your meat?"

  "I didn't bring one with me. One of my brothers claimed the jewel-handled dagger belonging to my mother. He said I'd simply have to surrender it when I enter the convent. I didn't think I'd need one until we arrive."

  "And you find you do? It's a wise idea to be armed when you're on the road, though somehow I can't see you stabbing anyone."

  She gave him a slow, measuring look. "You never can tell," she murmured.

  Sweet Jesu, she made him want to laugh. She was absolutely unstoppable, and no warnings, no threats would make her cower like the helpless virgin she, in truth, was.

  He had a small blade tucked inside his tunic, next to his skin. Without hesitation he reached for it, offering it to her, handle first.

  And then he realized his mistake. Even a bastard prince would only carry heavily jeweled weapons. His knife was plain and ordinary, the knife of a holy brother sworn to poverty.

  She didn't say a word, simply took it, tucking it into her long sleeve. "I need it to cut my hair," she said.

  He almost grabbed it back. "Why?"

  "Need you ask? It's a sign of the Devil, it gamers far too much attention, and it gets in my way. They'll cut if off once I reach Saint Anne's, and if I arrive already shorn I'll make a better impression."

  "You don't strike me as a woman who worries unduly about what sort of impression she makes."

  "That was the least of my concerns," she pointed out. "For seventeen years this hair has been a plague and a curse. I want to cut if off."

  "If you've survived seventeen years then you'll survive another three days to the convent," Peter said. "Lei the mother abbess see to your fleecing. She's a fierce creature—she won't hesitate to hack it off and burn it."

  "You know the mother abbess at Saint Anne's?"

  Trust Elizabeth to fasten on the one mistake he'd made. She was far too clever for her own good. There was no reason for Prince William to be acquainted with the abbess of a small shrine in the south of England, and he couldn't even begin to come up with an explanation.

  "You are not to cut your own hair," he simply said in a voice that brooked no opposition. "The knife is too sharp, and you would probably end up slicing your wrists and bleeding to death, and then everyone would blame me. No, thank you. You may keep the knife. That way you can scare away any man foolish enough to get too close, though I suspect your tongue is a far sharper weapon. But you will leave your hair alone."

  Of course she'd still argue. She was as much a curse and a plague as her unwanted hair. "It's like a beacon in the woods!" she protested. "It could draw the attention of bandits…"

  "Then wear a hood, for Christ's sake!" he snapped. "Now, go back to bed and leave me alone. Unless you'd rather bed with me."

  It was the right thing to say, of course. It was what a lecherous princeling would say. Though the real William probably wouldn't ask, he'd simply take.

  But the problem was, it wasn't William asking, and it wasn't the decoy taking his place. It was Peter asking, Peter wanting, Peter sinning.

  "Madness runs in the Angevin blood, does it?" she responded. "Or does this tendency toward strange delusions herald from your mother?"

  "The world will be a far better place with you safely immured in a convent," he replied. "Can you never still your saucy tongue? I could have it cut out."

  "I doubt it. And it will be silent soon enough, once we reach Saint Anne's. Didn't you tell me it was a contemplative order, founded on prayer and meditation? Though how you would know any such thing continues to puzzle me. I wouldn't have thought you had much traffic with convents."

  Another, earlier slip that he hadn't even noticed. Though he'd lied, just to bait her. The sisters at Saint Anne were as talkative as all women—on that account sweet Elizabeth would fit right in. She was Like a small terrier shaking a rat, determined not to let go.

  And he was tired of being baited, when there was nothing he could do, when what he wanted most of all was to silence her mouth with his. "One last time, Lady Elizabeth. Go back to your bed near Dame Joanna, or come back into the woods and lift your skirts for me."

  He'd managed to shock her into silence for a brief, blessed mo
ment. "No!"

  "If you'd prefer to do it right here I'm entirely game," he said, reaching for his belt. "I have no objection to an audience."

  She slapped him. The sound was loud enough in the still night air to draw the attention of those around. Even the monks stirred from their slumber to search for the source of the noise.

  They would have no idea who had slapped whom. No woman would get away with hitting a man, much less a prince. They would probably assume he was the one who had hit her—it was only in keeping with his reputation. Except that if he had hit her she'd be on her butt on the ground, and he damned well might have her skirts over her head.

  She was looking properly horrified. "I beg pardon!" she said in a thoroughly anguished voice. "I don't know why I did that. I've never hit another person in my life."

  "I'm particularly trying," he said calmly. She'd packed quite a force with her blow—his skin tingled. "So what do you suggest I do to you in return? One can't get away with assaulting the son of a king."

  She was looking pale, even frightened in the moonlight. He should have felt regret, but her silence was such a blessed relief that he allowed her fear to linger. "You could beat me," she said in a small voice.

  He shook his head. "I derive little pleasure out of beating women." Another lie that he hoped she'd be too afraid to pick up on. Not that he enjoyed beating women. But the real prince had a habit of doing just that, as Elizabeth should well know.

  She did know, and she opened her mouth to say something of the sort, when she shut it again, finally realizing she'd gone too far.

  "Very wise," he murmured. "This is a dangerous game you're playing, and one should never underes-timate the enemy."

  "Are you the enemy?" Her voice was so low and quiet that he almost doubted the words. Or the plaintive note in them. He stared down at her, unable to look away. Her eyes were no longer defiant, her mouth was soft and vulnerable, and, sweet God, if he didn't get away from her he wouldn't answer for his immortal soul.

  Then again, his immortal soul had been thrashed long ago, and spending the rest of his life in penance would not be long enough to wash it clean. What difference would another kiss make?