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  "That should be easy enough. Who would expect a gentle young lady like me to stab them?"

  "Anyone who'd spent much time with you," he muttered. "How far back did you decide to go for your little swim?"

  "I don't know. It seems as if I was in the water for hours."

  He finally released her hand, rising to his full height. She didn't move—if she stood she'd be too close to him, too easy for him to touch. "You stay here. I'll follow the river back and see if I can find your slippers. We've got a long walk ahead of us and your feet are going to need some kind of protection."

  For some reason she didn't like the notion of being abandoned, even for a short while. "I can come with you…"

  "You can stay right here. I can only assume they were Baron Neville's men, intent on vengeance. I have no idea whether they followed us or not, but I'd have a much easier time dealing with them if I didn't have to worry about you. Sit in the sun and dry yourself out—I'll be back as quickly as I can. And don't make the mistake of thinking you could go on without me. I'll drown you myself if you try it."

  She'd been thinking that very thing. For all that she didn't want to be left alone, the thought of spending even one hour alone with the dangerous man who'd pulled her from the river was unnerving, and the thought of nights along the way to the shrine was absolutely terrifying.

  "You wouldn't drown me," she said, wondering if she believed it.

  "Maybe not. But I'd beat you, and I think you've already mentioned you want me to keep my hands off you. Don't anger me, then, or you definitely wouldn't like the consequences."

  "I've been beaten before," she shot back.

  "You wouldn't like what came afterward."

  She closed her mouth. She could just imagine what he might have in mind after he beat her, and she had no doubt he'd follow through. The bastard prince of England was not known for his self-restraint, and anger could release a lot of other, dangerous emotions.

  "I'll do what you tell me to," she said, only faintly sullen.

  "Yes, you will," he agreed. "Because you have no choice in the matter."

  She stared up at him. He towered over her, and she was half tempted to scramble to her feet so that she didn't fee! so small and helpless. She wasn't used to that odd sensation, and she wanted to fight back.

  But he'd already made it clear that fighting back was not a wise idea.

  The sun had moved past the trees, shining down on her, and steam began to rise from her soaked gown. "I'll wait for you," she said, stretching out on the ground again, trying to look at ease.

  He stood over her for another moment, looking down at her, an odd expression in his eyes.

  And then he turned and left her, without another word.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  William's triumph, such as it was, was short-lived. He had no notion whether he'd managed to kill Sir Adrian, his father's appointed bodyguard, and Gervaise had been in too great a hurry to allow him enough time to find out. It wasn't as if it mattered—everyone was dead. There would be no witnesses to testify that the murderous attack by outlaws was no such thing.

  They were days late as it was—he'd been counting on his prearranged rescue before they'd reached Castle Bredon. Each day spent in the scratchy, shapeless robes of a humble brother was an affront. He would make someone pay for the delay, most likely Gervaise himself. Except that Gervaise, his lieutenant and the closest thing he had to a friend, had a taste for pain, and any punishment short of death would be received quite gratefully. And William still had need of his services and his talents, which were unique and varied.

  The girl had escaped, as well. Gervaise had sent men after her, but they hadn't returned, and he could only assume she'd escaped and they'd been too fright-ened to return to their prince as failures, knowing the inevitable consequences.

  The very notion that he would acquiesce to a degrading pilgrimage such as this one was ludicrous, but his royal father, too besotted with his infant whore, had for once been paying attention, and William hadn't dared to defy a flat-out decree. He thought he'd arranged it cleverly enough. Within two days of setting off on his penitential journey the small caravan was to be attacked by robbers, with everyone left dead. His escape and eventual arrival on his own at the holy shrine would be viewed as something akin to a miracle, ensuring he be left alone for a goodly length of time with no one interfering with his pleasures.

  He hadn't actually meant to kill Neville's daughter. He was much too smart for a mistake like that—daughters of the nobility couldn't simply disappear as other, lesser souls could. But he'd misjudged her capacity, and she'd ended up dead, and there hadn't been time to dispose of her. Too many people had seen her with him, too many people who held a grudge. He'd been well and truly caught, but he had no intention of paying the price for his playful misdeeds.

  But there was something to be gained from every disaster, and it had been simple enough to arrange for the renowned Brother Peter to head the expedition. His father had doubtless thought it was a boon, to place an old acquaintance in charge of his son's penance. Not knowing that he'd presented a perfect op-portunity for William's long-delayed revenge. Brother Peter, the former Sir Peter de Montselm, would end up gutted in the forest, dead along with everyone else who might bring back tales.

  But Gervaise was late for the planned ambush that would kill Brother Peter and liberate the prince. William had been silently fuming by the time they'd arrived at Bredon Castle. None of their party had known his real identity apart from Brother Peter and Adrian of Longacre. The knights and soldiers had come from the north, and their orders were to protect the so-called prince and the monks with their very lives.

  The prince. William sneered at the notion of that tonsured monk trying to pass himself off as royal blood. Peter had always been above himself, convincing their fellow crusaders to follow him instead of the king's son. He carried himself royally, even as a lowly monk trying to expiate his pathetic little sins. Once he doffed his monk's robes it had been a simple matter. Everyone had believed him, treated him with more innate deference than they'd ever shown their real prince.

  It had taken seven years, but vengeance was finally at hand. Peter had been a legend of the Crusades, bearing William's sainted uncle company, cutting a bloody swath through the Holy Lands. And in the end, in the face of triumph, what had the fool done? Left the spoils of war behind, returned to his native land a pauper, and joined the most austere order he could find in a futile attempt to cleanse his soul.

  Guilt was a wasted emotion, William had always believed. Its only use was in blackmailing others. Brother Peter was riddled by it, making him easy prey for William's taunts. If he'd been sent on pilgrimage he should have been accompanied by an archbishop, no less. Not a simple monk with a taste for self-flagellation. And Peter had no notion his presence was no accident. During the long years since they'd returned from the Holy Lands, he'd forgotten just how devious the king's son could be. Though Peter could hardly have forgotten what William had done to him. The scarred flesh lay beneath William's robes, but Peter could not have forgotten.

  Adrian of Longacre was almost as bad. A member of his father's court, he'd been sent along to watch over William and make certain no one else was harmed. It was only fitting that he'd be the first to die.

  But there was no certainty of that fact, though the blow William struck had been a deep one. And if by any chance Adrian survived, he could contradict William's story of an outlaw attack and a miraculous escape.

  It wasn't worth worrying about. If Adrian survived, it wouldn't take much to silence him. And it wasn't his blood William wanted.

  It was the saintly Peter, who played the prince better than the real one did, who owed him a debt so great that only eternal torment could repay it, who concerned him. He'd survived the attack—William had seen him charging into the woods after that red-haired girl.

  It didn't surprise him. Brother Peter was ripe for disaster, and William knew just how t
o effect his revenge. Through the innocent affections of Elizabeth of Bredon.

  If she lived, it wouldn't be for long. He would use her to get to Peter. And then, in the end, he'd finish them both, by his own hands, rather than trust such important work to an underling like Gervaise.

  All the while he would revel in his new status as a living miracle. Who knows, in the end he might even become a holy man.

  His mouth curled in pleasure. It was somehow fating that an innocent like Elizabeth of Bredon and a conscience-ridden monk die in a welter of pain and blood.

  William would become a modern-day saint. And eventually king, because he had every intention of making sure his adolescent stepmother never gave birth to a living son.

  Even now she might be pregnant, with him too far away to do anything about it. It was all Gervaise's fault.

  It would take two more days to make it to the shrine, and then he could return to his life of pleasure.

  Knowing that the greatest gift was yet to come. The throne of England. Bathed in his father's blood.

  Elizabeth must have dozed off. When she awoke the sun had disappeared behind the towering trees, her clothes were cold and clammy, clinging to her body, and she was shivering. The mixed blessing was that she was no longer alone.

  The prince stood over her, a bundle of brown fabric in his arms, looking down at her outstretched body with an enigmatic expression on his face.

  She scrambled to her feet, well out of reach, and shoved her still-damp hair behind her face. She'd lost the silver circlet that had held it in place, and it covered her shoulders like an icy cape. "How long were you staring at me?"

  He laughed. "Oh, for hours! I stood staring down at you, totally besotted, too shy to wake you, waiting for you to rouse—"

  "Never mind," she snapped. She was trying to control her shivering, but the words came out in a slight stutter, anyway.

  "We have more important things to concentrate on than my insatiable lust for your body. Such as surviving the next few days when we're being hunted through the south of England."

  The faint drawl in his offhand words made her blush, a tiny bit of warmth to her chilled body. "We're being hunted?"

  "Whoever attacked us isn't going to stop until every one of us is dead. They'll keep searching, and we won't be safe until we reach the shrine."

  "We? What reason would they have to kill me?"

  "You're a witness. If they had no qualms about butchering monks, then they would be unlikely to hesitate in slaughtering a mere woman."

  "Then it seems as if I'd be much safer if we parted company."

  "You think you'd be better off alone in these woods? Feel free to go, then. Far be it from me to restrain you. I tend not to have altruistic motives, anyway, and I'd move faster without you holding me back. Godspeed, lady. If I make it to the shrine and you don't, I'll make sure the good sisters pray for your soul."

  She would have given almost anything to turn and walk away from him, into the woods, never to see him again. Almost anything, except her life, and unfortunately he had the truth of it. If she struck out on her own there was a very good chance she'd never arrive at her destination.

  He was waiting for her response. "I can see why people want to kill you," she said. "You're very annoying."

  "So, dear lady, are you. We're agreed on that, as well as the need to stay together. Any more arguments?"

  She wanted to kick him. "No."

  "'No, my lord William,'" he prompted.

  "No, my sainted bastard prince," she said through gritted teeth. The moment the intemperate words were out she regretted them.

  Another man would have hit her. She almost flinched, but then, she had never flinched from any blow, even her father's.

  To her astonishment he threw back his head and laughed. "I find it in my heart to have pity for the mother abbess if she has to deal with you, lady. Take off your clothes."

  "What?"

  "You heard me. Take off those wet clothes before you catch an ague. I can't be bothered having a sick woman on my hands, and a well-dressed lady wandering through the forest would cause too much attention, even if she doesn't look a bit bedraggled. Take off your clothes or I'll cut them off you."

  She was learning, slowly but surely. "And what will I be wearing instead?"

  He tossed a bundle of brown fabric at her. It smelled like herbs and sunshine. "This."

  "You jest." It was a monk's robe, similar to the ones worn by the friars who'd accompanied them on the first part of their journey.

  He had already begun stripping off his leather tunic. "I cannot think of a better disguise."

  She remembered touching the soft leather, touching the hard flesh beneath it, and the heat that filled her fought against the cold encasing her body. "Where did you get these?"

  "We're not that far from where we spent the night. When I couldn't find your shoes I went back the rest of the way. The ones left behind won't be needing these."

  She crossed herself quickly. "Did you bury them?"

  "It took me all this time to get there and back, lady. And there were too many for one man to bury."

  His words were light, unemotional. She must have imagined the bleak darkness in his eyes, the banked rage.

  "Were they all… did they all…?"

  "There was no sign of Dame Joanna. Nor of Brother Adrian or Brother Matthew. The rest were dead."

  She crossed herself again. "And all for your sake, my lord. They must have been trying to kill you—probably the family of that poor girl you killed. I only-hope you prove yourself worthy of other people's sacrifice."

  His smile was slow and mocking. "Oh, I have. Countless times over. Too bad I wasn't left with Dame Joanna instead of an asp-tongued virgin. Take off your clothes, lady, and stop arguing, or I won't share the food I brought."

  The mention of food was enough to make her move. "I'd like a bit of privacy," she said, picking up the robe. He'd stripped the leather jerkin over his head and the undershirt followed, leaving his chest bare in the dappled sunlight. She froze for a moment, momentarily distracted.

  She was used to big, burly men, covered with hair, laden with muscle and fat. The prince was none of those things.

  His skin was smooth, a deep golden color stretched over his elegant bones. She knew for a fact that he was very strong, but the sinew and muscle beneath that beautiful skin was only subtly defined. He was lean—almost too much so, as if he hadn't eaten as much as he should have. Too busy ravishing women instead of letting them feed him, she thought absently.

  "Have you looked your fill, lady? Or do you want to see everything?" He was reaching for his hose, and she let out a squeal, scampering into the bushes.

  Dame Joanna's ruined green dress was fastened with lacing up the back. The ties were soaked, knotted and impossible to budge with her chilled fingers. The more she tugged, the worse the knots became, until she was ready to weep with frustration. She had no choice—she was going to have to ask for help from the prince. Help in undressing—the fates could not have been more unkind.

  Enough time had elapsed that he'd be decently covered, and she reemerged from the bushes, carrying the robe with her. He was standing by the stream, staring into the forest with an abstracted expression on his face.

  He wore the rough brown habit with elegance, as she would have expected. "I've never seen someone who looked less like a monk," she said.

  He turned to look at her, his eyes narrowed. "I thought I looked quite pious. And you look even less like a monk than I do. Why haven't you changed?"

  "I need to borrow your knife."

  "What happened to the one I gave you?"

  "I lost it. If you might remember, I left in a hurry."

  "So you can protect yourself from my rapacious ways?"

  "So I can cut the lacing that holds this dress on. It's too knotted for me to unfasten and the dress is ruined, anyway."

  "If anyone's cutting your clothes off you, then I claim the honor," he said, coming
toward her at a lazy pace. "But first, let me see if I can untangle the strings. You may not need this gown anymore, but there are peasants who could still make good use of the fabric."

  "And you're so concerned with peasants? I had no notion that Prince William had the welfare of the poor in mind."

  "I doubt he does," he mattered. "Turn around. Unless you want me to reach around you and do it blind."

  She spun around, quickly, before he could put his arms around her. She had little doubt he would do just that, and the thought of him touching her was even more disturbing now that he wore the deceptively sober garb of a monk.

  She jumped when his hands touched her back. "Hold still," he muttered. "The more you squirm, the longer this will take. I brought bread and cheese and apples with me, and I imagine you're quite hungry by now. So behave yourself."

  "Behave myself?" she echoed, incensed. "I'm not the one who needs to worry about bad behavior."

  "Oh, are you not?" He caught her heavy sheaf of wet hair and tossed it over her shoulder. "Calling me a sainted bastard prince isn't a polite form of address by most standards."

  "I was goaded."

  "Indeed." His fingers brushed the bare skin above the neck of the dress, and she shivered. Still cold, she told herself, ignoring the heat in her belly. "And I will admit I'm better at arousing intemperate behavior in women than most."

  She felt a tug, and the dress suddenly loosened around her. She caught it before it descended in a wet heap, holding it around her. "Thank you," she said grudgingly, heading back toward the privacy of the bushes.

  She half expected him to try to stop her, but he said nothing. This time when she glanced back he was simply standing there, staring after her.

  God help him, he'd almost kissed her, Peter thought. Kissed the smooth white skin of her shoulder. When he'd moved her long, damp hair out of the way he'd exposed the nape of her neck, and found himself instantly, violently aroused. He hadn't seen the nape of a woman's neck in years—he'd forgotten how intensely erotic the sight was. He would have given his immortal soul to have put his mouth against the soft, tender skin at the base of Elizabeth's neck.