Hidden Honor Page 22

  He touched her shoulder, and her eyes flew open, staring up into his. There was instinctive fear in her gaze, a fear that vanished and was replaced with only mild wariness.

  "We have to go," lie whispered. "William's men are approaching the village, doubtless looking for us. We're going to have to make a run for it."

  "But how will they know we're here?" she protested, rising nonetheless and pulling on her leather slippers. "Will they seek out every traveling pilgrim and his wife?"

  "They'll be asking for a woman of uncommon beauty. That will give us away every time."

  He expected her to look pleased at his backhanded reference to her charms, but she merely nodded, taking it in her stride. "Then you should go on alone. I don't know how you managed it, when the night before you were at death's door, but you seem to have regained enough strength to make it on your own. Leave me behind."

  He shook his head. "You're a witness, as well, my love." The instinctive use of an endearment was a mistake—she looked startled, and he quickly went on. "They'll kill you, but they'll make life very unpleas-ant for you beforehand. Another drawback to being so beautiful," he said lightly, looking out the window. He could hear the sound of William's men, moving from house to house, and sooner or later someone was going to mention the pilgrims.

  "You can't be certain."

  "Are you willing to take that risk? Because I am not. We're going out the window now. Don't argue with me."

  The window was not overlarge, but she managed to swing one leg over it, pulling her gown up to reveal white, beautiful legs.

  "Stop staring, Brother Adrian," she said sharply. "And I think the sooner you get back to your monastery the better off you'll be. You've become far too worldly of late."

  He cursed himself silently. When he shed the borrowed robes of the monk, he had begun to forget that it was still, indeed, his purported role in life, at least as far as Joanna was concerned. It was enough to drive a man mad—a knight pretending to be a monk pretending to be a pilgrim. What would his next layer of deception include?

  He followed her out the window, and a moment later they had disappeared into the forest, with not a soul to see them.

  * * *

  Chapter 21

  The tub of water was blessedly warm, even if the soap was rough, and Elizabeth sat in the middle of it, soaking, trying to concentrate on useless things. It was astonishingly easy to wash her short-cropped hair, though it felt very odd beneath her fingers. When it was long the heavy weight of it had pulled it straight, but cropped short, it curled around her face.

  Her body ached—it had been a fast, hard ride to the shrine, and she'd had no choice but to sit astride, her arms around the waist of one of the burly soldiers. It was little wonder her hips felt…

  She ducked her head under the water, to wash away the malicious memory. The nuns had welcomed her warmly, whisking her away from the presence of the men, asking no questions but taking her to a warm bath, then offering a cup of wine and a meal to follow.

  She had thought she was famished when the day began, but now the very thought of food made her nauseous. She hadn't lied to… to the man who had been with her. She was in little danger of being with child, and it took a number of weeks before morning sickness began.

  No, her stomach was protesting the unpalatable truth of her situation. She'd been lied to, unmercifully. She had lain with a monk, done things no decent woman should do with her husband, much less a holy man.

  But a man who lied and kissed and… and… as he did was far from holy. At one point he'd told her he was no monster.

  He was wrong.

  She ducked under the water again, trying to concentrate on the warmth. Maybe she could just stay there, hold her breath until she passed out and then drowned. That way she'd never have to see Brother Peter again. Never have to answer questions, never have to think about anything…

  Except mortal, unforgivable sin, far worse than copulating with a monk. Suicide was a coward's way out. She may be a blind, trusting fool, but she was no coward.

  She came up for air finally, taking in great gulps of it, only to find Mother Alison sitting beside the tub, a calm expression on her face.

  At least it wasn't the mother abbess, a stony-faced woman who took one look at her and probably knew to the last detail what she'd done with the lying monk. Mother Alison was in charge of the novitiate, and it was her duty to see to the new members of the order. Her duty to tell her she was no longer welcome, Elizabeth thought glumly.

  "I wondered how long you were going to stay under the water," Mother Alison said in a comfortable voice. She was a tiny creature, small and slender and almost elfin, with the kindest eyes in the world. Elizabeth looked at her stonily, determined not to cry. "I'm very glad you decided to come up for air. I wasn't looking forward to diving into the tub to rescue you."

  "I wasn't going to drown myself, Mother," she said.

  "I never thought you would. But you might have fallen asleep. You've had a very busy few days, and it's little wonder you're exhausted."

  "Yes," she said, not wanting to think of what the last day or so had entailed.

  "We were all praying for you when we heard your party had been set upon by bandits. Once we knew there were no women among the victims, and that Brother Peter had disappeared, we were reasonably sure you were safe. Brother Peter would never let harm befall an innocent."

  "Brother Peter is…" She stopped herself in time, silencing the rage and pain that bubbled just beneath the surface. She had been so stupid, so abysmally stupid. Bad enough that she'd been blinded by a deviate prince. Far worse that she'd become entangled with an unholy monk.

  "Brother Peter is a good man," Mother Alison finished for her. "A troubled man, but a good one. I'm not as convinced about our royal guest. Nothing seems to affect Prince William, not the death of those who accompanied him nor his recent ordeal."

  Better to talk of the real prince than think about his wicked impersonator. "How did he manage to escape and find his way here?"

  "I'm certain he'll wish to tell you the story himself. It does seem to change with each telling, but one does not contradict or question the king's son. Especially now that his penance is complete and he is absolved of his sin, made new again."

  There was no missing the touch of asperity in Mother Alison's voice. "You don't believe in the power of absolution?"

  "I do. For those who truly repent. Why don't you come out of there before you're wrinkled up like a prune? The prince is counting on your company at dinner. He wishes to apologize for the masquerade and any harm that might have come to you."

  "I don't want to." She sounded like a little girl on the edge of a temper tantrum and she didn't care.

  "You can't stay in the tub forever, my dear."

  "I don't want to join the prince for dinner. I don't want to have to see a man ever again."

  "In which case you'll die unshriven and go to hell, since only priests can hear confession," Mother Alison said in a dispassionate voice. She rose, bringing a heavy sheet of toweling to the side of the tub. "Come along, my child. You needn't worry about seeing Brother Peter. He's keeping vigil in the chapel. I only hope he'll show some sense for a change."

  "I couldn't care less what he's doing. And he strikes me as someone eminently sensible."

  "Except for the burden of guilt he bears. You've seen the scars on his back, have you not? He mortifies his flesh with whip and hair shirt, fasting and sleepless vigils that last for days. I worry that he'll push himself too far in his zeal."

  "I wouldn't worry about him," Elizabeth said. "He's in no danger of becoming a saint anytime soon."

  "So I gather." She held out the towel. "Come, Sister Elizabeth. If you are to join our ranks, one of the first things you'll have to learn is obedience to the rule."

  Obedience had never been her strong suit, but Mother Alison was astonishingly forceful. Elizabeth had no choice but to climb from the tub, wondering if her wet, naked body betrayed her.


  But the nun was looking tactfully away as she held out the toweling, and Elizabeth took it and wrapped it around her, shivering slightly in the cool room.

  "I'm surprised you're allowed to talk to me. I was told this was a silent order."

  Mother Alison laughed. "Who told you such a lie? In truth, we have our times of silence and meditation as any order does, but we are usually a fairly talkative bunch. We are women, after all."

  The spring night had turned chilly, and Elizabeth moved closer to the heat emanating from the brazier.

  "I brought you something to wear. It's a bit short, but if you decide to stay you'll be able to make yourself a habit that reaches your feet."

  "If I decide to stay? Why wouldn't I? I've traveled for days, risked death and worse, to get here. Why should I change my mind?"

  "Change is always possible, my child. And this is not an easy life, for all its joys. You don't strike me as someone who's made for humility and obedience."

  "I can learn. And I wasn't looking for an easy life. I doubt such a thing exists."

  "True enough."

  "And a woman's life is about blind obedience, to a father, to a husband, to a king. I'd rather my allegiance be to God and to the brides of Christ."

  Mother Alison surveyed her with compassion. "Did you want to tell me anything, Lady Elizabeth?" she asked.

  "You said it yourself, you cannot hear my confession and give me absolution."

  "No. But sometimes it helps just to talk about your problems with someone who won't pass judgment. I came to my calling later in life, my dear. I am not unknowing when it comes to the world."

  For a moment hope sprang in Elizabeth's heart. She wanted to tell Mother Alison the truth of what had happened. She wanted someone else to tell her what to do, whether to join the order and repent, or leave this holy place and find some kind of life for herself.

  Her only possible choice would be to return to her father's household, and she would rather die. She shook her head. "No, Mother. I have nothing I wish to talk about."

  If the tiny nun was disappointed she didn't show it. "Then you must dress and join the prince for dinner. He is a very charming man, but even if I had not heard rumors, I would guess that he is a man who does not like to be crossed. Will you need help dressing?" She nodded toward the pile of simple gray clothing on the bench. "You won't be wearing a veil yet, and the robe is simple enough."

  Elizabeth reached an instinctive hand to her short hair. "I thought it would be covered."

  "Not yet, my dear. And there was no need to shear it off quite yet."

  "I wanted to do something to show my willingness to eschew the world and join the cloister," Elizabeth said.

  "Perhaps. But I think it even more likely that you thought cutting your hair would make it impossible for you to change your mind. You can always change your mind, my child. If the cloister is not for you then you must say so. To consecrate yourself to God with only half a heart is a greater sin than not coming here at all."

  "There will be nothing in my heart but God, Mother Alison."

  "Indeed." She didn't look convinced. She reached out and patted Elizabeth's hand. "Best dress quickly, before the prince becomes impatient. He was about to leave when you and Brother Peter arrived, and I expect he'll plan to depart as soon as he has thanked you."

  Elizabeth tried to picture the sweet, smiling Brother Matthew in princely robes, but all she could see was Peter's lying face. Above her, blocking out the light, kissing her.

  "You promise I won't see… Brother Peter?" The name came hard to her lips.

  "I promise. Now, hurry along, child. We'd all be happy to see the last of the prince and his men, no matter how charming he appears to be."

  He wanted her. Joanna had enough experience of men to know that the sweet monk walking by her side wanted to lie with her. It should have come as no surprise. Most men took one look at her and wanted to touch her. It wasn't vanity on her part, simply observation. In truth, she cursed the beauty that had been her lot in life. Her older sister had been stout and plain, married off quickly to a yeoman farmer, and almost as quickly the mother of three.

  But with his beautiful daughter Elric found he could look higher, and instead of offering a dowry he could pick and choose, lose a daughter and gain in property.

  She couldn't really fault him. The husband he'd chosen was the wealthiest of the suitors, as well as the oldest. But he was kind and gentle, seldom interested in matters of the flesh, and for a number of years she'd been content. By the time she'd been widowed her father was dead, his land passed on to his nearest male heir, a second cousin who bore no affection for women in general and his pretty cousin in particular, and she'd had no choice but to marry again, quickly. That time she hadn't been so lucky.

  Over the intervening years she'd learned that most men were easily led by the promise in her body, and she'd always managed to hide her distaste for the process. But right now, on her way to a convent for a period of rest and reflection, she didn't have to lift her skirts for anyone. And certainly not for a celibate monk who would never dare act on his amorous feelings.

  It wasn't the poor boy's fault—it was probably misguided gratitude for her saving his life. And he would never dare act on it, if he truly did have lustful feelings for her.

  The odd thing was, for the first time she was starting to wonder what it could be like. She knew better—she'd endured it often enough to know the act was designed for a man's pleasure and a woman's degradation. She had been blessed to be spared the pain and the dangers of pregnancy, she'd always told herself. But following in Adrian's footsteps, she found herself thinking once more of sweet-cheeked babies who had beautiful eyes like his.

  He had walked a few feet ahead of her, and she surveyed him covertly, the grace of his body, the way he moved. She was still in awe of his healing powers—yarrow was an effective treatment but never had she seen someone recover so quickly. He was much stronger than she suspected beneath his humble monk's robe. Smooth-skinned, strong-muscled, he had the body of a warrior, not a monk. Perhaps he'd gone on crusade, then returned to take his vows.

  But he looked too young for the last crusade. And as the hours, the days passed, he was looking less and less like a monk and more like a man. And she couldn't help thinking of him as such.

  Thank heavens there was nothing to be done about it. For all that he moved and talked like a man of the world, he had vows of chastity and obedience that he wouldn't break lightly. She still wasn't convinced that they were in any particular danger from the prince—she'd looked into his eyes and known instinctively that he was a good, fair man with a shadow on his soul, and she could not imagine him sending a hunting party out to kill them, no matter what Adrian insisted.

  But it meant they had to keep moving, with little time to talk, and no energy to think of other things.

  So why did she keep thinking of him?

  Perhaps it was his undeniable physical grace and beauty. Perhaps it was the knowledge that she was entirely safe to dream about him and what his touch would feel like, because nothing would ever come of it.

  It didn't matter why. As long as they kept moving she could daydream all she wanted. And perhaps, when they arrived at St. Anne's and he left her to rejoin his holy order, she'd reward herself with a kiss from his undeniably beautiful mouth.

  This time they heard the sound of the cart from far away. Adrian turned swiftly, taking her hand and pulling her toward the woods, when the old gray horse appeared, plodding steadily along the rutted track.

  "There you two are," Odo, their farmer friend from yesterday, greeted them. "We were wondering where you two had gotten off to. I was going to offer you a ride the rest of the way to St. Anne's. I'm due there tonight with this load of corn, and I thought I'd spare you the trouble." He pulled to a stop, looking at them. "The two of you can ride in the back. There's room there amid the straw, and some rough sacks that once held flour. If, say, you wanted no one to see you, the two o
f you could lie back there and cover yourselves with the sacks and no one would ever notice."

  "Why would we care if someone saw us, Odo?" Adrian moved warily toward the call, still holding Joanna's hand firmly in his. She suspected his other hand was on his knife, just in case.

  "Oh, I don't know," Odo said. "But when a man and his woman sneak out the back window when no one's looking, and when armed men come around looking for a beautiful woman and a wounded monk, I begin to wonder. Being as how I'm a curious fellow and all. But then, I've seen no monks around here, and certainly no one appears to have suffered any kind of wound. And while you're pretty enough, my lady, you can't hold a candle to my Roseanna." He sat back on the rough seat. "Well, are you two coming? I haven't got all day."

  "We're coming, Odo. Thank you."

  Adrian lifted her onto the back of the cart, his strong hands around her slender waist, and if the gesture pained him he didn't show it. Climbing in after her, he started rearranging the sacks as the cart moved forward.

  "We'll be out of the woods in about an hour. You'll want to be out of sight then, I'm thinking."

  Lying with him in the narrow bed at the miller's house was one thing. Lying on the bed of the rough cart was far worse, since the most space he could make was one person wide.

  "I'll be on the bottom," he said, picking up one of the discarded sacks. "I'm heavier."

  "You're wounded," she said flatly. "Even if you're healing quickly, you still don't need to aggravate it. Besides, I'm used to lying beneath men."

  She said it deliberately, hoping to shock the gentle monk. But he was no longer a gentle monk, he was a man, and he simply looked at her. "It tends to be a woman's lot in life," she added.

  "Lives can be changed."

  "Are you meaning to save me from my life of sin, Brother Adrian?"

  She must have imagined the flush of color on his high cheekbones. "You're in no need of saving, my lady. I'll lie on the bottom…"

  It was too late, she had already stretched out in the small, coffinlike space he'd arranged. "Keep your weight on your elbows and we'll be fine," she said calmly.