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“You’re to become a holy sister, Lady Elizabeth?” Prince William asked in a slow, drawling voice. “Are you certain that’s your destiny?”
She looked up at that, startled. Merciful Saint Anne, he had the most wicked eyes she’d ever seen. All the bloody saints of Christendom! She didn’t want those dark, unsettling eyes on her. You could almost drown in them. If you were a susceptible female, which she certainly was not.
“Accompany me to my room, Lady Elizabeth,” he said suddenly, not waiting for her reply.
“I’d be happy to find you a comely serving wench—” she began.
“Come, my lady,” he said, his voice brooking no opposition.
The torches cast a flickering light over the darkened hallway outside his rooms. There was no one to rescue her, nothing but her own wit to set her free from the murderous prince. Maybe she’d become another of the dark prince’s victims, making her way straight to sainthood, skipping the convent altogether.
His grin was slow, wicked, dangerous. He put his hands on her bare shoulders and started to draw her closer. “If I weren’t atoning for my sins I’d be sorely tempted to drag you into my chamber and commit a great many more.” She couldn’t move, so she simply closed her eyes as he brought her closer, and his lips settled on her…forehead. Then he let her go, turned and disappeared into his room.
Not even good enough for a desperate lecher, she thought, the feel of his mouth on her forehead, taunting her.
Anne Stuart
Hidden Honor
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
1
Elizabeth of Bredon strode through the great hall of her father’s castle, keeping her pace determined and her chin high. Her heavy skirts flapped around her long legs, her unfortunate red hair was already escaping from the thin gold circlet that kept it in place, and her mood was far from hospitable. Prince William’s men were even more disgusting than the usual members of his benighted sex, and she’d already had to rescue two serving wenches and a scullery boy from their determined lechery. And she hadn’t yet come face-to-face with the notorious princeling himself. Probably off despoiling her father’s dairymaids. Or perhaps the cows themselves.
One more night, Elizabeth reminded herself, and then the safety of the household would no longer be her responsibility. The journey to the Shrine of Saint Anne was a mercifully brief one—no more than two nights on the road—and then she’d be free of men and their ignominious appetites for the rest of her life.
Well, perhaps not, she reminded herself, glancing at the huddled group of monks in the corner. The holy brothers didn’t appear to be much better than Prince William’s roistering knights, though so far they’d stayed away from the serving women and the livestock. There were six of them, ranging in age from a youth too young to shave to an ancient who moved with such slowness and pain that Elizabeth itched to try one of her herbal remedies on him. It had helped the complaints of Gertrude, the elderly laundress, and she had little doubt that it would ease the old monk. Little doubt he’d refuse to take anything from her hands, as well. In her experience men were unlikely to listen to her.
The remaining monks were in no way remarkable. Two of them were pale, soft, and ordinary enough. One seemed young and strong, clearly new to his vocation and the limits imposed by it. Only the sixth seemed the epitome of quiet, chaste brotherhood, from his demure, downcast blue eyes, his glossy blond curls and his soft, almost feminine mouth. He’d smiled at her earlier, the sweetest smile imaginable, and if there’d been men like him around, men not promised to other women or the church, then she might have reconsidered her long thought-out plans.
Ah, but that would have been a mistake. No matter how gentle, how pretty a smile or how soft a glance, once men became husbands, women became chattel. It was the way of the world and always had been, and Elizabeth was too wise to waste her energy railing against preordained fate. She merely intended to avoid it. She had no intention of devoting herself to a brief life of producing babies and dying from the effort as her mother had. She wanted solitude, strength and power, and a convent could provide just that for a woman unsuited to married life.
Still, Brother Matthew had a very pretty smile, one that almost made her rethink her decision. She had no use for men, but children were a different matter. And children with Brother Matthew’s sweet expression would be wonderful indeed.
“Daughter!” Baron Osbert bellowed from across the hall, and Elizabeth slowed her pace out of habit. The herbal concoction she’d discovered and slipped into her father’s wine may have dampened his carnal appetites, but it did little for his choleric disposition. Her only defense was to take her time, which helped convince her father of the imbecility of females in general and his only daughter in particular.
She stepped over a snoring body, skirted a flea-ridden dog and made her way across the hall, scuffing the rushes with her feet as she went. Her feet were too big—so everyone had always told her—but they went with her overtall body, and were very useful for kicking, as her five younger brothers and their assorted friends had quickly discovered.
Her father was sitting at the table, but not in his accustomed place of honor. He was off to one side, and not looking any too pleased about it. “You overgrown half-wit,” he said with paternal pride. “Where have you been?”
“Seeing to the comfort of your honored guests, Father,” she said in the patient voice she reserved for her sire. At this point in her life he was the only one who dared hit her, and she had no fond memories of his meaty hands. She stayed out of his way as best she could, and when forced to converse with him she kept the simple mien of a witless woman. It was what he
