unlikely to even realize you’re here. His wife’s confinement has been quite difficult, and she’s yet to be brought to bed with a living child. I imagine he’ll be too busy worrying, celebrating or mourning to pay any attention to you.”
“God willing,” she muttered.
“Then again, if he’s mourning this might be your chance. If his lady wife isn’t up to the task of delivering an heir, perhaps she’ll die in childbed and you can take her place. A happy ending for all.”
She looked up at him, but it was full dark by now and she could only see his silhouette against the night sky. “That’s a foul thought,” she said fiercely. “I would never wish misfortune to fall on an innocent.”
He said nothing, urging the horse forward into the brightly lit courtyard.
He was right—Thomas of Wakebryght was nowhere in sight. His mother, a sour-tempered shrew with an unlikely smile of welcome on her face, and Thomas’s uncle Owen were the only ones welcoming them. There was no way they could miss seeing her, trapped as she was in Prince William’s arms, but their eyes slid over her politely to settle on their exalted guest.
“You honor our household with your return, Prince William,” Lady Isobel said in her cool voice. “We had no idea we were to enjoy the pleasure of your company so soon. I regret that my son isn’t here to greet you. His wife is still suffering greatly. I’ve sent word, however, and he should join us for dinner.”
“There’s no need. Expectant fathers are extremely tedious.” The prince slid off the horse with surprising grace, then reached up for her. For a moment Elizabeth hesitated. If she grabbed the reins and drove her knees into the horse’s flank, he’d take off, carrying her away from this wretched place and the wretched man who’d held her and taunted her.
But that would require turning the horse, who’d doubtless be in a panic, or else she’d simply ride deeper into the courtyard, and nothing would be accomplished…
She didn’t have time to finish the thought. The prince put his strong hands on her waist and lifted her down, wresting her away from her grip on the saddle, her skirts flying up in an immodest fashion before he set her on the ground. He didn’t release her—a good thing, since she still wasn’t sure she could stand.
“You are already acquainted with Lady Elizabeth of Bredon, are you not?” he said smoothly.
Lady Isobel looked as if she’d seen a snake. “Of course,” she murmured. “Welcome to Wakebryght.” Her eyes went straight back to the prince. “I’m afraid we won’t be very festive—I expect by the time you leave we’ll be a house in mourning. Lady Margery is not expected to last the night.”
“And the child?” Elizabeth asked.
Not a snake, a garden slug. “The child will die with her,” she said. “There is nothing to be done.”
Lady Margery and her unborn child would die, and Elizabeth would be there, to comfort Thomas, to aid an unwilling Lady Isobel, to perhaps change her life to what it should have been. All she had to do was remain silent.
She could feel the prince watching her, and she had the uneasy feeling that he knew everything that went through her mind. She lifted her head, looking down into Lady Isobel’s hard, dark eyes.
“I have a gift for childbirth,” she said flatly. “I’ve helped the women of Bredon through many a hard labor. Take me to Lady Margery and I will see if I can be of any assistance to her.”
It wasn’t a request, but Lady Isobel looked as if she were about to refuse. Until the prince spoke.
“Take her to the poor lady,” he said. “I grow weary of arguing in a stableyard.” And he gave Elizabeth an obnoxious little shove.
Peter watched Lady Elizabeth disappear into the depths of Wakebryght Castle, her slender shoulders squared beneath the veil of bright hair that cascaded down her back. He recognized that cool posture—it was the gait of someone marching into a battle they weren’t convinced they wanted to win, but knew they had no choice but to try.
He knew, because he’d been in that very position too many times. Trapped in the midst of bloody battles for a land already awash in human suffering, and he was never sure for what. The desert was scorching and inhospitable, the wealth that had accumulated there of little value when measured against the lives of innocents.
A Holy Land, to be sure, but a Holy Land to all faiths. And he was no longer certain that his own God wished him to kill and plunder in order to wrest it from other poor souls who happened to follow a different God who, in the end, was not so unlike his own.
She would fight for Lady Margery and her unborn child, just as he’d fought for the Holy Lands. And she wouldn’t find her sword red with the blood of those who didn’t deserve to die.
The real prince was watching him with that faint, knowing smile on his pretty mouth, as if he could read Peter’s thoughts. He was a dangerous man who’d been free to roam and ravage for far too long. For as long as he’d known him, William Fitzroy had been a vicious, dangerous man. The Crusades had suited him well—slaughter was his great pleasure—and life back in England must have paled without infidels to butcher. He’d had to turn to English innocents. It was simple enough to see how he’d managed to get away with it for so long. His enchanting smile tended to make women forget the brutalities he was capable of, and his knowledge of human nature made him far too wise when it came to getting what he wanted. William would know what plagued him. And knowing, William would use it as a weapon.
Which meant that Peter needed to redouble his efforts to keep Elizabeth away from him. To his knowledge William had never touched any but the most comely of women, but he wasn’t fool enough to think that made Elizabeth of Bredon safe. She might not be a fragile beauty, but her very strength would be an affront to someone like William.
Adrian was watching him, a troubled expression on his face. In his own way he was just as knowing as Prince William—he could sense Peter’s unexpected weakness.
It made little difference in the end. Peter had no choice but to protect Elizabeth, and if being near her brought up unexpected, long-dormant desires, then it was nothing more than fit punishment for his sins. The more he wanted her, the more painful her presence was, and he was a man who embraced pain as a means to salvation. He would welcome the torment of Lady Elizabeth’s clever tongue, knowing he would never taste it.
In the end it wouldn’t matter. In the end Brother Peter suspected he would pay the ultimate price, and it was up to his God to judge him. The sin he contemplated was far greater than the sin he was avoiding.
He was afraid he was going to have to kill Prince William. Cut his throat and let him drown in his own blood, rather than let him live to murder another innocent. There were too many women and children weighing on Peter’s soul. If he had to give his up in order to save even one, then he would do it. If he must.
He would give him time to truly repent. There was always the chance that Prince William would attain a state of grace, though he doubted it would last long. Peter had killed before, so many times he’d lost count of the corpses that had lay at his feet. He’d killed innocents and villains, women and men, aging crones and young children. In war, death was impartial.
He would break his vow and kill the man he’d been charged with protecting, kill when he’d prayed never to kill again. He would do what he must to keep one more innocent from
