discussing her total lack of feminine attributes. Not even when her only chance at married life was destroyed before it even began, when the man she’d been betrothed to chose another. When she looked in a mirror, even in the wavering reflection she could see herself well enough. Red hair—a sign of the Devil. Pale skin that freckled and burned in the bright sun. Way too tall—she towered over most men. Way too skinny—her hips were narrow, not made for childbirth, so what good would she be to anyone? She had breasts, but their relative abundance was more of an inconvenience than a boon. They had no use but to get in her way and occasionally excite the attention of some idiot male. At least in the convent no one would notice.
She never cried, and she prided herself on her strength and resilience, but by the time the sun was high overhead she was ready to sob with pain and frustration.
In seventeen years she’d never traveled more than half a day away from the castle, and then only once, to her aborted wedding. Her mother had no family left to visit, and Baron Osbert certainly never sought out her company on his occasional journeys. But now she’d been in the saddle longer than she’d ever been in her entire life, and her body screamed at each step the horse took.
“My lady?” The soft voice penetrated her self-pity, and she lifted her head to look into Brother Matthew’s pale blue eyes. “Are you ill?”
She cast a nervous glance ahead, but Prince William was well in front of the caravan, almost out of sight. She gave the gentle monk a brief smile. “Just travel-weary,” she said with at least a modicum of honesty. In fact, she was so wretched she could scream from it, but it would do her little good. “You’re very kind to worry,” she added. “I’ll be fine once we stop to rest.”
Such a shame to have such a pretty face lost to a monastery, she thought absently when he smiled back at her. A few more sweet men like him in the real world would certainly improve the quality of life. Instead, most husbands were bullying brutes, and the thoughtful men were devoted to celibacy. As was she, she reminded herself swiftly.
“I’m not sure the prince has any intention of stopping before nightfall,” Brother Matthew said in a wry voice.
Elizabeth couldn’t help her tiny moan of despair.
“I can see to it that he does,” Brother Matthew said, eyeing her with great sympathy. “Just a word in his ear and I’m certain he’d stop. After all, he could hardly expect a frail woman to keep up this kind of pace.”
“I’m not a frail woman,” she said between clenched teeth. There was a time in her life when she would have given anything to be a frail, helpless flower of femininity. God had ordained otherwise, and she had no choice but to take pride in her strength and endurance. Even if it seemed to have abandoned her when she most needed it. “I’ll be fine. I’m just not used to riding such long distances.”
“The journey’s only just begun. There’s no need for him to set such a pace.”
“Perhaps he wants his penance over and done with,” she suggested, shifting around to try to get more comfortable. Her horse took her restlessness with comparative good grace. Melange would have made life pure hell.
“I would imagine he does,” Brother Matthew said. “Celibacy sits very hard on a man like Prince William. Be careful of him, my lady. It worries me that your father couldn’t even spare a kitchen maid to bear you company. As the only woman in this group of men it makes you very vulnerable.”
“I think they’ll manage to restrain themselves,” she said, tossing an escaping strand of red hair over her shoulder.
“I think you trust too easily. You must promise to come to me if you ever feel you’re in danger. I will do what I can to protect you.”
She looked into his pale, troubled eyes and melted. Why weren’t there men around like him? Peaceful, kind, handsome men with light, soft voices that soothed rather than disturbed? Why waste such a paragon on a monastery?
Blasphemy, of course, but at least she’d been wise enough not to speak it out loud. Who more deserving than the mother church? It wasn’t as if she herself weren’t taking the only chance she had. It was an honor to serve God.
Brother Matthew leaned over and put his hand on hers. Soft, beautiful hands, with a heavy gold signet ring on one finger. “Promise you’ll come to me,” he said urgently.
His hands were cold. Surprising, because the sun was bright overhead. Her own blood tended to run hot—a convenience in a drafty, ill-heated castle, but she knew she was unusual. It only made sense that a holy brother would have cool skin. Maybe the heat that plagued her blood would still and cool once she joined the holy sisters.
He had taken her hand and held it, forcing their horses close together as they rode forward. Brother Matthew’s mount was a great deal more high strung, and Elizabeth could feel her own horse’s distress at his closeness. An anxiety that mirrored her own, though she wasn’t quite certain why. She could think of no way to pull her hand away from the well-meaning friar, and she squirmed in her seat again.
“Brother Matthew!” The youngest monk had ridden up to them, his voice urgent.
Brother Matthew released her hand, slowly, reluctantly, and turned to face the young man with almost insolent leisure. “Yes, Brother Adrian?”
“Prince William wishes to converse with you.”
“We’ll have more than enough time to talk when we stop,” he said, still keeping pace with Elizabeth. “We can discuss atonement and sin at length over dinner.”
“He says now, Brother Matthew.”
Brother Matthew’s smile was exquisitely charming. “The prince will have to accept the fact that he is on a journey of atonement, not of pleasure, and his desires no longer come first. I will join him later.”
Brother Adrian wheeled away, clearly annoyed, and Brother Matthew laughed softly.
“Was that a wise idea?” Elizabeth asked. Just because she was unreasonably enchanted by his sweet smile didn’t mean she’d lost her good sense. “Prince William doesn’t seem the sort of man it is wise to defy, no matter how penitent he’s supposed to be. Isn’t that how he came to be on a pilgrimage in the first place?”
“Indeed. And part of his atonement should be to hear and accept the word no each day.”
“Are you in charge of his penance?” she asked, curious.
“That surprises you? It does me as well—a prince of the land should have his soul under the guidance of an archbishop at the very least, not a simple friar from a small monastery.” There was an unexpected tone of resentment in his voice.
“You must feel very honored.”
Brother Matthew’s opaque blue eyes swept over her, and his smile was angelic. “An honor I could well do without,” he said, reaching for her hand again.
She was a better horsewoman than anyone suspected, and it was a simple matter to make her horse skitter away as if she were poorly controlled by a clumsy novice. Out of reach of his cold, gentle hands and his melting smile.
And then she realized the others had stopped, and all those around her were dismounting. The wretched prince had decided he was human after all and in need of a rest.
There
