Peter’s plan had been eminently practical. Prince William was a man with many enemies, not the least of which were the powerful Baron Neville of Harcourt and his well-trained men. His only daughter had died at the prince’s hands, and while the king had done his best to help conceal his son’s brutality, in the end William was forced to face the consequences of his behavior. That those consequences were relatively trivial—a journey of repentance, a large tithe at the Shrine of Saint Anne, and then freedom to return to his debauchery—did not sit well with Baron Neville. If Prince William were to reach the remote shrine alive it would require more than an armed guard. It would require strategy, as well. And fortunately the monks at Saint Andrews had among their fold an excellent strategist.
Once they reached their destination they would all be safe enough. Prince William would be shriven of his sins, and no one, not even a vengeful father, would be fool enough to murder a man in a state of grace, thus ensuring his swift ascent into heaven.
No, Neville would wait until William sinned again, knowing the wait would not be long. But by then the prince would no longer be the responsibility of the monks of Saint Andrews, and if he met his bloody fate it would be no more than he deserved.
Brother Peter would admonish him for his lack of charity, Adrian thought, insisting that even the most unregenerate of sinners could be saved. Even if in his heart he knew that William had been lost to the Devil long ago, and no amount of penitence and prayer could bring him back.
Adrian looked ahead to the tall, straight back of the man leading the caravan. Brother Peter had the woman up in front of him, an arrangement that would fail to concern the others. But Adrian knew him better than anyone, and he knew what a struggle would be warring in Brother Peter’s heart.
He glanced back at the other monks, riding closely together except for Brother Matthew. He played his part well, Adrian thought critically. Anyone would be fooled by those chaste, downcast eyes and his sweet smile. Doubtless that was how he’d managed to get away with his wickedness for so long. All he’d need do was turn to his father, the king of England, and smile that dulcet smile, and all would be forgiven.
But not this time. And the only way to ensure that he stayed alive long enough to atone for his many crimes was to have him travel incognito, in the garb of a simple monk, surrounded by brothers of the strictest order in all of England.
And up front, tall and strong and commanding, rode Brother Peter, a moving target for any assassin out to end the prince’s life.
It had been Brother Peter’s plan, and the abbot had agreed with its practicality, even if he loathed the necessity. Before joining the order Brother Peter had been a knight, a trained fighter, a soldier of the Holy Crusade. He was taller than most, stronger than most. In a righteous battle there would be few who could best him.
With Brother Peter leading the caravan, the devious, charming bastard prince of England would live to sin another day. Perhaps kill another innocent. The knowledge of which would weigh heavy on Brother Peter’s soul.
But that innocent wouldn’t be Baron Osbert’s long-limbed daughter. Peter was making certain she was kept safe, as he’d pledged to protect all innocents. And it wouldn’t concern Adrian at all, if he hadn’t seen the look in Brother Peter’s eyes as they rested on the tall, skinny young woman.
They said red hair was the sign of the Devil, but Adrian didn’t believe in such nonsense. But looking at Elizabeth, he couldn’t help but wonder how such a plain girl could entice a determined ascetic like Brother Peter when he’d shown no interest in far greater beauties who’d thrown themselves in his way.
Or perhaps it was simply that Brother Peter was and always had been a mystery.
Either way, he’d never betray his vows. For all the ways his eyes lingered on Lady Elizabeth when she wasn’t looking, nothing would come of it. She would be delivered up to her convent, a bride of Christ. Prince William would be shriven, throw off his monk’s robes and return to his life of sin. And Peter, Adrian and the others would return to Saint Andrews, away from the temptations of the great wide world.
They were but a few miles from the household of Thomas of Wakebryght, one day closer to the holy shrine of Saint Anne. God willing, they’d reach journey’s end without disaster.
He could see nothing of Lady Elizabeth but the occasional flutter of her drab clothes or the occasional strand of devil-red hair. All would be well, he told himself.
But he was beginning to have a very bad feeling about this.
Elizabeth slept. She wouldn’t have thought it humanly possible—the gait of the horse beneath her was smooth enough, but bouncing around the countryside was hardly conducive to slumber. And the solid body behind her, the warmth of his breath stirring her hair, the feel of his legs beneath hers, the rise and fall of his chest, his arms around her, holding her captive…
She couldn’t bear to think of it. No man had touched her in three years, and that man had disillusioned her forever. The man holding her on this huge horse was far more dangerous. Lethal, in fact.
And still, she slept. When she woke it was growing dark, and every bone in her body was stiff and aching. She jerked awake as she realized where she was, and the horse beneath her startled, increasing her uneasiness.
The horse was brought under instant control with a brief murmur, and she remembered who held her. The dark prince, the Devil incarnate, with the mouth of a fallen angel.
“Be still,” he said, and she stopped squirming, more afraid of the fall from such a huge horse than the man behind her. Perhaps.
“Where are we?” She sounded breathless. Absurd, when she’d been sound asleep.
“ Where are we, my lord William?’” the man behind her corrected her in a lazy voice.
“My lord William,” she amended, silently adding, my scum-sucking, hell-spawn lord William.
“At our destination for the night. From now on we’ll be sleeping in the forest, but tonight you’ll be assured of a warm bed to ease your weariness.”
“Who says I’m weary? My lord,” she added hastily when she heard the sharpness in her own voice. The prince was not known for his tolerance, and he’d killed women before.
“You could barely stand. I’m expecting someone will end up carrying you to your bed.” There was a faint undercurrent of amusement in his voice, one that increased her annoyance.
“Not you!” she said before she thought better of it.
She almost thought he laughed, but she couldn’t twist in the saddle to see his face, and in the growing darkness it would most certainly reveal nothing.
“No, not me. I have servants who take care of menial details, such as carting argumentative women around.”
She stiffened. “Then why am I riding in front of you? Wouldn’t I be better off riding with a servant?”
“You’re no tiny flower, Lady Elizabeth. My horse is the only one capable of holding you and another man. Besides, I am inclined to be generous toward all. Part of my penance.”
She controlled her instinctive snort of derision, more afraid of startling the horse than annoying the rider. The man behind her was an enigma—she had no doubt he was a dangerous man, capable of violence. She had no doubt he was possessed of strong carnal appetites, strong
