Hidden Honor

Leaving the prison of her father’s house had lured her into thinking she had more freedom than in fact she truly had. She would be much better off reassuming the mantle of a faintly witless woman.

“Yes, my lord,” she said in the slightly breathless voice she used with her father. “And you’ll be truly shriven, by our Lady, and go on to live a life of peace and justice.”

He was the one who snorted with laughter. “You think so?”

“But how else could it be, my lord? My father has told me so, and a good daughter knows the wisdom of her parents.”

She wasn’t expecting him to put his hands on her. He transferred the reins to one hand and took her chin in the other, turning her face up to his. It was too dark to see him, too dark for him to see the banked anger in her dulcet gaze. “And you’re such a good daughter, Lady Elizabeth, are you not?” he said lightly. “A fine housekeeper, a dutiful child, with a gift for herbs and healing. You’ll fit well into a convent, serving our Lady and keeping a still tongue in your head.”

“A still tongue in my head?” she echoed nervously, still looking up at him.

“You’re aware that Saint Anne’s is a silent order? Devoted to meditation? Most days you won’t be allowed to speak a word that isn’t in Latin. You’d best get all your arguments out ahead of time.”

She turned her head away from him, and he dropped his hand. In truth, the feel of his long fingers on her stubborn jaw had been almost as unnerving as the information he’d imparted. An order of silence? Where her only conversation would be the words of holy orders? She’d go mad.

And trust Baron Osbert not to have apprised her of that fact. If he had even a particle of wit she’d suspect he’d done it on purpose, but her father hadn’t the brains for such treachery. Besides, she kept her conversation to a minimum in his presence—he wouldn’t think silence would be a particular burden. He tended to think all tongues should be stilled except his own.

It would have served him right if she’d poisoned him before she left. A miscalculation in his calming draft could do wonders.

She wouldn’t have done it, of course. No matter how great the temptation, her gift with herbs and remedies was only to be used for good, not evil. Tampering with her father’s carnal desires had saved the servant women, though unlikely as it was, some didn’t appear to want to be saved. Tampering with his life would be unforgivable, and no journey of penance would wipe the stain from her soul.

She would deal with life as it happened. She had every intention of becoming abbess of the small order in record time—with her wit, learning and fierce determination she had little doubt she could do almost anything she wanted. She would find a way to relax the strict rules of the order. Or start talking to herself in her cell.

“I have no arguments, my lord William,” she murmured in her best, placate-her-father voice.

He muttered something under his breath, and she almost thought he said “like hell,” but she must have misheard. The wind had picked up, the warm spring day was growing cooler, and the ramparts of the small castle loomed ahead, looking ominously familiar.

It couldn’t be. Thomas of Wakebryght’s home was in the opposite direction of Saint Anne’s Shrine. They would have had to spend the day traveling away from their destination in order to reach it, a detour that would make no sense.

No, many castles looked the same, built as they were to keep marauders at bay. And the shadows were growing long, making things hard to see. She’d only been at Wakebryght once in her life, on her betrothal day. The day her humiliation had been complete, and she’d sworn she’d never return.

“You might know this place,” the prince continued, unmindful of the thoughts racing through her brain. “It belongs to a neighbor of your father’s. Wakebryght Castle.”

“No!” She couldn’t help it, the word came out sharp and definite.

The man behind her seemed unfazed. “No?” he echoed. “I assure you, it’s most definitely yes.”

“Wakebryght Castle lies in the opposite direction of Saint Anne’s Shrine.”

“So it does. A little subterfuge for those watching who might wish to cause harm to the king’s beloved son.” There was a strange note in his voice. “No one will suspect us of doubling back. There’s no need to fuss, Lady Elizabeth. One day more or less won’t make a difference when the whole of your life stretches ahead of you, devoted to God and good works. And silence.”

“I won’t go.”

He seemed unfazed by her flat refusal. “I did rather doubt your vocation, but it’s not for me to question a father’s judgment. I suspect you’ll cause the good abbess of Saint Anne more trouble than you’re worth.”

“I mean I won’t go to Wakebryght,” she said flatly. “I’d rather die.”

“My dear Lady Elizabeth, neither choice is yours. We’re already here.”

They were at the front gate, and she could see the welcoming committee awaiting them. Including Thomas of Wakebryght’s harridan of a mother, Lady Isobel. Her reaction was instinctive, unwise and immediate. She tried to jump off the horse.

She’d taken the prince unawares, but he was still too quick for her. One moment she’d seen the ground looming up from a great distance, in the next she was pulled back against his hard chest, clamped there by strong arms, so tightly she could barely breathe. “Not wise, my lady,” he murmured in her ear. “Suicide is a mortal sin. Not to mention an overreaction. If you dislike your host so much you needn’t worry. His wife was entering childbirth when we left yesterday—most likely he’ll either be at her side or celebrating his new heir. The man is thoroughly besotted.”

She knew that, far too well. “Please don’t make me go,” she whispered. “I’d rather sleep in the forest. You don’t even need to leave anyone with me to guard me—as you well know I’m not the kind of woman to tempt men into dangerous behavior.”

She didn’t understand his sudden laugh. “You’ll sleep beneath Thomas of Wakebryght’s roof, my lady. And if you give me any more arguments I’ll have you tied to my bed.”

Not a pleasant proposition. Though if it made Thomas think she’d become the treacherous prince’s leman, then he might wonder at his own rejection.

No, he wouldn’t. As children they’d played together, betrothed in the cradle, good friends as they’d tumbled in the grass. But at age fourteen, when she’d been brought to marry him, he’d looked up into her green eyes as she towered over him and simply, flatly refused.

The bride gifts were returned. As was the bride, who traveled back to Bredon Castle in an uncomfortable cart, veiled to hide her shame, while Thomas of Wakebryght married his tiny, buxom, flaxen-haired cousin Margery.

And now she was back. “I’d rather be fed to dragons,” she said under her breath.

“Unfortunately there are none around. What have you got against Thomas of Wakebryght? Did he break your heart?”

She stiffened, saying nothing, but it was answer enough. She’d forgotten how unnaturally observant the dark prince was. “Ah,” he said. “Well, you needn’t worry about it. He’s 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.