Charming the Prince (11 page)

As she passed beneath the gatehouse arch and started down the drawbridge, he had to grit his teeth to keep from shouting out a word of warning. Sending her out to confront his children without armor or weapon was a bit like tossing a kitten to a pack of snarling dogs.

 
Better a pack of snarling dogs than a ravenous wolf, he reminded himself in an attempt to soothe his conscience.

 
He already regretted breaching her bedchamber that morn, but he had feared she might grow suspicious if he didn't make an occasional appearance outside the tower. Not even the presence of her impertinent little maidservant and a glowering Fiona had stopped him from wanting to tumble her into that rumpled, rose-strewn bed, though.

 
Biting back a groan, Bannor slammed the shutter, imprisoning himself in the murky gloom. His tower was becoming as much of a cell as that dungeon in Calais. He had no choice but to forfeit his freedom until Willow demanded hers. He no longer dared to spend the endless hours between midnight and dawn prowling the shadowy maze of the castle. Not with Willow nestled in that lavish four-poster, her cloud of curls spilling across the pillows, her skin ripe with the sweet musk of night-blooming jasmine. 'Twas too great a temptation for even a monk to bear.

 
And contrary to the way he was living at the moment, he was certainly no monk. His first seven children had been conceived and born in that very bed. He had sired Desmond on his wedding night at the tender age of nineteen. 'Twas the only night he and Mary were to share before Bannor was summoned to rejoin Edward's forces in France. He'd returned ten months later to find his beaming young bride standing in the courtyard, holding a freckled elf of a babe in her arms. Both proud and bewildered, Bannor had barely had time to count his son's fingers and toes before Mary had handed the tiny fellow to Fiona, taken him by the hand, and led him up the stairs to that same bed. He had ridden out the very next morning, leaving Desmond in his cradle and Ennis safely tucked in Mary's womb.

 
Bannor sank into a chair, flinging one of his long legs over its arm. Once he might have welcomed the end of the war. Welcomed the chance to be a real husband to a woman like Willow. But all of that had changed five years ago when the sins of the father had finally been visited upon the son.

 
Bannor straightened, that bittersweet memory strengthening his resolve. As long as Willow stayed at Elsinore, he was determined to stay away from her.

******

 
As Willow strode across the meadow, her face tilted skyward to drink in the sun's warmth and a genial breeze teasing her hair, she felt the stirrings of an emotion she hadn't felt in a very long time—hope.

 
It had naught to do with Bannor's amused indifference toward her beautiful stepsister, she told herself sternly. 'Twas simply the blessing of a fickle autumn day that had chosen to flirt with the pleasures of summer rather than surrender to the icy embrace of winter. Her strides grew longer as she kicked her way through the rustling grasses, and before she knew it, she had lifted her skirts high and broken into a run. She'd never been allowed to run at Bedlington unless she was chasing a child or rushing to do her stepmother's bidding. The pure, sweet freedom of the motion made her heart sing with delight.

 
Until she went tearing over a hill and ten scowling little faces swiveled around to glare at her, reminding her that her freedom was only an illusion.

 
Willow stumbled to a halt. Bannor's children were scattered across a shallow dip in the land—some sitting with their chubby legs crossed, others lying on their stomachs with their chins propped on the heels of their hands. A woven basket perched in their midst, spilling tarts, walnuts, dates, and apples across the carpet of fallen leaves. The children didn't seem to be suffering for her neglect. They appeared to be plump and well fed, and she doubted the dirt embedded in the creases of their rosy skin could have been removed in a single scrubbing, no matter how vigorous.

 
"What have we here?" she exclaimed, struggling to inject a note of false cheer into her voice. "It looks suspiciously like a band of pixies to me."

 
Her teasing failed to brighten their dour expressions or break their stony silence. They continued to eye her as if she were a small green worm that had wiggled its way out of one of the apples. The hardest face belonged to the freckled boy who reclined in the crook of a gnarled old oak. A crow with one splinted wing perched on his shoulder, and a huge yellow tomcat with a torn ear and one malevolent gold eye was draped across his lap.

 
"You, sir, must be their king," Willow ventured, bobbing an exaggerated curtsy. "One must always curtsy in the presence of royalty, you know."

 
The boy and the cat eyed her with identical contempt, the cat's tail twitching lazily. The crow cocked his sleek head, his beady gaze making Willow feel as if she were a particularly enticing scrap of carrion.

She lowered her voice to a whisper just loud enough for the other children to hear. "If I fail to show you proper respect, you might decide to have me carted off to the dungeon, or shout 'Off with her head!'"

 
A wicked sparkle lit the boy's green eyes, revealing that he would have liked nothing more. But his lips remained locked in a mutinous line.

 
Sighing, Willow turned to the blue-eyed, golden-haired moppet sitting cross-legged on the ground beneath the tree. "If that handsome lad is the king of this band of pixies, then you must be the fairy princess. But where are your wings?" She peered over the little girl's shoulder, frowning in mock dismay. "Did you leave them under your bed?"

 
The child cupped a hand over her mouth, but not before a merry giggle could escape.

"Mary Margaret!" spat the boy in the tree.

 
Shamed by her brother's rebuke, Mary Margaret ducked her head and muttered, "Sorry, Desmond."

 
" 'Twould appear the king is a tyrant," Willow murmured as Desmond dislodged both cat and crow and slid off the branch, landing lightly on the balls of his feet.

 
She could tell he regretted the maneuver almost immediately, for he was forced to tip back his head an inch to look her in the eye. But his chagrin didn't stop him from drawing nearer, his swagger an unconscious imitation of his father's.

 
"His Highness is displeased." Willow folded her arms over her chest, mirroring his posture. "Perhaps he'll be gracious enough to tell me what I've done to offend him?"

 
"You married our father," the boy said flatly, squaring his narrow shoulders. "We haven't had a mama for a very long time and we don't need one now. I take care of my brothers and sisters. We don't need no
mother"
— he spat the word as if it were a profanity—"mucking about in our doings."

"Aye!"

"'Tis the truth!"

"Don't need no mama!"

 
The other children chimed in, coming to their feet to support their brother. A solid little boy of about nine, with dull reddish hair and bashful brown eyes, was the last to rise.

 
Willow refused to be daunted by their show of unity. "Your father believes you do."

 
Desmond snorted. "How the hell is he to know what we need? He can't even remember our names. He'd rather be somewhere in France lopping off heads and licking the king's boots than spend so much as an afternoon in our company."

 
Willow was less disturbed by the boy's insolence than by the nearly imperceptible quiver of his chin. "You shouldn't speak of your father so," she said gently. "If he didn't care for you, he never would have married me." The confession stung, but she made it anyway, hoping it would soothe the boy's wounded pride.

 
A nasty smile curved Desmond's lips. "We heard he bought you, just like his men-at-arms plunk down their coins for a roll in the feathers with old Netta down in the village."

 
His boldness earned snickers from all of his siblings, except for the lad with the bashful eyes.

 
Willow could feel her own smile begin to fray at the edges, but she struggled to curb her temper. "My papa couldn't afford a dowry, so your father paid a bride-price for me. Tis an honorable custom, if a somewhat ancient one."

 
Desmond shrugged lazily. "Why would he be willing to pay for something he can get for free any time he wants it?" He jerked his head toward three of the smallest children. "Meg and the twins there are proof that there's not a woman in the village who wouldn't welcome my father into her bed."

 
'Twas no great boon to Willow's pride to discover that Bannor apparently found every woman he encountered irresistible. Every woman but the one he had wed. As her smile faded, the children huddled closer together, as if fearing she might fly at them in a rage.

 
Instead, she leaned forward until her nose nearly touched the freckled tip of Desmond's and said softly, "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps you don't need a mother as much as you need to be taught some manners."

 
Whirling around, she gathered her skirts and began to march back up the hill.

She'd nearly reached its crest when Desmond's voice rang out, freezing her in her tracks. "Whatever he paid for you, 'twas more than you're worth."

 
Willow might have challenged the taunt if, somewhere deep in her heart, she didn't believe he just might be right. There was nothing left for her to do but keep walking, head held high, until she could no longer hear the mocking echo of Desmond's laughter.

******

 
When Willow trudged into her bedchamber late that evening, she found Beatrix buried up to her pert nose in a tub of myrrh-scented water.

 
Her stepsister's mouth was already moving when it emerged. "Oh, Willow, thank heavens it's you! For a moment I thought you were that vicious little leprechaun come back to torture me. Can you believe she made me draw my own bath? She would have begrudged me the water itself if I hadn't lied and told her the bath was for you."

 
"You poor dear. It grieves me that you should suffer so," Willow said dryly, remembering all the times Beatrix had ordered her to lug bucket after bucket of freshly boiled water up the long, winding stairs at Bedlington.

 
She crossed to the cupboard, perfectly willing to forgo her bath until morning. She longed only to crawl into bed, draw the pelts up over her head, and pretend she had never crawled out of it that morning.

 
"Just look at my fingernails!!" Beatrix demanded, extending the claws in question over the rim of the cloth-lined tub. "They've been shredded like so much cabbage. Of course, that's partly your fault for insisting that evil troll make me scrub out the privy. She all but cackled with glee every time she heard one of them snap." Beatrix's lips pursed in a reproachful pout. "You needn't have been so petty, you know. If I was going to play the role of your maidservant, I thought it only fitting that I swear my fealty to your lord."

 
'The way you threw yourself at his feet, I would have sworn 'twas the role of his paramour you were seeking," Willow retorted, drawing a clean chemise from the cupboard.

 
Beatrix breathed a besotted sigh. "I'd be content to spend only a few glorious moments in the company of a man like that."

 
Willow jerked her kirtle over her head. " 'Twould be more than I've enjoyed. Lord Bannor spent the day locked in his chambers with Sir Hollis, while I strolled alone in the garden, prayed alone in the chapel, and supped alone in the great hall."

 
Even more disconcerting had been the peculiar sensation that she'd never truly been alone. Although she hadn't caught so much as a fleeting glimpse of Bannor's children since their disastrous meeting in the meadow, she had whirled around more than once during that interminable day, convinced she saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye or heard the ghostly echo of a giggle. 'Twas like being hunted through an enchanted castle by a band of invisible sprites.

While Willow drew the fresh chemise over her head, Beatrix stood without a hint of shyness, streaming water from her skin like some pagan goddess rising from the sea. Unable to bear the sight of all that rosy perfection, Willow jerked a linen towel out of the cupboard and tossed it over her stepsister's head.

 
Beatrix used it to blot her waterfall of flaxen hair. "I can assure you that supping alone in the great hall is better than having to choke down a cold bowl of broth and a stale oatcake while standing up in the kitchens. Although I must confess 'tis the best place to glean all the latest gossip." Wrapping the towel around her and stepping out of the tub, she slanted Willow a coy look. "Is what they say about Lord Bannor true? Has he really sired a dozen babes?"

 
Willow frowned, tallying children on her hands until she ran out of fingers and had to begin again. "I suppose so."

 
"Want to hear something truly delicious?" Beatrix asked. "Some of Lord Bannor's children are baseborn. It seems that shortly after Lady Margaret died, babies began to arrive at the castle gate in baskets. They're believed to be the result of Lord Bannor's dalliances with several of the village maids. He's taken in five of them so far."