Charming the Prince (28 page)

Desmond looked taller—older somehow—as if the mantle of the man he would become rested on his shoulders along with his father's arm. With his green eyes and chestnut coloring, Willow had always assumed he must be the very image of his mother, but for the first time, she saw the indelible stamp of his father in the proud tilt of his head, the stubborn jut of his jaw, the sulky-sweet cant of his grin.

The children sprang to their feet with Beatrix fast on their heels. As they ran to greet their conquering hero, yapping like a pack of eager pups, Willow gathered her skirts and followed. She had a hero of her own to salute.

"Dethmond!" squealed the twins in unison.

Meg threw her chubby little arms around her brother's leg while Mary Margaret captured his free hand, swinging it like the end of a skip-rope. At the last second, Beatrix remembered to hang back.

"We was afraid Papa had kill'ded you," Mary Margaret said.

"He thrashed me," Desmond confessed, beaming up at his father. "Within an inch of my life." Despite the boy's cheerful claim, Willow couldn't find a mark on him.

Bannor struggled to look stern. "And a long overdue thrashing it was."

"Did it hurt?" Hammish asked, his brown eyes huge.

"Dreadfully," Desmond assured him.

 
Beatrix eyed him down the length of her patrician nose. "I'm surprised you didn't squeal like a girl."

"I didn't let out a squeak. Not even one."

Bannor cocked an eyebrow.

Desmond ducked his head. "Well, maybe just one."

 
Ten-year-old Mary surveyed him with newfound respect. "How very brave of you. I'm almost certain I would have cried."

 
"Not me!" Edward claimed, hitching his hips in a clumsy swagger. " 'Cause I'm a man, and men don't cry."

 
Kell gave him a shove. "But you smell bad enough to make my eyes water."

 
Before the fists could start to flail, Bannor stepped between the two boys and flattened a hand on each of their foreheads to hold them apart. "Your brother and I had a very long talk after his thrashing, and we've decided to negotiate some changes in the terms of our treaty."

 
Desmond nodded, glowing with pride to be included in his father's confidence. "That's right. We'll no longer eat honeyed pomegranates and fig pudding for every meal. We'll eat good solid meat and fresh-baked bread."

 
"And vegetables?" Hammish piped up hopefully. "Even the foul-tasting ones?"

 
"Aye," Bannor said. "Three times a day." He pointed a finger at Edward. "And you'll take a bath every sennight, son. Whether you need it or not. And since everyone is exhausted from staying up until midnight the past few nights, we shall remedy that this very afternoon. With a nap."

 
Edward and Kell exchanged a look of sheer horror. "A nap?"

"Now?"

"In the middle of the day?"

Bannor ruffled Kell's sunny hair. "Don't look so glum, son. Just think what a pleasure 'twill be to curl up in a soft, toasty bed while a fire crackles on the hearth and the snow falls outside your window." The sidelong glance he gave Willow promised her that a soft, toasty bed and a crackling fire were only the beginning of the pleasures he had planned for her.

"Make haste, children," she blurted out, spreading her arms wide to herd them toward the castle. "The sooner you fall asleep, the sooner you can wake up and join your father and me in a hearty supper of meat and vegetables."

They'd traveled several steps before she realized that one of her sheep had gone astray.

Mary Margaret had plopped down in the snow and folded her arms over her chest. The little girl stared straight ahead, her bottom lip protruding at a baleful angle. "Won't take no nap. Don't want to do it. Can't make me."

Desmond arched an eyebrow in Bannor's direction. All the children were watching their father to determine if this overt act of rebellion would be tolerated beneath the terms of their new treaty.

Bannor blew out a long-suffering sigh, and gave Willow a look heavy with regret. "If she refuses her nap, I suppose I shall have to forgo mine as well." Rolling his eyes heavenward, he scooped his daughter into his arms, tossed her over his shoulder, and strode back toward the barn.

 
Unlike her brother, Mary Margaret took no pride in suffering in silence. Long after Willow had the other children tucked snugly into their beds, the little girl's outraged shrieks rang through the castle with a fiendish glee that made all who heard them cross themselves and clap their hands over their ears. It wasn't until her shrill howls had ceased that a trembling Father Humphries dared to waddle out to the barn. He eased open the barn door, expecting the worst, only to discover the exhausted little demon napping in her father's arms.

 
Bannor glanced up as the priest crept into the barn. "Shhhh," he whispered, touching a finger to his lips. "I just got her to sleep." He brushed a damp ringlet from his daughter's tear-streaked cheek, the harsh planes of his face softened by tender pride. "Doesn't she put you in mind of an angel?"

 
Father Humphries beamed down at the child, all the while fumbling to tuck his crucifix and flask of holy water back into the sleeve of his robe before her father saw it. "Aye, my lord. An angel indeed."

Twenty Three

Anyone who saw Lord Bannor's children gathered around the high table in the great hall that evening would have sworn Father Humphries had driven demons from the lot of them. Even the knights, who were still grumbling and sulking at being banished from their seats of honor by their master's whelps, had to admit they'd never seen a more angelic band of children.

Bright-eyed from their afternoon naps, freshly scrubbed, and garbed in their finest velvets and damasks, they lacked only wings and halos to be mistaken for the most divine of celestial beings. Beneath the flickering radiance of the torchlight, their hair gleamed and their skin glowed with the dewy vigor common only to those in the first blush of youth. Fiona had even spread a quilt before the hearth, allowing a chortling Peg and a cooing Mags to join the merriment.

The children ignored the platters of sweetmeats and confections passing just beneath their noses, choosing instead to heap their plates with crispy morsels of mutton and plump onions seasoned with saffron. They murmured "please" and "thank you" and "Might I have some more?" with exquisite courtesy, so dumbfounding the squires that they kept crashing into each other and spilling sauces on the linen-draped table.

Reclining in his chair at the center of the table, Ban-nor took a sip of Bordeaux from his silver goblet and shook his head, marveling that the fairies had been so kind as to steal his ill-behaved brood and leave him with these sweet-tempered changelings.

 
In truth, 'twas not the fairies who deserved his gratitude, but a slender sprite named Willow. His gaze strayed to the stairs. Mary Margaret's tantrum had deprived him of more than just an afternoon nap. It had robbed him of the few precious hours he might have spent in his bride's arms. A wicked smile quirked his lips. If he'd have had his way, they'd have done very little napping and ended up more deliriously drowsy than before.

 
All thoughts of exhaustion vanished as Willow appeared on the landing. She wore a gown as soft and blue as the underbelly of a finch. A thin band of beaten gold crowned her brow, leaving her dusky curls free to frame her face.

 
As she approached the table, he smiled and lifted his goblet, paying her the tribute she deserved. "My compliments on a battle well fought." He nodded toward his brood. "You shall henceforth be known as The Lady of the Bath."

 
"I feared I was going to have to request reinforcements from the king," she said, sliding into the chair next to him. "Mary Margaret leaned too close to the brazier and singed one of her ringlets clean off. I had to dunk Edward three times for dunking Kell. And Hammish ate an entire cake of soap."

 
Bannor stole a sidelong glance at his son, only to discover he was still burping up bubbles. "Given his foul tongue, perhaps I should have offered Desmond similar fare a long time ago."

 
"Oh, that won't be necessary. Desmond got his mouth washed out with a soapy rag after Beatrix caught him peering down her dress while she scrubbed the grime from his ears."

 
Bannor sighed. "That doesn't surprise me. After I thrashed him this morning, we had a most enlightening conversation about how he might provoke your little maidservant into sitting on him again. 'Her tongue might be sharp, Papa,' he told me, 'but she is exceedingly soft.'"

 
Willow rolled her eyes. "Lord in heaven, help us. He is his father's son after all. I suppose 'twill only be a matter of time before you'll be raising his brood as well as your own."

 
Bannor snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. He's naught but a lad."

 
Willow fluttered her lashes at him, feigning innocence. "And how old were you, my lord, when a pretty maiden first caught your eye?"

 
Bannor paled, then drained the rest of his wine in a single gulp. "That does it. I'm locking the boy away this very night."

"Will you lock yourself away as well?"

 
He leaned closer, warming the curve of Willow's cheek with his breath. "Only if you possess the key."

 
As Willow lifted her smoky eyes to his, everyone else in the hall seemed to disappear, leaving them all alone in a cloud of musky jasmine.

 
The children shattered that illusion by bursting into enthusiastic applause. A squire bearing a fully dressed peacock had just marched into the hall. The bird's iridescent plumage had been plucked before roasting, then each feather had been painstakingly restored to its original magnificence.

 
Watching his children bounce up and down in excitement, Bannor whispered, "The naps may have been a grave mistake. I fear they will not sleep at all tonight."

"Nor might you, my lord."

 
The saucy look Willow slanted him only made Bannor more determined to devise an escape for them both. He was beginning to feel like some desperate squire, seeking to lure a serving wench into some shadowy corner so he could have his way with her against the nearest wall. It galled him that he could snap his chains and battle his way out of a heavily guarded dungeon, but couldn't seem to evade a dozen bright-eyed children.

 
He was on the verge of throwing Willow over his shoulder, drawing his sword, and threatening to skewer anyone who dared to stand in their way, when, to the children's delight, a troupe of musicians and tumblers who had sought shelter from the snowy night decided to earn their supper. A pair of tumblers somersaulted to and fro across the hall, winning a shower of coins and hoots of appreciation from even the most jaded of Bannor's knights.

 
One of the musicians leapt onto a table and began to beat upon the rawhide skins of his nakers with a pair of sticks while another cranked the handle of a hurdy-gurdy. The merry notes rippling out from the instrument sent a brindle-colored terrier dancing across the hall on its hind legs. Willow laughed aloud as the trained dog plucked a morsel of peacock from her outstretched hand before prancing in a jaunty circle.

 
Bannor studied his bride's profile, as enchanted by her as she was by the tumbler's pup. With her hands clapping in time to the music and her eyes shining with delight, she didn't look much older than Mary Margaret.

 
He could not resist wrapping an arm around her shoulders and giving her a tender squeeze. "The little fellow is quite the charmer, isn't he, princess?"

 
She went utterly still. He glanced down to find her gazing up at him with the most peculiar expression. Her gray eyes had gone all huge and misty. "Bannor, I have something to confess." She bowed her head, wringing her hands in her lap. "I... I..."

 
He leaned closer, struggling to hear her stammered words over, the twins' high-pitched squeals. Before he could make them out, a thunderous banging sounded on the door. Willow started violently.

 
" Tis probably naught but another weary traveler seeking shelter from the storm," Bannor assured her, covering her trembling hands with his own. "Now what is it you would like to confess? Some naughty sin you've committed?" He lowered his voice to a husky whisper. "Or perhaps one I can help you commit, if we can steal away for a few moments."

Bannor's wicked grin faded as a man-at-arms strode into the hall, his face grim. Relinquishing Willow's hands with great reluctance, Bannor rose. He expected the guard to approach him with whatever report he had to deliver, but the man seemed to be taking great care not to even look in his direction. Instead, he wended his way to the hearth and leaned down to whisper something in Fiona's ear.

The old woman frowned, then rose and followed him, leaving Mags and Peg in the care of a grimacing Bea. Bannor felt a chill of foreboding that had nothing to do with the icy draft that had billowed into the hall when the door had flown open.