Charming the Prince

by Teresa Medeiros

  It took him little more than a brief mental calculation, masked by an innocent blink, to plan his campaign. If he wanted to drive his opponent’s queen from the board, he would simply have to send in his army of pawns to stage an attack.

  A single fortnight in the company of his children should be enough to bring Willow marching up the stairs to his tower, demanding to be released from their vows. He would then play the part of wounded husband, flattering her with his passionate protests before reluctantly agreeing to petition Edward for an annulment.

  Bannor recaptured Willow’s hands in a grip too tender to resist. “On the contrary, my lady. I’m simply suggesting that I give you some time to become better acquainted with my children.”

  “With the children?” she echoed wanly.

  “And with me, of course,” he hastily added. Even as Bannor uttered the lie, regret coursed through him. He could never hope to know her in the one sense he most longed to—the biblical one. Desperate to escape before he betrayed himself with a whispered endearment or careless caress, he brought one of her callused palms to his lips and pressed a gallant kiss upon it. “Forgive me for tarrying so long, my lady. ‘Tis late and you must be exhausted from your journey. I shall leave you to your dreams.”

  He was already drawing the door shut behind him when Willow’s reply came, so soft he might have imagined it. “ ‘Tis far too late for that, my lord.”

  Seven

  Willow fully expected to be awakened before dawn by the fretful squalls of a hungry babe. To crawl out of bed and stumble blindly to the castle kitchen where she would dole out lukewarm gobbets of porridge to Lord Bannor’s whining brats. To spend her day enduring their howls and dodging their kicks when they were denied even the smallest indulgence.

  She also expected her slumber to be as devoid of dreams as her heart, but her sleep was invaded by a dark stranger, more phantom than prince, who brushed her lips with his own, then vanished into the mist.

  Willow rolled to her back, groaning as she sank deeper into a rose-scented cloud. Golden warmth flickered across her face, warning her that the cloud must be drifting too close to the sun. She pried open her eyes. Sunbeams slanted through the glazed window of the tower, reproaching her with their midmorning brilliance.

  She saw that an earthenware basin had been left upon the table for her. Tendrils of steam drifted up from the ewer beside it, curling around a stack of linen towels.

  She bounded to her knees in the middle of the enormous bed, swiping a rose petal from the tip of her nose. Perhaps ‘twas not a baby’s hungry cry that had awakened her, but Lord Bannor’s bellow of rage as he discovered his bride was naught but a shameless sloth intent upon starving his precious children.

  At that moment, the chamber door flew open to reveal two squires carrying a large chest between them. She snatched the sheet up to her chin, her eyes widening in alarm as the oldest boy let his end crash to the floor.

  “Watch my toes, won’t you?” his companion whined between gasps for breath. “I’ve only got ten o’ them.”

  The gangly lad gave his sweaty forelock an obsequious tug. “A thousand pardons for disturbing your rest, m’lady, but the wagon just arrived from Bedlington and Lord Bannor thought you might have need of your garments. Make haste, Rob,” the lad barked, jerking his head toward the door. “We’ve one more to fetch.”

  Rob groaned and rubbed the small of his back. “Maybe we should use a pony to haul it up the stairs.”

  When they were gone, Willow clambered down from the bed and padded toward the chest. She couldn’t fathom why it would be so heavy. Her stepmother, had had ample time to plunder its most costly treasures. Willow had expected it to arrive at Elsinore barren of all but a few stray threads and a puff of dust. She was reaching for the leather latch when her ears caught a faint rustle from within.

  She froze, cocking her head to listen, but heard nothing more threatening than the whisper of her own breathing. Shaking away her fancies, she once again reached for the latch.

  And heard a scrabbling too violent to be produced by even her overactive imagination. Willow stumbled backward, seeking to put as much distance between herself and the chest as possible. She shuddered. What if one of the enormous rats that haunted the moat at Bedlington had found its way into the chest?

  She cast about for a weapon, finally settling on the charred remnants of a log she fished out of the cold grate.

  She sidled back to the trunk. She reached down and gingerly unbuckled the latch.

  The scrabbling subsided. Willow was already drawing in a breath for a sigh of relief when the trunk lid sprang open with a resounding crash. She shrieked, but stood her ground and lifted the makeshift weapon high over her head.

  A tousled mane of white-blond hair popped into view, making Willow recoil with a different kind of horror.

  “Beatrix!” Willow slowly lowered the log, regretting that she hadn’t brought it down on her stepsister’s head when she’d had the chance.

  Beatrix sneezed twice and spat out a mouthful of flaxen hair before hooking one shapely leg over the side of the chest. “Where on earth did Lord Bannor find those pathetic weaklings? You’d have thought they were carrying in a boar for the roasting!”

  “Or a bore,” Willow retorted, eyeing her stepsister’s lush hips with more than a trace of envy. She tossed the log back on the grate and planted both hands on her own narrow hips. “Just how did you come to end up in that chest? Did you back into it while admiring your reflection in a goblet of water?”

  Beatrix giggled as she staggered to her feet. “Don’t be a silly mouse. ‘Twas Stefan who tucked me in.”

  “Stefan?” An ugly seed of suspicion was beginning to flourish in Willow’s mind.

  “Aye. And I can tell you that the rascal should have carved me a much larger air hole.”

  “Or a much smaller one,” Willow muttered as Beatrix craned her pale, swanlike neck to peer around the chamber.

  Acting purely on reflex, Willow groped for the hand mirror on the table behind her and handed it to her stepsister. She knew only too well how vain Beatrix was about her rump-length tresses. She’d been the one ordered to comb them five hundred strokes before bedtime each night.

  While Beatrix raked her fingers through a snarl and preened for the benefit of her adoring reflection, Willow tapped her foot impatiently. “Don’t you think your mother is going to be just a wee bit upset when she discovers you’ve gone missing?”

  Beatrix lowered the mirror, admiring the ample cleavage exposed by her square-cut bodice. “Once Stefan explains our scheme, I’m sure she’ll be too busy marveling at our brilliance to miss me.”

  Knowing her stepsister enjoyed nothing so much as an audience, Willow gently suggested, “Why don’t you explain your scheme to me so I can marvel at your brilliance, too?”

  “ Tis quite simple, really. I’ve come to present myself to this wealthy lord of yours. The moment he lays eyes on me, he’ll realize he married the wrong sister. Then you can return to Stefan and I can take my rightful place in Lord Bannor’s bed.” Forsaking her reflection, Beatrix studied Willow with a wisdom beyond her years. “Unless you already have.”

  Wearing only the flimsy chemise she had discovered in the cupboard, Willow felt exposed beneath her stepsister’s scrutiny. Then Beatrix went to the bed and tossed back the pelts to reveal the snowy linen sheets.

  “How curious,” Beatrix observed. “Although last night was to be your first in your husband’s arms, not even a drop of maiden’s blood has been spilled here.”

  Her stepsister sauntered back over to her. Willow refused to flinch as Beatrix brushed a coral fingernail over her cheek. “And what’s this? Tearstains? Poor Willow. Could it be that you spent your wedding night crying yourself to sleep?”

  Willow slapped Beatrix’s hand away. “What makes you think any man would want a child in his bed?”

  “Better a child than a dried-up old hag. Had Mama realized how wealthy your fine lord was, she would
have never wasted him on the likes of you.”

  The words wouldn’t have stung had they not rung with truth. Willow gazed at Beatrix for a long moment before saying softly, “You forget yourself, little sister. Your mother is not mistress here.”

  She found one of her kirtles in the trunk, dragged it over her chemise, and jerked the side-laces tight. Then she turned and headed for the door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Beatrix asked.

  “To request an audience with my husband. To inform him that you’ve run away from home and to insist that he return you to Bedlington without delay. You can decide whether you would prefer to travel by chest or by horse.” Willow wrenched open the door.

  “Willow, wait!”

  Although the quaver in her stepsister’s voice should have warned her, Willow still wanted to groan when she turned around and saw the tears swimming in her stepsister’s enormous blue eyes. Willow wasn’t any more immune to the beseeching tremble of that ripe lower lip than she’d been when Beatrix had been a cherub-faced toddler.

  Beatrix lowered the lid of the chest and plopped down on top of it, her bravado seeping out of her on a dispirited sigh. “I only agreed to this mad scheme of Stefan’s because they intend to make me take your place. Mama has always favored your father’s brood over us and with you gone, I’m the only one left to tend to them.” The girl’s imploring gaze could have melted a block of granite. “Please don’t send me back there, Willow. If I squander my youth caring for Mama’s brats, what man will ever want me?”

  Willow knew all too well what Beatrix was talking about. She couldn’t send Beatrix back to the same fate that she had so narrowly escaped. And in truth, Willow was not so eager to be surrounded by strangers. At least Beatrix would be a familiar face, if not always a friendly one.

  “Very well. You may stay. But only,” Willow added sternly, “if you promise to behave yourself and go along with everything I say.”

  Beatrix rushed across the chamber and threw her arms around Willow, beaming through her tears. “Oh, Willow, you’re too good! Of course I’ll do whatever you say. I’m sorry I said such wicked things. I was just jealous, you know. Because you managed to snare some rich old baron with naught better to do with his gold than lavish it on you. With any luck, he’ll be dead soon and all of this will be ours!”

  At the sound of approaching footsteps, Willow struggled to squirm free of her stepsister’s overzealous embrace. “We’re left with only one dilemma. How ever shall I explain you to Lord Bannor?”

  While Willow was urging her toward the chest, driven by some half-baked notion of stuffing her back inside and slamming the lid, Beatrix chattered merrily on. “ ‘Twas petty of me to envy you. Why, I told Stefan that any man willing to wed a woman he’d never seen must surely be as homely as a troll. ‘Tis undoubtedly a blessing that he didn’t come to your bed last night.” She shuddered. “Can you imagine him blowing his sour breath in your face? The few teeth he has are probably all pointy and yellow, and I’m sure he must be far too old and shriveled to—”

  Before she could finish detailing the gruesome shortcomings of Willow’s husband, he ducked through the door, balancing the second chest on his brawny shoulder as if it weighed no more than a goose feather.

  Eight

  “Forgive me for trespassing upon your privacy, my lady,” Bannor said in his rich baritone, “but I was passing through the bailey when I came across two lads arguing over who should have the privilege of bringing this to you.”

  Willow would have had no trouble extracting herself from Beatrix’s clutches at that moment. Her stepsister’s limbs had gone as limp as her jaw. Her gaze slowly traveled from the toes of the leather boots that hugged his muscular calves to the sparkling indigo of his eyes to the rumpled silk of his dark hair.

  “How very g-gallant of you, my lord,” Willow stammered, waiting with dread for the moment when Bannor’s gaze would alight on Beatrix. When his own jaw would drop and he would realize, just as Beatrix had predicted, that he had wed the wrong sister.

  But to Willow’s shock, he passed the girl as if she were invisible. As he lowered the chest to the floor, a splendid pageant of muscles rippled beneath the jade green brocade of his doublet.

  “Who the devil is she?” The query came not from Bannor as Willow had expected, but from Fiona, who had appeared in the doorway wearing two dozing babies in a sling on her hunched back.

  “She’s my... my...” Seized by a wicked burst of inspiration, Willow blurted out, “My maidservant!”

  Beatrix’s mouth fell open even farther, but Willow gave her a hard squeeze to remind her of their bargain.

  “Her name is Bea,” Willow added spitefully, knowing how much her stepsister despised the nickname.

  As Fiona shuffled over and began to unpack one of the chests, she said suspiciously, “ ‘Tis most odd. I never saw the lass last night.”

  “She was traveling in ...” Willow cleared her throat “with the baggage. She’s a genuine treasure—quite devoted to her duties. Aren’t you, my dear?”

  Beatrix responded to Willow’s stranglehold with a dazed nod.

  Bannor spared her an indifferent glance. “What ails the child? Is she mute?”

  Remembering all the times her stepsister’s ceaseless twittering had made Willow long to smother her with a pillow, Willow laughed. “I should say not.”

  Nor was she accustomed to being ignored. The merest flutter of Beatrix’s flaxen eyelashes had always sent any male within winking distance into a lovesick swoon. Before Willow had time to regret loosening her grip, her stepsister sauntered over to Bannor and sank into a curtsy so deep it left her gawking hungrily at a codpiece that appeared to be in no need of padding.

  Her voice deepened to a throaty purr. “ ‘Twill be a privilege to serve you, my lord. You have only to tell me how I might best pleasure... urn, please you.”

  Bannor cleared his throat and averted his eyes from her overflowing cleavage before shooting Willow an amused glance. “Your devotion is commendable, my child, but you can best please me by serving your mistress.”

  Willow caught her by the elbow and gave her a shove toward the other chest. “You heard Lord Bannor, didn’t you? Be a good girl and fetch my slippers.”

  Beatrix stumbled to a halt, glaring at Willow. “Shall I fetch them in my hands or my mouth, Your Highness?”

  “Whichever one most needs to be kept occupied,” Willow retorted.

  Beatrix bent over the trunk, deliberately twitching her saucy rump in Bannor’s direction.

  If he found anything curious about the exchange, he chose to hide it behind an impassive smile. “Given the uncommon warmth of the day, my lady, the children have chosen to breakfast in a meadow just beyond the castle walls. I’m sure they would be delighted by your company.”

  “Will you be joining us?” Willow asked, regretting the wistful words as soon as they were out.

  An expression that might have been regret flickered over his face. “I’m afraid not. I have some castle accounts to review with my steward.” Without further ado, he made a curt bow and took his leave.

  Beatrix straightened, holding Willow’s slippers to her chest and gazing dreamily at the empty doorway. “No wonder you cried yourself to sleep last night. No woman should have to sleep alone with such a man beneath her roof.”

  Shaking her head, Fiona muttered something in a brogue so thick Willow could only make out, “brazen strumpet” and “ought to be taught a lesson.”

  Willow tugged her slippers from the girl’s hand. “You’re absolutely right, Fiona. Bea’s a spirited child and when left to herself, she does tend to get into mischief. After she finishes helping you unpack, why don’t you see to it that she . . .” Willow tapped her pursed lips consideringly, eyeing the fingernails Beatrix had ordered her to buff to a coral sheen only a few days ago “... scrubs out the privy.”

  As Willow tripped lightly down the stairs, she was accompanied by the pleasing melody of her stepsist
er’s outraged shriek.

  ———

  Bannor watched from the window of the north tower as Willow went strolling across the bailey, her head held high and a hint of a smile playing around her lips. Her name suited her, he thought despairingly, admiring the gentle sway of her slender hips. She looked so delicate he could almost believe the slightest breeze would snap her in two.

  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.