“Are you certain?” Willow whispered.
Her stepsister proved she was by sliding aside the panel of wainscoting and poking her head into the torchlit passageway. Willow followed suit. They looked first one way, then the other. The narrow corridor appeared to be ideally suited for their purposes. Willow had only to seek shelter in one of its recessed windows, while Beatrix tucked herself behind the oak door at the far end of the corridor. When Bannor ambled through the door, Willow would leap out in front of him, brandishing a nocked arrow, and order him to stand and surrender.
Willow would have loved to have Desmond and Ennis handy to cast a giant net over his head in that moment, but she couldn’t risk one of them getting hurt in the fray that was sure to follow. She had no illusions that Bannor would surrender without a fight. Which was precisely why Beatrix was going to tiptoe up behind him while he was distracted and bash him over the head with the sack of sand she had tied in her skirt.
Before they could take up their positions, Beatrix grabbed her hand and squeezed it just like she used to do when she was a very small girl. “Do take care, Willow. Swear you will.”
Touched by her concern, Willow squeezed back and gave her a reassuring smile. “ Tis Lord Bannor who should take care on this night.”
While Beatrix huddled behind the door, Willow curled up on the broad stone windowsill. She slotted an arrow, praying she could manage not to shoot herself in the foot before Bannor appeared. Mist obscured the moon beyond the iron grate in the unshuttered window, veiling her in shadows. Soon there was nothing left to do but wait, while tension stretched her nerves as taut as the bowstring.
Footsteps approached. Heavy yet fleet footsteps that could belong to only one man. Willow held her breath, but was still terrified he would hear her heart throbbing in her ears. She forced herself to wait until he was past the door, past Beatrix, past any chance of escaping their trap, before she rolled to her feet, coming face to face with the enemy for the first time since she had learned of his treachery.
“Stand and yield,” she called out, her voice far steadier than her hands. “For I cannot allow you to pass.”
Bannor’s crooked grin was somehow more intimidating than a snarl. ‘Twould have been far easier to despise him if he’d been cursed with horns and a tail instead of twinkling blue eyes and a dimple in his jaw. “What would you have me yield, my lady? My sword or my heart?”
Willow gasped out a laugh, not sure whether to disdain or admire such unbridled arrogance. “Your heart, although no doubt prized by many a mewling female, is of little value to me. Tis your sword I demand.”
“Then ‘tis my sword you shall have.” He slid the weapon from its scabbard and tossed it to the floor between them, before nodding toward the bow. “You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man, would you?”
“Not unless he gave me good cause.” The ease of his surrender unnerved Willow,, but honor compelled her to shift the aim of the arrow from his chest to the floor.
“I must confess to being a bit curious,” Bannor said. “Now that you have me, just what do you intend to do with me? Will you ransom me to my men? Cast me into my own dungeon?” He arched one of those diabolical eyebrows, the wicked sparkle in his eyes deepening. “Or perhaps keep me for your own pleasure?”
Willow raised the bow again. The motion did not seem to deter him. He began to saunter toward her. Willow’s first instinct was to retreat, but the sight of Beatrix creeping out from behind the door emboldened her.
She tossed her head, a motion she was beginning to enjoy now that she’d become accustomed to her sprightly curls. “ ‘Twill be a pleasure indeed to accept your surrender.”
“Ah, but sometimes surrender can be as sweet for the vanquished as for the victor.”
He kept coming, his smile so tender that Willow took an involuntary step backward. If Beatrix didn’t act soon, she would be forced to either shoot him or yield.
He was nearly upon her when her stepsister drew back the sack of sand. Willow bit back an absurd urge to shout out a warning. She flinched as the sack struck Bannor’s head with a dull thud. He went down like a stone.
Beatrix faced Willow over his crumpled form, white with horror. “Oh, dear Lord, I think I’ve killed him!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Willow snapped, laying aside the bow and dropping to her knees beside him. “According to what Fiona told me, he’s nearly impervious to pain. I’m sure he’s just stunned.” She tangled her fists in his doublet and rolled him to his back, grunting with the effort it took.
Bannor’s open-mouthed vulnerability only emphasized the dark sweep of his lashes against his cheeks. A wistful pang seized Willow’s heart.
How often had she dreamed of her prince in just such sweet repose? How many times had she imagined smoothing a tumbled lock of hair from his brow before leaning over and gently pressing her mouth to...
She was already leaning forward, her lips parting instinctively, when Beatrix blurted out, “Is he dead?”
Willow started. “No,” she gritted out. “He’s not dead. He’s just... sleeping.”
Beatrix began to back toward the secret panel. “I’ll go fetch Desmond. He’ll know just what to do.”
Willow sank back on her heels, eyeing her stepsister askance. “Just this morning you said Desmond was a lackwit who couldn’t find the cheeks of his rump with both hands.”
Beatrix shrugged, her eyes darting between Bannor and the panel. “Perhaps he’s learned something since then.”
“Wait!” Willow cried as Beatrix slid aside the panel and ducked into the wall. “Don’t go! Don’t leave me—” the panel slammed shut; her voice died to a whisper, “—alone.”
The sigh of Bannor’s breath against her cheek reminded her that she wasn’t alone at all. She sank back on her heels. She had dreamed of having him at her mercy, but now that she did, she wasn’t sure she could bear to hurt him. Lying on his back like that with his lips parted and one arm outflung, he looked so utterly ... noble.
Her breath quickened as she stole a guilty glance over her shoulder. What could be the harm in pretending, just for a moment, that he was the man she had dreamed he would be?
Her hand trembled as she smoothed the raw silk of his hair from his brow. Drawing in a ragged breath, she leaned forward and touched her lips to his, thinking only to steal a sweet, brief taste of what might have been.
A warm, rough hand clamped down on the back of her neck. With one breath she was kissing him; with the next he was kissing her. But this was not the chaste sip of pleasure she had anticipated. Bannor’s mouth opened beneath hers in hungry demand, forcing her to yield before each hot, silken thrust of his tongue. He did not waste his breath entreating her to surrender. He simply battered down her defenses, as if to claim the spoils that had belonged to him all along.
He kissed her until all the fight melted from her rigid limbs and clenched fists, until she could do nothing but sprawl across his chest, an eager and willing captive of everything she had sought to escape.
When Bannor finally took mercy on her, she barely had the strength to lift her head. His chest heaved beneath her throbbing breasts, warning her that his breathing was no steadier than her own.
She glared at him as outraged by her own shocking behavior as she was by his. A triumphant smile curved the lips that had just kissed her so thoroughly, as he stroked her tumbled curls away from her face and murmured, “Checkmate.”
Fifteen
Bannor hauled Willow up the stairs, his grip on her wrist as implacable as an iron manacle. He cleared two steps with each of his long strides, forcing her to trot in a most undignified manner or be dragged along behind him. She was tempted to plant her feet and refuse to budge, but knew he would most likely just throw her over his broad shoulder like a sack of meal.
She was still simmering over the realization that she had been the one trapped. She had been the one betrayed. Beatrix had been white-faced not with fear, but with shame. She should have known better than t
o trust the little minx. Especially with a man like Bannor.
The door to the north tower loomed before them. Bannor marched her across the threshold, then left her standing in the center of the room while he slammed down the crossbar and heaved a heavy oak bench in front of the door as if it weighed no more than a footstool. After a moment’s thought, he shoved the table after it.
His message was clear. She was beyond rescue. Beyond redemption. Beyond hope.
He swung around to face her, his brooding silence more terrifying than a bellow of rage. He was her lord. She was his wife. If he chose to beat her for her defiance, he could do so with the blessing of both the king and the church. Nor was there anyone to stop him from locking her away for the rest of her life, from burying her alive deep beneath the stones of his dungeon. If he considered that too much of a bother, he could arrange an unfortunate mishap. She might tumble out a window. Or fall down a well. But none of those tragic fates compared to the one she feared above all others.
He might kiss her again.
An unbearably sweet shiver of dread and desire rippled down her spine. ‘Twas the one punishment she had no defenses against. If he took her in his arms again, she feared she would willingly betray not only her comrades, but her own heart. A heart she had sworn to protect in that moment she had first learned he didn’t possess one of his own.
Of course, if he kept glowering at her like that, she would begin to babble anyway. She would tell him the location of all the secret passageways and hidden peepholes. She would admit that it had been her idea to braid Mary Margaret’s pink ribbons into his warhorse’s tail. She would confess to spying on him as he disrobed, and spill out the sordid details of the fevered dreams that had swept her sleep every night since then as punishment for her indiscretion. Willow bit her bottom lip, praying she could hold her silence beneath his condemning glare.
The accusation he finally hurled at her was not the one she had expected. “Why did you kiss me?”
Out of all her recent offenses, it was almost as if her kiss had wounded him the most. Since it was the one question Willow dared not answer, she had no choice but to toss it back in his face. “Why did you kiss me?”
“Because, contrary to your conduct, you’re a bit old for spanking.” His speculative gaze raked her from head to foot. “At least I thought you were...”
“If your kiss is naught but a punishment, I shudder to imagine what you do to women who truly offend you.”
He took a step toward her, the light in his eyes sharpening to a dangerous glitter. “Would you care to find out?”
Willow took a step back. “Was it your kiss that tricked Bea into betraying me?”
He shrugged. “Not every woman considers my kiss a torture to be endured.”
“If you touched her, I’ll kill you.” Willow blurted out the words before she realized she meant them.
A mocking smile played around Bannor’s lips. “Jealousy becomes you, my lady. It kindles a blush in your cheek and a fire in your eyes.”
She was so caught off guard by the unexpected flattery that it took her a moment to realize he hadn’t denied her accusation. “I’m not jealous. I’m appalled! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”
His smile vanished. “If I had seduced your maidservant, I would be. But I can assure you that my carnal tastes don’t run to precocious children.” He drew closer and began to circle her. “You dare to chide me for sins I’ve yet to commit, but what about your own transgressions, my lady? Since you came to Elsinore, you’ve incited my children to open rebellion. You’ve hardened their hearts against me.”
“I didn’t harden their hearts!” she cried. “You did! The same way you hardened mine—with your inattention and your indifference.” Willow turned away from his probing gaze, realizing that she had revealed more than she meant to.
His voice softened as he captured her chin in his hand and tilted her face toward him. “Those are sins I cannot deny. But I am coming to regret them.”
Unable to bear the mockery of his caress, she jerked away from his touch, but continued to meet his gaze boldly. “Just as you regret marrying me?”
“And why shouldn’t I?” he replied hoarsely, his empty hand curling into a fist. “I haven’t known so much as a moment’s peace since I first laid eyes on you.”
Willow stiffened. At least he had spared her a stammered denial or an outright lie. “Then I suppose all that remains is to determine my fate.” She ducked out of his reach and began to pace the tower. “Since you find me no more appealing than some fat fishwife with a mustache, perhaps ‘tis not too late for you to swear that vow of celibacy you considered.” She shot him a look of mock sympathy. “But ‘twould be a shame for you to have to give up all your other doxies.” She marched to the hearth, then back again. “You could allow Sir Hollis to take me off your hands, but we wouldn’t want the poor fellow to have to make such a terrible sacrifice, now would we?” She spun around, snapping her fingers. “I know! Why don’t you just have me locked away in a convent where I can die a dried-up old virgin. After all, ‘tis the only fit place for a miserable creature such as me.”
Bannor’s mouth had fallen open halfway through her recitation. Willow reached up and firmly nudged it shut. “There’s no need to deny any of it. Your own son heard the entire exchange.”
He swung away from her, bracing his hands on the mantel over the stone hearth. At least he had the decency to hang his head in shame, Willow thought bitterly.
“Why did you have to use your children to drive me away? If you wanted to be rid of me, why couldn’t you just tell me? I wouldn’t have held you to your vows. I would have set you free.”
Bannor turned to face her. Why, the wretch wasn’t cringing in shame! He was laughing! Mirth had crinkled his eyes and deepened that wicked dimple in his jaw.
Furious, Willow marched to the door. The clumsy barricade Bannor had erected loomed before her. She shoved at the table with all of her might, but it refused to budge. Only then did she realize that Bannor had come around and was holding the other end of it steady with one hand.
All traces of merriment had disappeared from his face, leaving it as grave as Willow had ever seen it. “When I told Hollis I couldn’t allow him to make the terrible sacrifice of keeping you for himself, I was mocking him, not you.”
Willow strode to the window and peered down, measuring the distance to the cobblestones below.
Bannor’s voice followed her, more relentless than his touch, more compelling than his kiss. “I didn’t swear a vow of celibacy because I knew I could never resist a temptation as sweet as you.”
Rejecting the window as a possible escape route, Willow began to tap her way along the wall, hoping to find a stone she could dislodge to reach the secret passage.
“And I almost locked you away in a convent, because I couldn’t bear the thought of any man but me putting his hands on you.”
Willow froze, forgetting to breathe. Forgetting how to breathe. She slowly turned, feeling as if she’d wandered into one of her dreams.
But Bannor was still there, leaning against the table with his arms folded over his chest like a shield. He wore a look on his face Willow hadn’t seen since her papa had last ruffled her hair and called her “his princess”—part yearning and part pain over some loss he could anticipate, but was powerless to prevent.
Willow took one step toward him, then another. Then she threw back her head and began to laugh.
Bannor was both baffled and enchanted by Willow’s laughter. It wasn’t sweet and tinkling as he’d expected, but deep and rusty, like the sound an iron portcullis might make if it hadn’t been raised for a very long time.
“I knew you’d want revenge on me,” she said, her throaty chuckle making him ache with desire, “but this is truly a jest more cruel and petty than any Desmond could have devised.”
Bannor shook his head in bewilderment. “The jest must be on me, dear lady, for I am well and truly ignorant of it.”
“Do you think me an utter lackwit? We may not have lived in splendor at Bedlington as you do here at Elsinore, but we did have mirrors.” She gave the soft, dark curls that framed her face a cruel yank. “My hair is the color of soot. My skin is as swarthy and coarse as a troll’s. My arms and legs are as knobby as the limbs of a willow. And my breasts!” She cupped the offending objects in her open palms. “Just look at them!”
Bannor cleared his throat with a great deal of difficulty. ‘Twas impossible not to look, with the small, plump globes hefted so alluringly in her hands.
She let them fall, then gazed despairingly down at her chest. “They’re naught to speak of. Barely half the size of Bea’s.” Her face brightened with a curious mixture of anguish and pride. “Now Bea is beautiful. She has big blue eyes, long flaxen hair, and skin like fresh-poured cream. If you were to tell me you couldn’t resist a temptation as sweet as Bea, I would believe you.”
“She’s only a child!” Bannor protested. “And I really don’t mean to be unkind, but isn’t she just a little bit... plump?”
Willow gaped at him for a long moment before saying softly, “I do believe that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“Yet,” Bannor said, moving resolutely toward her. She stood her ground, her expression wary, but intrigued.
There might have been a thousand mirrors at Bedlington, but Bannor suspected Willow had never truly seen herself. She had seen only her warped reflection in the spiteful eyes of those who sought to belittle her. Anger surged through him. Perhaps he should rethink his decision not to burn her father’s keep to the ground.
Willow would have been alarmed by Bannor’s fierce expression if she hadn’t been mesmerized by the tender glow in his eyes. She stood as still as a marble statue, waiting to be brought to life by his touch.
It did not disappoint. His hand brushed against her hair. As he twined one curl around his finger, then stroked her scalp with his broad, blunt fingertips, she had to turn her face away to keep from sighing with delight.
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