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 sti
cks 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.
His instincts were proved sound when Fiona reappeared a moment later, cradling a ragged bundle to her chest. As she shuffled toward him with her burden, a hush fell over the hall. The tumblers crept back to their benches, and even the children lapsed into an awkward silence. Bannor’s spirits sank as he realized that it was no longer him everyone was struggling not to look at, but his bride.
He dared not look at her himself. But he could feel her. He knew when she drew in a shuddering breath, and painstakingly measured each second before she released it.
Fiona held out the bundle, giving him no choice but to take it. “One o’ the guards found it outside the portcullis, m’lord. The poor wee thing’s near blue from the cold.”
Bannor drew back a fold of swaddling too threadbare to be called anything but a rag. The creature within was so tiny it hardly looked human. Its skin seemed too loose for its bones. Although it was too weak to do anything more than mewl like a half-starved kitten, its cloudy blue eyes told Bannor it had only recently been born, perhaps even this very night. ‘Twas a pity, he thought savagely, that the child had to be born into such a cold, merciless world.
“There was a note,” Fiona said. Since Bannor’s hands were already occupied, she handed the crumpled scrap of parchment to Sir Hollis.
The knight squinted at the crude lettering. He had to clear his throat twice before he could rasp out the words, “ ‘Care for him, m’lord. He is yours.’ “
Bannor cast Willow a stricken look. She was staring straight ahead, her face as pale as a bolt of Egyptian linen.
He returned his gaze to the helpless creature in his arms. The child was too weak to even clutch at the finger Bannor used to stroke his tiny palm.
“Of course, he’s mine,” he said firmly, thrusting the babe back into Fiona’s arms. “Warm him up before the fire, won’t you, before his wee nose falls off. And send Bea to fetch Mags’s wet nurse. The woman should have enough milk to satisfy the both of them.”
He swept the same penetrating gaze that had been known to send his enemies scurrying for cover across the silent hall. “Why are you all looking so somber?” he demanded, splashing a fresh stream of wine into his goblet and lifting it high in the air. “ ‘Tis not every day your lord welcomes a new son to Elsinore!”
Taking their cue from him, his men-at-arms hefted their own goblets and sent up a rousing cheer. The musicians struck up a round dance while the children spilled off their benches and crowded around Fiona, eager to steal a peek at their new brother.
A fresh-faced knight slapped Bannor on the back with a familiarity he wouldn’t have dared only a few minutes ago. “The war may be over, my lord, but ‘tis gratifying to know your lance has lost none of its thrust.”
“Pay no mind to the impudent whelp,” Sir Darrin said, an impish grin wreathing his grizzled face. “I’ve heard he’s so eager to drive home his own lance, he misses the target more often than not.”
“Better an overeager lance than a withered one,” the young knight shot back, his ears flaming.
The rest of Bannor’s knights roared with laughter.
They crowded around him, eager to add their own ribald jests to the speculation about his legendary prowess. It took Bannor several minutes to escape their jovial clutches. By the time he did, Willow’s chair was empty. She was gone.
———
Willow lay rigid in her bed, watching downy feathers of snow drift past the window and listening to the chapel bells chime midnight. ‘Twas all she could do not to flinch at each of their crystalline peals. They went on forever, yet seemed to cease too soon, leaving her in a silence broken only by her stepsister’s less than delicate snores. She wondered if Bannor was prowling his tower, waiting for her to come to him.
She rested with her back to Beatrix, her icy hands folded beneath her cheek. She had feigned sleep when the girl had crawled into the bed, knowing she could not bear to listen to Beatrix prattle on and on about the dramatic arrival of Lord Bannor’s bastard babe.
She supposed she ought to be grateful that the babe had arrived before she could humble herself beyond redemption. Before she could blurt out those three words that would have left her heart defenseless against every blow.
Willow squeezed her eyes tightly shut as Bannor’s voice echoed through her mind, rich with affection and amusement. The little fellow is quite the charmer, isn’t he, princess?
She might have been able to resist the sweet seduction of being wrapped in his embrace, of gazing at the shining faces of his children and feeling as if she belonged to a family for the very first time in her life. But his casual endearment had been her undoing, reducing her to that same pathetic little girl who had been too proud to believe that anyone could not love her. It had set her mind to spinning a tapestry of the future in shimmering threads of silver and gold. A future where Elsinore became the home she had always dreamed of having.
The minute Fiona had come marching into the hall with the babe Bannor had sired on another woman cradled in her arms, that tapestry had began to unravel. Willow had realized that the home she thought she’d found was naught but a castle of dreams built on a foundation of clouds.
Willow buried her face in her damp pillow, stricken by a wave of self-loathing. She remained that way for a long time, not even stirring when the chapel bells tolled a single melancholy note, heavy with doom.
That note was still hanging in the air when the tower door came crashing open, and she scrambled to her knees to meet the smoldering eyes of her husband.
Twenty Four
Beatrix sat bolt upright in bed and let out an ear-splitting shriek. Willow had never truly pitied Bannor’s enemies until that moment. His sulky-sweet mouth was set in a grim line, and his eyes had gone as dark as a cloudless midnight. They glinted with ferocious determination, warning her that no barricade of splintered furniture or vat of boiling pitch would have kept him from her side on this night.
She was almost relieved when he shift
ed those eyes to Beatrix. “Out,” he said, the flat command more damning than a bellow.
“B-b-but, my lord,” Beatrix stammered, clutching the bedclothes to her chin without even a hint of her usual coquettishness, “ ‘tis my habit to sleep in naught but my skin.”
Bannor took a step toward the bed, as if he had every intention of tossing her out of it himself. Snatching up one of the pelts, Beatrix lunged across Willow and off the opposite side of the bed. She all but flew past Bannor and out the door, flashing her naked backside. When the frantic slap-slap of her bare feet had faded, he shut the door with deliberate care, betraying just how badly he wanted to slam it.
For some reason, that glimpse of the raw emotion seething just beneath his icy control gave Willow courage. If he expected her to stammer and cower beneath the blankets as Beatrix had done, he was doomed to be sorely disappointed.
She tossed back the pelts and rose to stand beside the bed, wearing the chemise she had found in the cupboard her very first night at Elsinore. The night she had feared that her new husband might be naught but a rutting satyr, intent upon making her a slave to his lusts.
As Bannor’s bold gaze raked up and down her, taking in every inch of her with a thoroughness that raised gooseflesh on her skin, she had to admit that he bore more than a passing resemblance to that creature. His shirt was unlaced at the throat and his hair was tousled, as if he had dragged his fingers through it more than once. Since Willow could do nothing to hide the way the sheer sendal clung to her rosy nipples or pooled between her thighs, she refused to even try.
As she had expected, Bannor did not waste time on pleasantries. “What would you have had me do, Willow? Toss the child back into the snow?”
“Of course not! Is that the kind of woman you believe me to be?”
“I almost wish I did.” He paced to the window and back again, raking a hand through his hair. “All of this would be much easier then, wouldn’t it? I could marvel that your flesh could be so warm and sweet, when naught but a lump of ice beats within your breast. I could justify my own sins by condemning yours.” He swung around to gaze at her, the hoarse passion in his voice belying his words. “Perhaps I could even learn to hate you.”
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