Charming the Prince

by Teresa Medeiros

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, my lord, but ‘twas not your charity toward that unfortunate child that cut me to the heart. ‘Twas the pity in the eyes of Sir Hollis. Fiona. Your men.” Her voice faded to a ragged whisper as she struggled to swallow around the lump in her throat. “Your children.”

  He shook his head. “ ‘Twas never my intention to make you an object of pity or ridicule to any of them. I would have spared you that if I could have.”

  “How? By denying the child? A child you sired on another woman, when you’ve made it painfully clear you have no desire to sire one on me.”

  Willow had not meant to blurt out the words, but there they were, lying like a carelessly tossed gauntlet on the floor between them.

  Bannor trampled her invisible challenge as he closed the distance between them in two strides. “I thought we were in accord on that, my lady. If I was mistaken, then I can assure you that I am more than willing to fulfill my husbandly duties. If ‘tis a child of your own that you want, ‘tis a child I shall give you. The first of many, I can assure you.” His hands went to his hips, preparing to unfasten the chain of braided silver that rested low upon them.

  A flare of panic made Willow reach out and close her hand over his. She thought only to stop him from drawing off the belt, but as the backs of her fingers brushed the thin skein of his hose, she realized he was not only more than willing to give her a child, but more than able as well.

  His eyes met hers without a hint of shame. She was the one to blush.

  She jerked her hand back, wrapping it around the bedpost to hide its trembling, and tilted her chin to a defiant angle. “I’m not one of your knights, my lord, to be impressed by the size and vigor of your lance. Nor am I one of your many paramours, to be pacified with a hasty cuddle and a babe in my belly for nine months out of every year.”

  He barked out a helpless laugh. “Surely you must realize that the babe who was brought to the castle tonight was conceived months before I even considered taking a wife.” Bannor feathered his fingers across her cheek, both his touch and his voice gentling. “Months before I ever saw your face.”

  Willow held herself stiffly, terrified her pride would shatter beneath his caress. “Can you promise me ‘twill never happen again? Can you swear an oath here and now that there will be no more babies delivered to your doorstep after we’ve been wed nine months? A year? Five years?”

  Bannor gazed at her, his face more haunted than she had ever seen it. After a moment, he withdrew his hand from her cheek and bowed his head. “I have yet to swear an oath that I could not keep.”

  Willow pressed her cheek to the bedpost, no longer able to hide the tears that were trickling down it. “Then I am afraid I shall have to claim the freedom you so generously offered me.”

  Bannor jerked up his head, anger sparking in his eyes. “And where will you go, my lady? Will you return to your father’s household?” He took her hands, forcing her fists open. He stroked the calluses that still scarred her palms with his powerful thumbs. It would take more than a few weeks of leisure to erase a lifetime of toil. “Is being treated as less than the lowliest of servants preferable to being my wife?”

  Willow tried to twist out of his grasp, but he held her fast. “I don’t have to return to Bedlington. Was it not you who suggested I seek shelter in a convent?”

  Bannor’s harsh laugh held little humor. “And you accused me of trying to lock you away so you could die a dried-up old virgin.” He cupped her face in his hands, his hungry eyes searching her face. “Is that what you want, Willow? To lie awake on a hard, narrow cot every night, dreaming of me? Dreaming of this?”

  Had he seized her lips as roughly as he had seized her hands, she might have been able to resist him. But his mouth closed over hers with such unspeakable tenderness, she feared she might already be dreaming. A kiss so enchanting should have broken every curse, granted every wish, given even the saddest story a happy ending. As he explored the moist warmth of her mouth with his tongue, Willow knew she would not die a dried-up old virgin. When she lay upon her hard, narrow cot in the convent, gazing out the window at the falling snow and dreaming of this moment, her body would weep for him just as it was weeping now.

  Bannor wrapped his arms around her, crushing his beard-shadowed cheek to the softness of her curls. “Stay with me, Willow,” he said hoarsely. “Be my wife. You’ll lack for naught, I swear it.”

  Even as she clung to his waist as if she would never let him go, Willow knew she had no choice but to leavehim. If she stayed, she would lack the one thing she could not live without.

  Her pride.

  She gazed up at him through a veil of tears. “If you have no use for my heart, my lord, then I have no choice but to offer it to God. Will you grant me my freedom, or will you keep me here as your wife against my will?”

  Willow had never felt as cold as she did in that moment when Bannor lowered his arms and stepped away from her. His motions were heavy, his face grave. “I told you before that I’ve never sworn an oath I could not keep. If ‘tis your freedom I promised you, then ‘tis your freedom you shall have. Hollis will escort you to Wayborne Abbey in the morning. Since our union has never been consummated, an annulment should not be difficult to obtain.” Bannor started for the door, then turned back, no longer able keep the bitter note from his voice. “I’d appreciate it if you could be gone before the children awaken. I’d prefer to spare them the pain of bidding a third mother farewell.”

  When he was gone, Willow staggered to the window and pressed her brow to the icy glass. Fresh tears scalded her eyes. She wanted to hate him, but the only contempt she felt was for herself. She had fled Bedlington hoping to escape the ghost of the pathetic little girl she had been, yet it was her tear-streaked reflection that gazed back at Willow from the window.

  She was the same little girl who had surrendered her father to Blanche without a fight. And now that she had finally found a man who just might be worth marching into battle for, she was conceding defeat without ever bothering to take up her arms.

  Willow furiously swiped the tears from her cheeks, watching the reflection of that girl disappear. A woman gazed back at her, her gray eyes burning with resolve.

  Determined to seek out the one person who might be able to show her the face of the enemy, Willow jerked on her kirtle and shoes, snatched up her cloak, and strode from the chamber.

  ———

  “Who is she?”

  Netta’s eyes flew open as the lady of Elsinore burst into her cottage, shedding feathers of snow like some molting angel of wrath. Netta peered over the brawny shoulder of the drunken knight moving between her legs, reluctantly admiring Willow’s aplomb. Bannor’s lady didn’t blush or stammer at the sight of the young man’s naked backside, which continued to plunge up and down with far more enthusiasm than rhythm.

  “Who is she?” Willow repeated, as if the two of them were all alone in the firelit cottage.

  Netta punched the knight in the arm. “Get off me, you oaf. We’ve got company.”

  “But I’m not done,” he whined, his eyes still squeezed tightly shut. “I’ve paid my coin. The next fellow can wait his turn.”

  “Tis not a fellow, but a lady, you jackass,” she hissed in his ear.

  Groaning, he rolled off of her. Netta hastily jerked the sheet up to his waist, hoping to spare Willow from seeing anything more unsightly than she already had. She had only to draw her own skirt down over her legs, since she hadn’t deemed the callow dolt worth the trouble of removing it.

  The knight squinted at the intruder, his aspect brightening as his eyes devoured her slender form. “And what have we here? A little lost lamb seeking a shepherd?”

  “Get out!” Willow commanded, her tone icier than the wind whistling down the chimney.

  He splayed his arms behind his head, an arrogant smile quirking his lips. “Don’t be so hasty, sweeting. I can assure you that my staff is vigorous enough to pleasure the both of you.”

&nb
sp; Netta snorted. “ Tis barely vigorous enough to pleasure the one of us.”

  Willow recognized him as the cocky young knight who had praised the thrust of Bannor’s lance. With deliberate malice, she reached up and drew back her hood.

  The knight’s eyes widened in horror. He jerked the blanket up to his chin, quivering so hard the entire bedstead began to rattle. “M-m-my lady, please forgive me. I had no inkling ‘twas you.”

  She pointed toward the door. “Out.”

  He shot Netta a helpless look, then scrambled out of the bed, clutching the sheet to his privates. He was so busy bowing and fawning he could barely hop up and down on one foot long enough to don his hose.

  “You won’t tell Lord Bannor about this, will you?” he pleaded. “He’ll have my head for sure.”

  Willow smiled sweetly. “Considering the amorous nature of your proposal, sir, I doubt ‘twill be your head he seeks to sever.”

  Muttering beneath his breath, the knight snatched up his sword and spurs and fled into the snowy night, slamming the door behind him.

  Willow whirled around to face Netta, in no mood to mince words. “How do you bear it? I can’t imagine allowing anyone but the man I love to touch me that way.”

  “Not all of us can afford to be so finicky, my lady.” Netta shrugged as she tucked her generous breasts back into her bodice and jerked the laces tight. “Besides, once you’ve had a dozen men, what difference does one more make? Or a hundred more?” She lifted her eyes to Willow’s. “At least that’s what my mother told me, to comfort me after she sold me for the first time. She was so relieved not to have to service an entire regiment of the king’s guard all by herself that she let me keep one of the shillings I had earned.”

  Desperate to escape the woman’s uncompromising gaze, Willow jerked off her cloak and tossed it across the stool in front of the hearth. “I suppose you’ve already heard what happened at Elsinore tonight.”

  Netta waved a hand at the door. “When Sir Lack-lance came bursting in, he was babbling all about it. Although I fail to see why the arrival of another bastard on Lord Bannor’s doorstep should rouse such excitement. Tis a common enough occurrence, is it not?”

  Willow stiffened. Netta seemed to be deliberately baiting her. “I want to know who the mother of that child is. I want to know who they all are.”

  Shaking back her tousled mane, Netta gave her a sloe-eyed glance. “And what then, my fine lady? Will you have them tarred and feathered? Driven from the village? Stoned?”

  Willow lifted her chin. “I might.”

  “And if I refuse to tell you? Will you do the same tome?”

  “No.” Before Netta’s mocking smile could spread, Willow added flatly, “I’ll have you cast into Elsinore’s dungeon until you decide to use that caustic tongue of yours for something more useful than pleasuring Bannor’s men.”

  Netta tilted her head to the side, eyeing Willow the way a mastiff might eye a harmless-looking kitten who has just raked bloody furrows across its nose. When she rose from the bed, her smile was more bemused than mocking.

  “Sit, my lady,” she said, pouring a stream of ale into a chipped earthenware cup and thrusting it into Willow’s hand, “and I shall tell you everything you seek to know about this woman who holds your husband’s heart in thrall.”

  Feeling her own heart falter at Netta’s words, Willow sank down on the stool. Although she rarely drank anything stronger than mulled wine, she took a hearty gulp of the ale, welcoming its fortifying warmth.

  Netta perched on the edge of the bed, sipping directly from the flagon. “She first came to Elsinore on a snowy night much like this one. The wind was whistling down from the mountains, cold enough to freeze a man’s spit before it hit the ground. ‘Twas Twelfth Night, and even from a distance she could hear the sounds of music and merriment drifting over the castle walls. She clutched her little boy’s hand, terrified, yet knowing if she couldn’t find the courage to storm that mighty fortress, he would die. She’d already been forced to peddle her flesh to keep bread in his mouth, but now that flesh was wasting away because she’d been giving him her portion of their food.”

  Netta’s eyes grew distant. “A hush fell when they led her into the great hall. The lord of the castle presided over the high table, flanked by his beautiful wife and his handsome children. She drew her son in front of her. Swallowing the last of her pride, she whispered, ‘He is yours, m’lord. I pray you will welcome him into your household and your heart.’

  “The lord looked the boy up and down. Although he couldn’t have been more than six or seven, he planted his little legs and boldly met the gaze of the man he had been told was his father.

  “The lord reached down to rumple his hair, then boomed out a hearty laugh. ‘Why would I want to claim the bastard of a whore’ he inquired of the hall, ‘when I have all of these fine children of my own?’”

  Willow set aside the cup of ale, unable to urge another sip past her chattering teeth.

  “At their master’s signal, his men-at-arms seized her and dragged her from the hall. They hurled her and her child into the snow outside the castle gates, laughing and taunting her all the while. Too shamed to seek shelter in one of the nearby cottages, she snatched up her child and began trudging across the meadows. She thought only to return to her own village, but the wind whipped snow into her eyes, causing her to roam in ever widening circles. She believed if she could just sit down and rest her trembling legs for a little while, she would surely find the strength to go on. Hugging her son to her breast, she sank to her knees in the snow.”

  Netta fixed her gaze on Willow, her eyes as bleak as that snowswept vista. “The lad was strong and sturdy. She was not. When they found them the next morning, he was still clinging to her, crying so hard they swore he’d tried to melt the ice from her stiff, frozen body with his tears. It took three men to drag him away from her.”

  Willow surged to her feet, tears streaming openly down her own cheeks. “You’re lying! I know Bannor. I know what manner of man he is. He would never be so cruel and heartless as to cast a woman and her child out into a blizzard!”

  Netta’s eyes blazed. “Of course he wouldn’t, you little fool. But his father would.”

  Willow sank back down on the stool, her knees betraying her. What would you have had me do? Toss the child back into the snow? Bannor had asked her, his eyes smoldering with primal fury.

  Those same eyes had watched his mother die. Had wept scorching tears of anguish over her icy corpse. Had shone with compassion as he stroked his finger over the palm of the tiny, half-frozen creature given into his care this night.

  A helpless wave of emotion broke over her. “The babies?” she whispered, lifting her tear-streaked face to Netta. “They’re not his, are they?”

  “No,” Netta said flatly. “They’re mine.”

  Twenty Five

  Netta came to her feet, her eyes glinting with stubborn pride. “I can’t claim the youngest two, but Meg, the twins, the babe you brought to the cottage with you that morning—all mine.”

  Willow was staggered by the memory of Netta cradling Peg in her arms—the tenderness in her touch, the wonder in her eyes. She had never dreamed the woman was gazing into the face of her own daughter.

  As Netta’s words sank into her dazed mind, she frowned. “If Mags and the baby left at the castle gates tonight aren’t yours, then who do they belong to?”

  “The one you call Mags belongs to a woman who already has twelve mouths to feed. The other babe was born this night to a girl of twelve, who believed the honeyed lies of a handsome young troubadour who passed through the village nine months ago.”

  Willow shook her head. “I don’t understand how they could just abandon their babies.”

  “Abandon?” Netta all but spat the word. “Annie’s father threatened to drown her baby in a bucket if she didn’t rid herself of it. She was so weak from giving birth that she would have had to crawl to reach the castle gates. But crawl she would h
ave, had I not promised to deliver the baby to Lord Bannor myself.” Netta paced to the hearth, then whirled around, her skirts snapping. “What fate would you choose for your child, my lady? To have her raised as I was, as the daughter of the village whore?” She flung a finger toward the rumpled bed with its stained sheets and musky odor. “To have every man in the village expect her to take your place in that bed when you grew too old or eaten up with pox to endure their fumbling and grunting?” Her voice softened. “Or to have her raised as the cherished child of a lord, lacking for naught except a mother’s love?”

  Willow bowed her head, deeply shamed. “Why didn’t he tell me?” she whispered. “Why did he let me believe the worst of him?”

  “Because he swore to me that no one would ever know those babes were not his. I made him promise that they would never have to endure the stares, the ugly whispers, the shame of being the misbegotten bastards of a whore.”

  Willow didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. To protect the children entrusted into his hands, Bannor had been willing to let her believe he was naught but a rutting stallion, eager to mount every mare whose scent drifted to his nostrils. He had been willing to let her leave Elsinore with Sir Hollis on this very morn, never to return.

  She laughed softly, but with a trace of bitterness. “He warned me that he has never sworn an oath he could not keep.”

  “Aye,” Netta agreed, sinking down on the edge of the hearth. “He is a man of his word. When I left the first babe outside of his gates one chill November eve, I never dreamed he would claim her as his own. I could only pray that one of the laundresses or maidservants might take her in.” She shivered. “When two of his men-at-arms appeared on my doorstep the next day to escort me to him, I was terrified he was going to have me cast into the dungeon, or perhaps imprisoned in the stocks, so that everyone would know the dreadful thing I had done.”