Willow brought her trembling hand to rest against the curve of her belly, before lifting wondering eyes to Fiona. “How did you know?”
Fiona grimaced. “The last time I ate a bowl of oysters and a blancmange in one sittin’, I was pregnant with me first set o’ twins.”
Willow gazed down at her stomach, marveling that something so fragile as an invisible life could reside within. “I never thought I wanted a babe of my own,” she said softly. “But ‘tis a part of me, is it not?”
Fiona nodded. “And a part of him. The very best part.”
Willow knew she ought to be weeping in earnest now, but a shimmering thread of joy had began to unfurl in her heart. “How can I help but love it?” She lifted her chin, giving in to a rush of stubborn pride. “Bannor may not love me, but perhaps his child will.”
Fiona cocked her head to the side, giving Willow a pitying look. “Just what do ye think love is, child? Me Liam and I were wed for forty-seven years, and the stubborn old cuss never once spoke the words. Yet not a day went by in all those years that he didn’t reach fer me hand or sneak up behind me to give me a cuddle. Love isn’t a burst o’ trumpets and a flock o’ doves descendin’ out o’ the heavens to roost on yer heads. Tis sharin’ a cup o’ tea by the hearth on a cold winter’s night. ‘Tis the look in yer husband’s eyes when ye lay yer first child in his arms.” Sorrow touched the old woman’s face. “ ‘Tis the ache in yer heart when ye watch the light in his eyes dim fer the last time, and know a part o’ ye has gone out o’ this world with him.”
Willow did not realize she was crying again, until a tear splashed on her hand.
Fiona reached over to take that hand. “There’s a reason Mary and Margaret never regretted weddin’ Bannor. They knew in their hearts that the lad loved them, even if he didn’t know it himself.”
The old woman gave Willow’s hand a firm squeeze, then rose and shuffled toward the door.
Willow stood and swiped the fresh tears from her cheeks. With what she hoped was a dignified sniff, she said, “You may inform my husband that I will see him now.”
Fiona bobbed a curtsy, her wizened face crumpling into an impish smile. “ Twill be a pleasure, m’lady.”
———
As Willow waited for Bannor to arrive, she pawed frantically through her cupboard, tossing kirtles, gloves, stockings, and chemises over her shoulder left and right.
She was going to have a baby. A vexsome creaturewho would wriggle and fret and rub its sticky little hands all over her. When she cradled it against her shoulder, it would burp in her ear and spit milk down her back. She would never in her entire life know another moment of peace, because she would always be worrying that it might fall down a privy shaft, get its chubby head caught in a window grate, or grow up to fall in love with someone who was overly fond of cabbage or chewed with their mouth open.
She’d never been happier.
She finally settled upon a gown woven from the finest camlet, with flowing sleeves trimmed in miniver. She plopped down on the stool and drew on a fresh pair of stockings and garters, then slipped her feet into one of the delicate pairs of doeskin slippers Bannor had given her for a wedding present.
Once she might have dreaded telling Bannor that she was carrying his child. Once she might have feared that his heart would grow cold toward her, as her papa’s had done. The girl she had been before she came to Elsinore might even have run away without telling him so she’d never have to take that chance.
But Willow was no longer that girl. She was a woman now—a woman who would soon be mother to the child of the man she loved. And perhaps ‘twas time for her to offer that man not only her love, but her trust as well.
As Willow lifted the mirror to survey her reflection, her hand was steady, her eyes clear. She doubted her own family would recognize her now. She’d scrubbed her face clean and combed her shoulder-length curls to a glossy sheen. She could not resist turning the mirror this way and that, searching for the fabled glow promised to breeding women. It wasn’t until she angled the mirror toward her stomach to search for any hint of a bulge that she realized how ridiculous she was being. If she didn’t stop admiring herself, she would soon be as vain as Beatrix!
A sharp knock sounded on the door. Willow sprang to her feet, tossing the mirror on the table. She smoothed her skirts, tucked a rebellious curl behind one ear, and forced herself to draw in a deep breath, determined that she would not appear too eager. She made it halfway across the tower before her ruse of dignity deserted her. She raced the rest of the way to the door and flung it open, her welcoming smile fading as she saw the man leaning against the wall.
———
Bannor took the stairs two at a time. Willow’s summons had come while he was in the gatehouse, seeking refuge from her family. He would have gladly lingered there for the remainder of the winter to escape their company. When he had slunk through the great hall only a few minutes ago, that wretched stepbrother of hers had been nowhere in sight, but her hapless father had still been trying to drink himself insensible, while Lady Blanche berated him for not boxing Willow’s ears when the chit had insulted her.
A grim smile curved Bannor’s lips. If the man had dared to lift a hand to Willow in his presence, he’d have ended up with two maimed arms instead of one.
Bannor slowed as he approached the landing. He gave his doublet a tug, smoothed his hair, and drew in a deep breath, not wanting to appear too eager. His tongue might stumble when he begged Willow’s forgiveness, but he hoped that its eloquence in bed could coax her into pardoning him for any offense, even being a churlish lout.
Bannor had lifted his hand to knock when he realized that the door was already ajar.
It creaked open at his touch. “Willow?”
The snow falling outside the glazed window cast an eerie half-light over the tower. The bed was thrown into sharp relief, as were the kirtles and stockings scattered about the tower like the victims of some tragic battle. Some primal instinct urged Bannor to dull his footfalls to a whisper, as if he was sneaking up on an enemy whose face he might not recognize until it was too late.
A hollow silence had settled over the deserted chamber, making a familiar knot of dread curl in Bannor’s gut. It took him a moment to realize why it was so familiar. ‘Twas the same silence that had plagued the chamber after Mary and Margaret had died. ‘Twas not so much the absence of sound, as the lingering sigh of someone who has left and is never coming back. He had forgotten how terrible it was, because Willow had banished its haunting echo with her husky laughter, her tender smile, her loving touch.
Bannor whirled around, scanning the chamber as he would an enemy battlefield. ‘Twasn’t the scattered gloves and gowns that sent a shiver of dread coursing down his spine. ‘Twas the doeskin slipper resting on its side next to the door. The slipper he might never have seen, if his every nerve wasn’t prickling with foreboding.
An ethereal hint of jasmine taunted him as he clawed through the piles of gowns, frantically searching for its mate. He dropped to his hands and knees to look beneath the bed, then tore all the bedclothes from the mattress and hurled them to the floor. He emptied the cupboard with a single swipe of his hand, nearly overturning it in his zeal to explore every nook and cranny.
He was left standing in the middle of the ransacked chamber, his breath coming in savage pants, still holding one slipper. A single doeskin slipper, so delicate he could have crushed it to dust with one hand.
As Bannor raced from the chamber, still clutching the slipper, the wind began to rise, howling a warning he could no longer ignore.
———
“Fiona!”
Bannor’s bellow thundered through the castle, shaking the rafters and making every page, squire, and man-at-arms within hearing distance of the great hall tremble with dread. If Fiona hadn’t learned long ago that Bannor’s bellows rarely preceded anything more taxing than a mild tongue-lashing, followed by a sheepish apology, she might have dropped the baby she w
as bouncing on her knee. She would have probably ignored him completely if she hadn’t caught a glimpse of his face as he descended the stairs.
She handed the baby off to young Annie, and scrambled over to meet him at the foot of the stairs. “What is it, m’lord? Ye look as if ye’ve seen a haint.”
Bannor’s eyes smoldered like live coals against the drawn planes of his face. “If this is a jest, ‘tis not very funny.”
“I don’t know what ye’re talkin’ about.”
He thrust the slipper in his hand at her. “I’m talking about this. If my wife thinks to punish me by scaring me witless, I’ll thank you to tell me where she’s hidden herself.”
“I left her in the south tower, waitin’ fer ye.”
“Well, she’s not there now. I’ve combed the entire castle. The children haven’t seen her, and I can’t find a trace of her anywhere.”
As if sensing a spill of blood in the water, Lady Blanche came cruising over, her nostrils flaring. “Don’t fret yourself, my lord. Willow’s probably just gone off somewhere to sulk. ‘Twas always an unfortunate habit of hers, wasn’t it, Rufus? To whine, pout, or throw a tantrum whenever she didn’t get her way.”
When Willow’s father only muttered something unintelligible and went back to nursing his goblet of ale, Blanche’s smile tightened. “My Beatrix, however, was always as sweet-tempered as a lamb. Never did so much as a word of complaint pass those comely lips of hers.”
Bannor shot the woman a look that plainly proclaimed he thought she was a raving lunatic, before returning his attention to Fiona. “Think, Fiona. Think hard. Did Willow give you any hint, any clue, as to where she might have gone?”
Fiona shook her head, mumbling more to herself than to him. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have told the lass about the babe. But I thought she knew. I never dreamed ‘twould distress her so.”
“Is there something amiss with one of the babes? Which one?” Bannor’s desperate gaze swept the hall. “Peg? Mags? That one?” He pointed to the child in Annie’s arms, forgetting its name in his alarm.
Fiona blinked up at him, her rheumy blue eyes beginning to water. “Yer babe, m’lord. The one she’s carry in’.”
Blanche swore a bitter and distinctly unladylike oath. “We might as well pack up and go home, Rufus. The church will never grant them an annulment now.”
“Willow is carrying my child?” Bannor whispered, dizzied by a rush of shock.
Fiona nodded. “She was just as surprised to learn she was breedin’ as ye are, m’lord, if not more. Why, she stopped cryin’ right off when I told her. Her eyes grew round as two silvery moons, and she said ...” The old woman trailed off, biting her lip as if she wished she’d never spoken at all.
Bannor seized her arm. “What? What did she say?”
Fiona ducked her head. “She said, ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Bannor doesn’t want any more children.’ “
Bannor groaned. “Dear God, what have I done? Was she afraid I’d be angry with her? Did she threaten to run away? Surely she wouldn’t have been so foolish as to brave this blizzard just to escape me.”
Almost as if his words had invoked the storm’s wrath, the main doors at the far end of the hall flew open, letting in a deafening howl of wind and a blinding swirl of snow. Bannor took two long strides toward the door, hope warring with his despair. But the figure that staggered out of that icy cloud was not Willow, but Beatrix.
The girl had one arm wrapped around Desmond’s waist. Her face was nearly as pale as her hair, making the crimson hue of the blood streaming from his son’s brow even more shocking.
Bannor caught them both before they could fall. Clutching at his doublet, Beatrix gazed up at him, her blue eyes murky with terror. “Willow’s gone,” she whispered. “He’s taken her.”
Thirty
It took three squires to wrestle the door closed against the hammering fists of the wind. After making sure that his son was suffering from nothing more serious than being knocked senseless, Bannor handed the boy over to Fiona’s care. While the old woman sat him down on a bench and used her own kerchief to dab the blood from the shallow gash on his brow, Bannor jerked a tapestry from the wall and wrapped it around Beatrix’s shoulders. The girl’s teeth were chattering so hard she could barely talk.
“What happened, Bea?” Bannor asked, striving to keep his tone gentle despite his growing panic. “Who took Willow?”
“S-S-S-Stefan. Desmond and I were in the barn, h-hiding in the hayloft, when he came looking for a horse. He held a d-d-dagger to Willow’s throat and forced her to climb astride. When Desmond realized what was happening, he jumped down out of the loft and demanded that Stefan surrender. Stefan nearly ran him down.”
Bannor shot his son a fierce look. “That was very foolish of you, lad. And very brave.”
Desmond gave him a woozy salute. The lad’s halfhearted attempts to duck Fiona’s crooning ministrations were thwarted when she seized him by the ear and held him fast.
Blanche wagged one long, patrician finger at Beatrix. “And just what were you doing alone in a hayloft with that. . . that... boy? I’ll have you know, my lord, that if your son has compromised my daughter in any way, her stepfather and I will settle for naught less than a betrothal contract.” Her lips curved in a pious smile. “Or at the very least, a generous purse to compensate us for her virtue.”
Forcing himself to ignore both the woman’s jabbering and her daughter’s painful blush, Bannor caught Bea gently by the shoulders. “Why, Bea? I don’t understand. Why would Stefan believe he had any right to Willow?”
Beatrix’s voice dropped to an agonized whisper. “ ‘Twas all my doing. Stefan sent me here to seduce you, so he could have Willow all to himself. Then when you and Willow were quarreling and she told me I was welcome to you, I sent him a letter telling him all was going according to plan and ‘twas only a matter of time before I’d be sending for him. In truth, I forgot all about the letter, but when Stefan received your summons, he must have assumed our scheme had been successful. He didn’t come to Elsinore to attend Willow’s wedding...”
“He came to claim her for his own,” Bannor finished grimly. He whirled on Blanche, who took a hasty step backward. “Did you know of your son’s plot to abduct my bride, my lady?”
One of Blanche’s pale hands fluttered around her throat. “I should say not. Stefan has always been a headstrong lad. He doesn’t take well to not getting his way.”
Bannor stalked the woman, backing her up with each step. “I should warn you that I don’t take well to not getting my way, either. If your son harms so much as one hair on my wife’s head, I’ll settle for naught less than your own head on a platter.”
Blanche trotted backward the last few steps, stumbling right into her husband’s lap. “Are you going to allow him to speak to me that way, Rufus?”
Willow’s father lurched to his feet, dumping his wife to the floor in a spill of skirts. Although he was none too steady on his feet, he managed to get the goblet in his hand to his lips without spilling a single drop of ale. “And why not? If I’d had the courage to speak to you that way a long time ago, that wretched brat of yours might not have made off with my little girl.”
Savagely thinking ‘twas a pity Willow had not been there to witness that, Bannor strode back to Beatrix and seized her by the shoulders, no longer striving to gentle his grip. “I need to know which way they headed. If they kept to the road, I should be able to overtake them within the hour.”
“North,” Desmond mumbled, lurching to his feet. “They headed north. Across the meadows.”
Bannor had been known to bear even the harshest blow without flinching, but his son’s words staggered him. He sank down on the bottom step of the stairs, raking both hands through his hair.
Willow was out there somewhere. In the cold. In the snow. Without her shoe. Without him. In the time it had taken Beatrix and Desmond to stumble across the bailey, the ruthless hand of the wind would have already swept clean any trail
Stefan might have left.
Bannor could almost see her—her pearly white teeth beginning to chatter, her warm, pink skin growing stiff and blue. She would shiver so hard she would swear her very bones were knocking together. Icy blades of pain would stab her fingers and toes.
Then the shivering would stop. The pain would fade away. The blue tinge would creep into her eyelids, her fingertips, her lips. The pearls of frost clinging to her skin would crystallize into an icy shroud so hard that all the tears in the world wouldn’t melt it. Instead of dying with a child in her arms, as his mother had done, she would die with his child in her belly.
She would die without ever knowing how very much he loved both her and that child.
Bannor dropped his head into his hands. Somewhere in the darkest corner of his soul, he had believed that if he could somehow stop himself from loving Willow, he could keep her safe. If he never uttered the words, she would never leave him as his mother had done.
A gentle hand brushed his hair. For one crazy moment, Bannor thought it might be Willow’s, but he lifted his head to find Beatrix kneeling before him.
Tears spilled down her cheeks in a swelling torrent. “ ‘Tis all my fault, my lord. I would have never wished her harm, you know. Why, she’s the only real mother I’ve ever known.”
Ignoring Blanche’s outraged gasp, Bannor folded the girl into his arms, muffling her sobs against his chest. “Don’t cry, child,” he said fiercely. “I’ll find her. As God is my witness, I swear I shall find her and bring her back.”
As he pressed his eyes shut, Bannor could only pray that God wouldn’t have allowed him to swear such an oath if He wasn’t going to help him keep it.
“Listen!” Desmond cried, lunging to his feet.
Bannor cocked his head to the side, but all he could hear were Bea’s watery hiccups. He rose, gently guiding the girl into Fiona’s arms, but it still took him a bewildered moment to realize exactly what it was his son wanted him to hear.
Silence.
The wind had ceased its terrible wailing, leaving behind a hush as sweet and crystalline as the tolling of the chapel bells. Bannor rushed to the doors and flung them open. Feathers of snow no longer driven by the relentless lash of the wind brushed like angel wings against his face. A jolly pearl of a moon seemed to wink at him from amongst the scattering clouds, its luminous light drenching the snow in silver.
Charming the Prince Page 26
