Charming the Prince

  “Since you wouldn’t want anyone to know you’ve only been kissed once,” he murmured, the husky note in his voice making her quiver, “I feel ‘tis my duty, as a man of honor, to kiss you again.”

  “How very chivalrous of you, sir.” Beatrix leaned forward, her full lips puckering in the seductive pout that had always come as naturally to her as breathing. Desmond’s lips were only an uneven breath away from her own when she whispered, “But you’ll have to catch me first.”

  Bursting into laughter, she sprang to her feet and darted for the barn door, her braid slipping through his fingers like cornsilk.

  “Why, you treacherous little wench!” he shouted, bounding to his own feet. But as he cleared a bale of hay in a single leap and went racing after her, he was laughing nearly as heartily as she was.

  ———

  Willow stood at a narrow arched window on the second level of the castle, blinking down in disbelief at the barren garden below. For the past five minutes, Desmond had been chasing Beatrix around and around a stone bench, his breathless demands for her surrender mingling with her shrieks of laughter. That didn’t surprise Willow, since the two of them spent most of their waking hours at each other’s throats.

  The shock had come when Desmond had vaulted over the bench and wrapped his arms around Beatrix. Instead of boxing his ears, as Willow had expected her to do, Beatrix had ducked her head and cast him a shy glance utterly foreign to the bold little vixen.

  Willow’s mouth fell open as Desmond cupped Beatrix’s chin in his hand and awkwardly tilted her face to his. The warm mist of their breath mingled as their lips met in a kiss so innocent and full of promise that Willow had to look away, her eyes stinging.

  Ashamed of herself for spying upon their tender interlude, she silently drew the shutter closed. Surely she wasn’t so petty as to still be suffering twinges of envy over her stepsister’s good fortune! How could she begrudge Beatrix the devotion of a besotted lad, when she herself was among the most fortunate of women?

  She had a home. She had a family. She no longer had to labor from dawn to dusk in a vain quest to please a mistress who could never be satisfied.

  And she had Bannor.

  As Willow leaned against the window embrasure, a tender smile softened her lips. Her husband was indeed a man of his word. He had promised her a banquet, and delivered nightly a feast of the senses. He eagerly sought new ways to pleasure her without getting her with child, each more delicious than the last.

  Only last night he had challenged her to a chess game, in which they were each forced to surrender not only their captured pieces, but an item of clothing as well. Willow had won by forfeit, since the sight of her naked breasts licked by tongues of firelight had maddened Bannor to the point of distraction. Growling beneath his breath, he had swept the chessboard to the floor and lunged across the table at her. Willow had been unable to resist murmuring “Checkmate” in his ear as he lowered her to the wolfskin rug in front of the hearth.

  It wasn’t until she was curled up in the warm cocoon of his arms, listening to the oddly soothing rumble of his snores, that a faint melancholy had stolen over her. Bannor might be her prince, but he would never utter those three magical words that would transform her into his princess.

  Willow was not so naive as to believe most marriages were built on a foundation of love. On the contrary, most were arranged when the parties were still too young to understand the meaning of the word. Her own papa certainly hadn’t married Blanche for love, but for the generous dowry provided by the king.

  But Willow could still remember the look on her papa’s face when he had told her that he would never love any woman as he had loved her mama.

  Shaking her head at her own folly, she turned away from the window. No matter how cherished Bannor made her feel, perhaps somewhere deep inside, she would always be that awkward little girl who had groped for her papa’s hand, only to have him draw it out of her reach.

  Twenty Seven

  Sir Rufus’s hands trembled as he uncorked the silver flask and brought it to his lips. The chariot chose that moment to buck its way through yet another jagged rut. Ale dribbled down his chin. Feeling more like an old man than ever before, he swiped it away, then took a deep draught from the flask.

  The spicy-sweet brew settled heavily in his belly, but not even its agreeable warmth could take the strident edge off his wife’s laughter or soften the smirk curving his stepson’s lips. Blanche and Stefan had been whispering and giggling together for most of the journey, behaving more like lovers than mother and son.

  There was no denying that his strapping blond stepson looked even more satisfied with himself than usual. He reclined on the padded seat next to Blanche, his long, muscular legs taking up more than their share of the chariot’s scant room. As the wagon jolted through another rut, the lad’s knee struck Rufus’s gouty one with a thump that made Rufus wince.

  “Sorry.” Stefan flashed his teeth in a wolfish grin, looking less than penitent, then drew a scrap of parchment from the satin purse dangling from his belt and began to study it.

  The vellum was yellowed and creased, as if it had been opened, read, then lovingly refolded, countless times. A dab of crimson wax still clung to its broken seal. Rufus craned his neck, but still couldn’t make out the words formed by the smudged ink.

  “Would you care for a cushion, dear?” Blanche inquired, blocking his view with one of the plump pillows she had embroidered with her own pale, graceful hands.

  Rufus shifted his gaze to his wife. She was always so kind. So solicitous. So mindful of his comfort. Yet he couldn’t quite banish the notion that she’d rather be pressing the pillow over his face.

  “No, thank you,” he said, leaning away from her. “We should reach the godforsaken castle soon enough. That is, if we’re not buried alive by the blizzard that’s coming.” He drew back the velvet curtain and glared at the clouds brooding over the hostile crags. “Don’t you find it rather odd that Lord Bannor would summon us in such a high-handed manner? After all, he’s already wed Willow once. In my day, that was more than sufficient.”

  Stefan and Blanche blinked at him, looking like a pair of cats who had just shared a particularly tasty canary.

  “Perhaps Lord Bannor simply seeks to give Willow the sort of wedding she deserves,” Blanche ventured.

  “That’s what we all desire, isn’t it?” Stefan murmured, tucking the parchment back into his purse. “To see Willow get what she deserves.”

  Unsettled by the hungry gleam in the lad’s eyes, Rufus nodded toward Blanche. “At least ‘twill give you the opportunity to fetch home that rebellious daughter of yours.”

  Stefan exchanged another enigmatic glance with his mother. “Beatrix might very well choose to remain at Elsinore. In her last missive, she assured me that Lord Bannor had taken quite a fancy to her.”

  “ ‘Tis fortunate we left the rest of the children at home,” Rufus muttered. “He might have taken a fancy to them and decided to keep them as well.”

  His hands were still trembling when he let the curtain fall. He had no idea why the prospect of seeing his daughter again should make him quiver with both anticipation and foreboding.

  He could still remember the last time he had seen her— standing before the priest in the chapel at Bedlington, pale and steadfast. Her voice had not faltered, not even when she had made her vows to a stranger who would soon hand her off to another stranger.

  I’ll not sell my only daughter!

  And why not, Papa? ‘Twouldn’t be the first time, would it?

  As he recalled her accusing words, Rufus’s heart twisted with a painful mixture of anger and regret. The girl had no right to reproach him! He had always striven to do what was best for her, had he not? After all, everyone knew that a little girl needed a mother. It wouldn’t have done to let her keep running through the castle and meadows that surrounded Bedlington like some wild, wee sprite.

  And hadn’t Blanche assured him that after gi
ving birth to six children of her own, she knew just how to handle a headstrong little girl? Hadn’t she promised to temper Willow’s natural exuberance with maidenly restraint? Whenever Rufus had protested that Blanche might be being a bit too harsh on the child, had she not soothed him with her gentle words, her honeyed lips? How could he protest the heaviness of her hand against his child’s flesh when it was wielded with such tender skill against his own? How could he protest the sharpness of the same tongue that wreaked such delicious havoc in the privacy of their bedchamber?

  The sparkle might have faded from Willow’s eyes and her bubbling laughter become naught more than a memory, but Blanche had assured him ‘twas only the ransom the girl must pay for leaving behind the frivolous pleasures of childhood to seek the more satisfying joys of womanhood.

  Rufus took another swig of the wine, grimacing to find it more bitter than sweet.

  As the carriage rocked its way up a steep hill, Rufus settled deeper into his cloak. The wine might have failed to ease his foreboding or steady his hands, but it had cast a leaden net over his eyelids. He closed his eyes, dreaming that they had already arrived at Elsinore. Dreaming that he descended from the chariot with the sprightly step of the man he had been before the war and Blanche had robbed him of his pride. Dreaming that a little girl with bouncing dark curls and sparkling gray eyes came racing across the bailey to greet him, an adoring cry on her lips. As she flung herself into his arms and smothered his beard with kisses, he had to bury his face in her curls to hide his tears.

  ———

  Willow raced through the bailey in desperate pursuit of the pig Mary Margaret had just liberated from the irate butcher’s ax-wielding clutches.

  “Ennis!” she shrieked. “He’s coming your way!”

  Laughter rippled from her throat as the creature darted between Ennis’s gangly legs, then doubled back, in what Willow would have sworn was a deliberate charge, to knock first Margery, and then Colm, flat on their plump little backsides. Willow’s laughter deepened to pained grunts as Mary raced over and began to climb her like a tree, in a frantic attempt to escape the beast’s wrath.

  As Edward and Kell closed in from opposite corners, the pig squealed in outrage. The boys dove for the animal at the precise same moment. They missed it entirely, knocking heads with a crack loud enough to make Willow wince.

  As Hammish appeared in the doorway to the herb garden, the pig slowed to a trot. The boy crept forward, his cupped hand extended before him. “Here, piggy-piggy,” he crooned. “I’ve a treat for you.”

  Mesmerized by the lad’s singsong invitation, the pig snuffled once at the air, then buried his snout in Hammish’s palm, rooting blissfully among the acorns he found there.

  “Nice piggy,” Hammish crooned, scratching behind the animal’s bristly ears. “Sweet piggy”

  “Tasty piggy,” Ennis muttered, snorting in disgust as he tried to brush the mudstains from his breeches.

  “Little does he know that Hammish is more likely to eat him than the butcher,” Mary predicted from her perch atop Willow’s shoulders.

  “Do you really think Hammish would eat the butcher?” Edward asked, staggering to his feet.

  “He would if he was hungry enough,” Kell replied, rubbing his own head.

  Mary Margaret chose that moment to flounce into the courtyard like some sort of pygmy princess. “Oh, there you are, you naughty pig. I was wondering where you got off to.” Looping a lavender ribbon around the animal’s neck, she began to parade him around the courtyard, utterly oblivious to the chaos she had caused.

  Willow dislodged the toe of Mary’s slipper from her ear, and lowered the little girl to the ground. “There you go, dear. I do believe ‘tis safe now.”

  As the child went scampering off to admire the newly docile pig, Willow examined the damage done to her kirtle. Muddy handprints and footprints stained the once plush purple wool of her skirt. Her damask bodice had fared little better. Its jeweled buttons had all been driven into the dirt when she’d fallen flat in a vain attempt to tackle the fleet-hooved pig. She lifted her hem to discover that her stockings were torn in several places and one of her shoes was missing.

  Chuckling ruefully, Willow drew off her sash and used it as a kerchief to bind back her disheveled hair. If she was going to behave like a swineherd, she might as well look like one, too. As she went in search of her shoe, the icy bite of the wind whipped roses into her cheeks. If the black-edged underbellies of the clouds massing in the north were any indication, their reprieve from the snow might very well be coming to an end.

  She crawled beneath a drummer’s cart, but earned naught for her trouble but a fresh smudge of mud on her nose. When she emerged, Bannor and Hollis were striding toward her.

  Bannor looked every inch the prince with his neatly trimmed beard, ivory hose, and doublet cut from sapphire blue wool. He was so handsome he took her breath away.

  Unable to resist teasing him, Willow hitched up herskirts in a mocking curtsy that revealed her shredded stockings, and wiggled the grubby toes of her shoeless foot at him in a most impudent manner. “Good day, my lord. Do you fancy my new attire?”

  Bannor pressed a distracted kiss to her brow and murmured, “ Tis most enchanting, my dear,” before proceeding toward the gatehouse.

  Willow dropped her skirts and gazed after him, baffled. He’d been behaving in a most peculiar manner all day—pacing the length of the great hall one moment, flinging himself into a chair to restlessly drum his fingers on its arm the next. Even now, his uneasy gaze kept darting between the winding road that led to the castle and the inky clouds brewing over the mountains. He didn’t even seem to notice that his daughter was dragging a full-grown pig around the courtyard by a lavender ribbon.

  At least Sir Hollis’s glum demeanor was no mystery. Bannor’s steward was no doubt still suffering from Netta’s chilly rebuffs of his every overture. Despite the knight’s engaging warmth toward her, the woman’s frosty pride showed no sign of thawing.

  “Stop following me, you wretched little boy, or I’ll box your impertinent ears.” Willow whirled around as Beatrix came marching out of the herb garden, clanging the gate shut behind her.

  Desmond vaulted over it, landing gracefully on the balls of his feet. “I’d rather be a wretched little boy than a great haughty girl, with my prissy nose always stuck up in the air.”

  The two of them had been making an almost comical effort to keep up their pretense of despising each other. Their constant bickering was at such odds with the yearning glances they cast each other when they thought no one was looking that Willow could not resist laughing out loud. When Desmond went stalking off toward the other children in a mock huff, Willow began to limp toward her stepsister, intending to recruit her in the search for her shoe.

  A majestic blast from a hunting horn froze Willow in her tracks. A wave of excitement rippled through the bailey. Visitors were a rare occurrence in the heart of winter. Especially visitors consequential enough to be announced by the lookout in the gatehouse watchtower.

  Willow turned, squinting toward the road.

  A single chariot was wending its way up the hill, accompanied not by a retinue of knights, but by three scruffy-looking men-at-arms who slouched low in their saddles.

  Even from a distance, Willow could see the slivers of gilt peeling from the chariot’s cream-colored wheels. The chariot wasn’t drawn by six snowy white steeds, but by a team of mismatched cart horses. Yet the bells threaded through their bridles struck a discordant note in Willow’s memory.

  That off-key echo seemed to go on and on, deafening her to everything but the sound of Beatrix behind her, breathing out the one word guaranteed to send a jagged splinter of dread plunging through Willow’s heart.

  “Mama?”

  With each revolution of the chariot’s wheels, time seemed to roll backward, hurtling her into the past. As the chariot grew larger and larger, Willow could feel herself growing smaller and smaller. She almost wished she would
just go on shrinking until she disappeared altogether.

  Her gaze still riveted on the road, she touched a hand to the dusty kerchief that bound her curls, then absently smoothed her bodice, half expecting to find a row of clumsily stitched roses embroidered there.

  She never saw Bannor emerge from the gatehouse, beaming with anticipation. She never saw him nudge Hollis and murmur, “See the look of surprise on her face,” or heard Hollis hiss, “If you ask me, she looks as if she’s going to be ill.”

  She only saw that familiar chariot rumbling up the drawbridge, passing beneath the arch of the gatehouse, and rolling to a halt not twenty feet in front of her. One of Bannor’s squires hastened forward to throw open the door.

  Everyone in the bailey seemed to hold their breath as one elegant hand, shrouded to the elbow in a pristine white glove, emerged from that silken cocoon to take the blushing squire’s arm. Time might have tinted Blanche’s blond hair with silver, but the smile that played around her lips had lost none of its enigmatic charm. The pearl-encrusted girdle that had once belonged to Willow’s mother hugged her shapely hips.

  Her gaze flickered across the bailey, lighting briefly on Willow. Stepping down from the carriage, she cried, “Oh, my beloved daughter, how I have missed you!”

  As she started toward Willow with arms flung wide, Bannor frowned. “Is it possible I could have misjudged the woman so sorely?”

  But at that precise moment, Blanche went flying past Willow as if she didn’t exist, and threw her arms around an open-mouthed Bea.

  Twenty Eight

  Beatrix hung awkwardly in her mother’s embrace, looking as confused and miserable as a fox with its paw caught in a poacher’s trap. Blanche was crooning, Bannor was glowering, and Desmond was glaring at Beatrix as if she’d deliberately betrayed him. Willow watched it all through a murky veil of shock.