Charming the Prince

by Teresa Medeiros

  He was not a man given to fidgeting. Noting his uneasiness, Fiona came over and thrust the youngest babe into his arms. Bannor would have been no more appalled had she handed him a severed head. He tried holding the cooing creature at arm’s length, but when it started to squirm, he tucked it under his arm as if it were one of the dried pig bladders his squires spent hours tossing and kicking about the courtyard.

  Exasperated, Fiona rescued the blanket-wrapped bundle and situated it neatly in the crook of his arm. “Don’t fret, m’lord,” she crooned, standing on tiptoe to tweak his cheek. “I’ve yet to meet a lass who could resist a strappin’ fellow with a babe in his arms.”

  Bannor opened his mouth to protest that the last thing he needed was a bride who found him irresistible, but ‘twas too late.

  An eager young squire had already rushed over to throw open the door of the chariot, revealing one slender doeskin-clad foot.

  Four

  As the chariot door swung open, Willow hesitated, glancing uncertainly at Sir Hollis.

  The knight hung back. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have eaten that entire mutton leg, my dear. You’d best go first. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Willow took a deep breath and gingerly slipped one leg out of the chariot. It would hardly do to come spilling out at her husband’s feet like a sack of barley. Thankful for the deep recesses of her hood, she kept her eyes fixed demurely on the cobblestones as she climbed down from the chariot, vowing to herself that she would not flinch when she first looked upon his face, no matter how deformed or unsightly it was.

  Only when she stood upon her own two feet did she dare to look up. And up. And up.

  Into the face of her prince.

  Willow gasped, convinced for the second time in that day that she had drifted into a dream. A dream sweeter and more enchanting than any that had come before it.

  But even she could never have dreamed the man who stood before her. She would never have thought to draw the shallow brackets around his mouth or to shade his chin with the merest hint of beard shadow. It had taken the kiss of the sun to bake faint furrows into his brow and darken his skin to a rich, deep gold. His hair was not lustrous samite, but raw silk, cropped to just above his shoulders and shot through with rare threads of silver. Both wit and humor glinted in the midnight blue depths of his eyes, and an elusive dimple in his right jaw only served to emphasize the sulky-sweet cant of his mouth.

  He was not slender as she’d fancied him to be, but broad and muscular. The determined jut of his jaw warned her that he was no boy, content to steal chaste kisses, but a man who would not rest until he possessed all she had to give.

  Her man.

  Flustered by her thoughts, she lowered her gaze. Only then did she realize he was holding something in his arms—perhaps another gift for her. Some costly treasure, no doubt, to be accompanied by a tender pledge of his affection.

  Willow lowered her hood, then tipped back her head and smiled at him.

  ———

  As Bannor gazed down upon the cloaked beauty who was now his wife, only one thought pierced his fog of desire.

  He was going to kill Hollis.

  If his hands hadn’t been otherwise occupied, he might have lunged past the woman and jerked the coward out of the chariot by his throat. As it was, he could only gaze down at her in paralyzed horror.

  A simple fillet circled her brow, the delicate band of gold making a valiant, yet futile, effort to tame the cloud of dark curls that framed her face. She had a small mouth. Her upper lip was slightly plumper than her lower, the perfect shape for a man to gently seize between his teeth in the breath before he kissed her. Her dark-lashed eyes were large and gray, but ‘twasn’t so much the look of them that stirred him, but the look in them. He’d had women gaze adoringly up at him, so sated with pleasure they could barely whisper his name, but he’d never had one look at him as if he was the answer to her every prayer. ‘Twas both compelling and unsettling.

  Bannor opened his mouth to welcome her to Elsinore.

  “Are you my mama?”

  Bannor clamped his mouth shut. Little Mary Margaret had broken ranks and was blinking up at the new arrival.

  “Are you my mama?” the little girl repeated, her golden ringlets bobbing as she tugged at the sleeve of the woman’s cloak.

  Willow’s gaze slowly shifted to the child. She blinked rapidly, as if she couldn’t quite comprehend what she was seeing. Before she could form a reply, Desmond said scornfully, “Of course she’s not your mama. Your mama’s dead.”

  Mary Margaret’s blue eyes welled with tears.

  Five-year-old Meg patted her on the shoulder, her own plump bottom lip beginning to quiver. “Don’t cry, Mary Margaret. At least you had a mama. Me and Margery and Colm, we never had no mama a’tall.”

  “That’s ‘cause you’re all ‘bastards,” Edward informed her cheerfully. “So is Peg and Mags.”

  Kell glowered, his small hands clenched into fists. “Don’t call our sister a bastard, you clod!”

  “There’s no shame in being a bastard,” Hammish said earnestly, tugging at Bannor’s free hand. “You’re a bastard, aren’t you, my lord?”

  “Aye, son, that I am,” Bannor murmured, watching his bride’s expression shift from wonder to confusion to horror. As she slowly took in the row of squabbling children, she began to shake her head as if waking from a dream.

  Or tumbling into a nightmare.

  Despite Meg’s attempts to console her, Mary Margaret’s sniffles soon escalated into sobs. Four-year-old twins Margery and Colm burst into sympathetic tears, striking up a mournful chorus better suited to a Greek tragedy than the farce that Bannor’s once well-ordered life was fast becoming.

  Kell broke ranks to give Edward a shove. “Now, see what you’ve done, you oaf! You made them all cry.”

  “I didn’t make them cry,” Edward protested, shoving him back. “Mary Margaret made them cry.”

  As lanky twelve-year-old Ennis dove between the two boys, the blows began to fall, punctuated by grunts and oaths. Desmond’s crow took to the air, flapping its splinted wing and cawing madly. Something small and furry scuttled down the leg of his breeches and up Meg’s kirtle, making her squeal. Hammish took one or two stray blows hard enough to make him stagger, but remained staring dutifully ahead, the only remaining link in their shattered chain. The boy’s stoicism reminded Bannor eerily of himself. The baby in Fiona’s arms soon took up the battle cry, squalling at the top of its lungs and shaking its little fists in the air.

  Only the babe Bannor was holding remained blissfully oblivious to the shouts and howls that threatened to deafen them all.

  “I will have silence!” Bannor roared.

  For the first time since his return from the war, the children obeyed him, lapsing into a hush so complete he could hear the flutter of the crow’s wings as it settled back on Desmond’s shoulder, and the shallow whisper of his bride’s breath.

  He sensed that his bride was only a step away from bolting. Fiona’s words came back to him—I’ve yet to meet a lass who could resist a strappin’ fellow with a babe in his arms.

  In an effort to erase her stricken expression, he thrust his burden into her arms. “My children and I would like to welcome you to Elsinore, my lady.”

  She eased back the blanket, then stood gazing down at the feathery perfection of the babe’s head.

  Her eyes were as cool as the ash from yesterday’s fire. “No, thank you,” she finally said, handing it back to him. “I’ve already eaten.”

  Sweeping the fur-trimmed train of her cloak behind her, she turned and climbed right back into the chariot, slamming the door in his face.

  Bannor stared, dumbfounded, at the stag carved into the chariot door. It wasn’t until the children began snickering that he realized the warmth slowly spreading through his groin had nothing to do with the spark of lust his bride had kindled in his loins, and everything to do with the toothless babe grinning up at him from its nest of blanke
ts.

  Five

  Willow sat stiffly on the chariot bench, her hands clenched in her lap, her eyes staring straight ahead. She had not stirred for a long time, not even when the door had flown open and a muscular arm dusted with dark hair had grabbed a handful of Sir Hollis’s tunic and yanked the cowering knight out of the chariot. She had half expected to be removed with a similar lack of ceremony, but it seemed her new husband was content to leave her alone.

  Alone. ‘Twas her destiny to be ever surrounded by others, yet ever alone. Her heart beat low and hollow in her ears, a mocking reminder of how freely and carelessly she would have offered it to a stranger. A stranger, it seemed, who had no more need of it than her stepmother had.

  Although the voices outside the chariot had subsided to hushed whispers, then silence, long ago, their querulous echoes still rang in her head.

  Are you my mama ?

  Of course, she’s not your mama. Your mama’s dead.

  At least you had a mama. We never had no mama a’tall.

  That’s ‘cause you’re all bastards.

  Willow shook her head to silence them. While extolling his master’s virtues, Sir Hollis had neglected to mention that several of Lord Bannor’s conquests must have been of an amorous nature.

  How many children had the man sired, for heaven’s sake? Ten? Twelve? Twenty? She hadn’t awakened from her horrified daze until the moment he had handed her the youngest babe, beaming as if he expected her to clasp the bratling to her breast and swoon with maternal delight. He would never know it was not the babe’s soft coo that had made her knees go weak, but the rugged charm of his smile. A smile that made promises and broke them in the same treacherous breath.

  You’re a bastard, aren’t you, my lord?

  Aye, son, that I am.

  His rueful confession should have warned her. He was no noble prince offering her his heart, but a wicked ogre commanding an ill-tempered army of dwarves. Willow touched a hand to her sooty curls, remembering his horrified expression when she had pushed back the hood of her cloak. At this very moment, he might be nursing a disappointment as bitterly keen as her own.

  “M’lady?”

  Willow started in dread, but the beseeching voice was neither a man’s nor a child’s, but a woman’s lilting brogue.

  “I’ve made ready yer chamber, if ye’d care to come inside.”

  Willow lifted the curtain and looked outside. A hunched figure was silhouetted against the shadows of night. She couldn’t very well remain in the chariot forever, she thought despairingly. Nor could she demand to return to a home where she was no longer welcome. Her papa would never allow her to defy Blanche’s wishes, and her stepmother would never return Lord Bannor’s gold.

  If she fled back to Bedlington, Blanche would no doubt have her trussed up, tossed over the back of a horse, and delivered right back into her husband’s arms. Even now, the prospect of being bound to such a man sent a strange shiver down her spine.

  “Come now, lass,” crooned the woman. “Ye’ve nothin’ to fear from our lord.”

  Willow swung open the door, abandoning her haven, though she knew in her heart that the woman was wrong.

  ———

  As the stooped crone led Willow through the broad, flagstone passages of the castle, she cast a toothless grin over her shoulder. “There’s no need to apologize fer yer shyness, lass. After I wed m’darlin’ Liam, God rest his randy soul, it took him two days and three flagons o’ ale to coax me out from under the bed. By then I was too drunk to do any thin’ but lay there with m’skirts over m’head.” She gave Willow an impish wink. “Not that Liam seemed to mind.”

  Shaking away a dark image of Lord Bannor ravishing her insensible body, Willow followed the crone up a winding staircase lit by fat beeswax candles perched on stone corbels.

  “Ye can’t blame a man for bein’ eager to sample his bride’s wares. But there’s no need to fret, lass. He’s gentle as a lamb, our Bannor is, despite what they say ‘bout his bein’ able to rip a man’s head off with one hand.”

  Willow swallowed hard, imagining Lord Bannor ravishing her insensible, headless body.

  “Aye, and if any man knows how to pleasure a lady, ‘tis our lord.”

  “ ‘Twould appear he’s had ample practice,” Willow said dryly.

  Fiona paused on the landing, drawing her nearer with one bony claw, as if to share a girlish confidence. “ Tis whispered he’s so potent he can make his babe quicken within a woman’s belly simply by lookin’ deep into her eyes.”

  Willow shuddered. “Then I shall endeavor to avert my gaze whenever he is near.”

  The woman cackled, her dried apple of a face puckering into a leer. “Such a vow would be easier to keep were the lad not so comely to look upon.”

  Willow could find no retort for the truth. Her steps grew more leaden as they climbed a second set of winding stairs. It seemed her prison was to be a tower. She had expected a spartan cell, or perhaps a straw pallet laid at the foot of one of his bratling’s cradles, identical to the one she’d slept on at Bedlington. As the door at the top of the stairs swung open at Fiona’s urging, her breath caught in a startled gasp.

  The moment Blanche had arrived at Bedlington, she had laid claim to every treasure Papa had not yet sold. She’d stripped the remaining tapestries from the walls of the great hall and hung them over her bed. She’d sipped her mead from the silver chalices once used to offer the holy sacraments in the chapel. She’d slept in the pearl-encrusted girdle that had belonged to Willow’s mother. Over the years, Willow had forgotten how seductive such luxury could be.

  The plastered walls of this bower had been hung with palls of purple silk. Fragrant sprigs of sweet fennel and pennyroyal had been strewn across a timber floor hewn from the finest Norwegian fir. A fire crackled merrily within the belly of an arched fireplace capped by a stone hood.

  Her bed was no straw pallet, but a grand four-poster, curtained with hangings of embroidered linen. Most wondrous of all was the lancet window set deep in the thick stone wall. Unlike the arrow loop on the landing, it was not veiled with crude oak shutters, but glazed with glass—a treasure so rare and precious Willow had never dreamed she would see it in her lifetime.

  The chamber looked as if it had been prepared for a pampered princess. Or a cherished bride.

  As Willow caught a glimpse of her own stunned reflection in the window glass, she resisted the urge to spin round and round like a giddy child.

  “I do hope the chamber pleases ye, m’lady,” Fiona said, beaming up at her. “ ‘Twas Lady Margaret’s chamber, and Lady Mary’s before her.” The old woman crossed herself. “God rest their gentle souls.”

  Willow’s giddy delight faded. “Lady Margaret and Lady Mary?”

  “Aye—m’lord’s first two wives. As sweet-tempered and dear as angels, they were.” She shook her head and made a sad little tsking noise with her tongue. “The poor lad has always blamed hisself fer their untimely deaths.”

  “As well he should,” Willow muttered beneath her breath. They’d no doubt died spewing out his babes in that very bed.

  The old woman’s words cast a pall over the cozy chamber. The precocious Beatrix and her married sisters had sometimes whispered of men who measured the vigor of their manhood by the number of children they could sire. Men who looked upon their wives as little more than fertile fields to be plowed thoroughly and repeatedly until their seed took root. Perhaps this Lord Bannor was just such a man. Perhaps he hadn’t sought her out to be a chattel to his children, but a slave to his insatiable lusts.

  Her thoughts must have been apparent for Fiona wrapped an arm around her and gave her a quick, hard squeeze. “If ye’re tempted to cower under the bed as I did, lass, just remember that Lord Bannor won’t need a flagon o’ ale to coax ye into his arms. ‘Tis said he has charms no maiden can resist.”

  “That’s just what I’m afraid of,” Willow whispered.

  But the woman was already gone, leaving her all alone
to await her lord’s pleasure.

  ———

  “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t throttle you?” Bannor demanded for the dozenth time as he paced the north tower, glancing off the rounded walls like a cornered stag.

  “I’m your only worthy chess opponent,” Hollis suggested hopefully.

  Bannor leveled an icy glare at him. “I defeated you the last eleven times we played.”

  “Ah, but it took you more than five moves.”

  “Only because I felt sorry for you. A weakness I’m in no danger of succumbing to at the moment.”

  “More’s the pity,” Hollis said glumly, slumping deeper into his chair as if hoping such a pathetic posture would make him a smaller target for Bannor’s wrath.

  “I send you out to find me a maternal, bovine dowd to mother my children, and you bring me a ... a ...” Bannor sputtered to a halt, at a loss to describe the exquisite creature who had emerged from the fur-lined depths of the hood. His voice both roughened and softened as her piquant features and cloud of sable hair danced before his eyes. “A goddess!”

  “Not a goddess—a Madonna,” Hollis protested. “You should have seen her with her brothers and sisters. She was the very soul of tenderness and devotion. The moment I laid eyes on her, I knew she would welcome your own children with open arms.”

  “Aye, that she did.” Bannor slapped at his chest through the thin linen of his shirt. “That’s why I’m marching around the tower in naught but my shirt and hose while the maidservants scrub piss out of my finest doublet.”

  Hollis heaved a defeated sigh. “When I first saw her, she was wearing a cap. And apples.”

  Bannor swung around to blink at his steward, wondering if the man had well and truly lost his senses.

  “By the time I got a clear look at her, ‘twas too late. The bargain had been struck. She had defied her own father to plight her troth to you.”

  “So you chose to defy me by accepting her pledge.”

  It was a statement, not a question, and Hollis wisely held his silence. Until he muttered beneath his breath, “You would have done the same.”