Charming the Prince

by Teresa Medeiros

  A single tear spilled down the boy’s cheek. He pressed his face to the crossbar, but could do nothing to hide the sobs that wracked his narrow shoulders.

  Willow drew in a shaky breath of her own. So their mischief was not wicked or malicious as Stefan’s and Reanna’s had been, but was only a desperate bid for their father’s attention. And they weren’t seeking his attention so much as they were seeking proof of his love. She knew only too well how futile a quest that could be.

  Willow tore at the pillory’s iron latch, shredding one of her fingernails. When she lifted the crossbar, she half expected Desmond to bolt, but he crumbled into a sitting position on the platform, burying his face in the crook of one arm.

  Willow longed to comfort him as she had so often longed to comfort Harold or Gerta. She resisted the temptation by drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. She sat quietly while he cried, her gaze fixed on the frosty opal of a moon that had just begun to peep shyly over the castle ramparts.

  She waited until he swiped at his nose with the back of his hand before choosing the apple with the least bruises from her pile of missiles and holding it out to him.

  He scowled suspiciously at her.

  “I may be a wicked stepmother, but ‘tis not poisoned, if thats what you fear.”‘

  “I s’pose I couldn’t blame you if it was,” he confessed sheepishly, snatching the apple from her hand and biting a juicy chunk out of it. “Not after that horrid thing we did to your hair.”

  “ ‘Twill grow back in time. I hope.” Willow hugged her knees even tighter, also hoping that the sooner she made her own confession, the less painful it would be. “You needn’t consider me a rival for your father’s affections, Desmond. Although he is noble enough to honor his vows, Lord Bannor has made it quite clear that he was very disappointed in Sir Hollis’s choice of a bride.” She blinked up at the moon. “He will never love me.”

  “Oh, we know that now,” Desmond said cheerfully, nibbling his way around the gutted apple core. “ ‘Twas him who gave us the idea of driving you away.”

  Willow whipped her head around to stare at him. “Oh, he did, did he?”

  “Aye. We were just going to play a couple of pranks on you in the beginning. Then Kell climbed up on the roof to drop a stinkpot down the chimney of the tower, and overheard Father tell Sir Hollis that the best way to get you gone was to let you spend as much time as possible in our company.”

  Willow felt as if she had been the one struck over the head with a branch. She knew Bannor regretted marrying her, but she hadn’t suspected that he was so eager to be rid of her that he would use his own children to drive her out of his life.

  “You needn’t look so insulted,” Desmond said, tossing the apple core over his shoulder. “ ‘Twasn’t very flattering to us, either.”

  She frowned. “No, I don’t suppose it was.”

  “But it made sense of what Edward heard the night you came to Elsinore. Edward’s a bit of a dunderhead when it comes to spying, so we thought it was just gibberish at the time.”

  “And just what did Edward hear the night I came to Elsinore?” she asked, although she was almost certain she didn’t want to know.

  “Well, he was peeping through the squint in the north tower wall—”

  “The squint?”

  “Aye, ‘tis a tiny hole in the mortar that connects to the secret passageway in the wall.” Desmond shrugged as if living in a castle honeycombed with secret passages and peppered with peepholes was the most ordinary thing in the world to him. “Most of the chambers in the castle have got them. Fiona told us our grandfather had them built so he could spy on his female guests while they disrobed, then smuggle them into his chambers after his wife was abed.”

  Well! Willow thought. That would certainly explain the niggling sensation that she was always being watched, and the spectral giggles that haunted her whenever she was alone. “What a miserable old lech your grandfather must have been! I suppose I should warn Bea to start wearing a chemise to bed.”

  “Oh, must you?” Desmond blurted out, his dismay unmistakable. He had enough manners to blush beneath Willow’s frigid stare. “Anyway,” he hastily continued, ducking his head, “Edward was peeping through the squint when he heard Sir Hollis say that swearing a vow of celibacy would be much nicer than bedding you or some fat old fishwife with a mustache. Father couldn’t bear the thought of giving up women for good, so Sir Hollis offered to keep you for himself. Father told him it would be unfair to ask him to make such a terrible sacrifice.”

  Willow gasped. Was there to be no end to the insults she must endure from the wretch’s faithless tongue?

  “Then Father mentioned a convent. He and Sir Hollis both agreed ‘twas the only fit place for a woman such as you.”

  Willow would have gasped again if her breath had not frozen in her chest. A convent! Bannor found her so abhorrent that he would lock her way in a convent? He would doom her to a life of piety and celibacy. She would never know the kiss of her prince or that of any other man. She would never know his kiss.

  Desmond peered into her pale, still face, a hint of panic flaring in his gamin green eyes. “You’re not going to cry, are you? I hate it when the girls cry. I’d rather you whacked me on the head again.”

  “No,” Willow said calmly, rising to her feet. “I’m not going to whack you on the head. And I’m not going to cry.”

  She had no intention of wasting another tear on his traitorous father. Just as she had no intention of wasting another moment struggling to earn the love of a man who was so stingy with his affection he wouldn’t even spend it on his own children. She’d already squandered too many tears and too many moments striving for a love that could not be won or earned, yet was never freely given.

  Rage poured through her, washing her heart clean of the blood from its fresh wounds and searing the old wounds into scars that would serve her well in the battle to come.

  Unnerved by her icy calm, Desmond stammered, “D-don’t not cry for my sake. Blubber all you want if ‘twill make you feel better. I’ll just stick my fingers in my ears.”

  Before he could, Willow said, “I was just remembering something my father once told me.”

  “And what would that be?” Desmond asked.

  She tugged the boy to his feet. He hung helpless in her grasp, plainly captivated against his will by the storm of mischief brewing in her eyes. She gave his freckled hand a squeeze before bending down to whisper, “All it takes to make allies of foes is a common enemy.”

  Eleven

  When Bannor emerged from his tower the following morning, an uncommon spring lightened his step. He felt almost as he had the morning after a resounding victory over the French. ‘Twas a most perplexing sensation. Had he won yesterday’s contest, his petition for an annulment would be on its way to Edward, and Willow would be on her way to Wayborne Abbey.

  He threw back his shoulders as he bounded down the stairs, whistling the first few majestic bars of “Might Triumphant O’er Evil.” As he entered the great hall, he expected to find a demure Willow holding court over a penitent Desmond and a table full of meek and obedient children, cowed by the example she had made of their mischievous brother. But the high table was empty, its oaken surface barren of all but a scattered handful of crumbs.

  Bannor’s whistle died on a hollow note. What if Willow was gone after all? What if she had run away to punish him for his indifference? He swept an anxious gaze across the hall, oblivious to the curious glances cast him by the knights and squires being served by the bustling pages.

  Fiona emerged from the kitchens, one of the babies draped over her shoulder. Bannor squinted at it, but still couldn’t tell if it was wee Peg or wee Mags.

  “And where is Lady Willow this morn?” he inquired, hoping to give the impression that her answer was of little import to him.

  Fiona shrugged, dislodging a cheerful burp from the babe. “Off with the wee ones somewhere, I s’pose, m’lord. Th
ey gobbled up their porridge, then darted off as fast as their legs would carry ‘em.”

  “And did Willow gobble up her porridge as well?”

  “Aye, I believe she finished first. ‘Twas her who was urgin’ ‘em to make haste.”

  Bannor frowned. An honorable man would be pleased that his new wife and his children were getting along so well, but Fiona’s words made him uneasy. He shook off the sensation, telling himself he was being absurd. He ought to be looking forward to a day of spirited combat and mayhem in the lists. Now that Willow had put an end to Desmond’s reign of terror once and for all, he was free to devote himself to training his men with his old relish.

  He helped himself to a chunk of brown bread from a squire’s trencher and started for the door, nearly stumbling over the enormous heap of goods piled in the middle of the floor.

  “Fiona! What’s the meaning of all this?”

  Fiona came bustling over, beaming a toothless smile. “ Tis a tribute to yer lady, m’lord. Gifts to thank the lass for takin’ young Desmond in hand.” She pointed to each item in turn. “The beekeeper sent a dozen jars of honey. The candlemaker sent a bushel of wax candles. The butcher sent a salted ham. The mat weaver sent a—”

  Bannor held up a hand to silence her. “Very well, Fiona. I think I understand.”

  He frowned down at the bounty. None of his people had ever sent him gifts, except for those due him as their lord and master on ceremonial feast days. He wasn’t sure how he felt about them paying homage to his bride. Especially not when he should be the one showering her with extravagant gifts—a silk wimple to crown her newly shorn curls, a delicate silver chain to drape around her alabaster throat, a glowing teardrop of a ruby to nestle between her plump, succulent...

  “Gak.”

  “Hmmm?” Bannor murmured, still lost in his reverie.

  “Gak!” the baby in Fiona’s arms repeated, reaching out to bop him in the nose with one tiny, pink fist.

  Bannor flinched. The baby chortled. Eyeing the child ruefully, Bannor shook his head. If he didn’t stop dwelling upon them, ‘twould be only a matter of time before those plump, succulent breasts of Willow’s were put to use nursing a creature identical to this one. Then another. And another ... He shuddered.

  “I’m sorry, m’lord,” Fiona said, struggling to rearrange her burden. “The wee imp has a way o’ slippin’ out o’ m’grasp.”

  “No harm done,” Bannor replied, tweaking the baby’s nose. “I suspect she was only trying to warn me of a danger I’d do well to remember.”

  ———

  By the time Bannor reached the lists, the spring had returned to his step. The mere prospect of battle, genuine or mock, was enough to make his blood quicken. His nostrils flared, drinking in the musky perfume of leather and horse sweat. Only on the battlefield were the lines of engagement clearly drawn. Only on the battlefield was he allowed to employ both his wit and his might to defeat his enemy. He never had to worry that one of his men might burst into tears if he raised his voice to a roar, or that a clumsy blow might crush his opponent’s feelings instead of his head.

  The sand-sprinkled field was already teeming with men engaged in casual swordplay and halfhearted wrestling matches. The clash of steel faded as he made his way through their ranks, answering their murmured “My lord’s” and deferential bows with a nod and a smile of his own. He still missed the easy camaraderie of war, where need and desperation had made brothers of them all—lord, vassal, and lowliest servant.

  A gangly squire came scampering out of the stables that bordered the list as he approached. “What’s it to be, m’lord? Shall I fetch your sword or your lance?”

  Bannor gave the field a measuring look. “What do you say, men?” he called out. “Shall we joust?”

  A rousing cheer greeted his words. Not one of them could resist the challenge of controlling over a thousand pounds of straining horseflesh between their thighs. Nor the opportunity to unseat the most recent rival produced by their constant taunting and petty squabbling.

  A few of them even dared to shoot their lord a speculative glance. They were no doubt remembering how Hollis had so soundly trounced him yesterday. Bannor bit back a smile. They would not find him so easy to best on this day.

  The squire sprinted back from the stables, fighting to juggle lance, shield, and helm.

  “Slow down, lad, before you impale yourself.” Bannor put out a hand to arrest his headlong flight. “Or me.”

  He inclined his head, inviting the boy to slip the helm over it. As he did so, Bannor found himself enveloped in a choking cloud of white. He fumbled blindly for the helm, jerking it off and shaking his head. Flour flew everywhere.

  The squire stumbled backward, aghast with horror. “Oh, my lord!” It was impossible to determine whether he was beseeching his heavenly or his earthly master. “ ‘Twas not my doing, I swear it.”

  Bannor swiped the coarse stuff from his eyes and mouth, knowing he ought to be thankful it wasn’t pepper. Or honey. Someone in the crowd snickered.

  “Silence,” he shouted, snatching the lance from the lad’s hand and banging it on the ground. The weapon slowly folded in on itself until its top half hung by a thin sliver of wood.

  “Maybe that’s why that bride o’ his ain’t breedin’ yet,” one of the men murmured. “His lance has gone limp.”

  A helpless wave of laughter rippled through their ranks.

  Bannor tossed down the shattered lance, sweeping a murderous glare over them. They snapped to attention, swallowing their grins. His nape prickled and he swung around, scanning the tree-dotted meadow just beyond the list. He could not shake the sensation that he was being watched by unseen eyes. Was that a woman’s laughter he heard or simply the mocking echo of the wind?

  “Shall I f-f-fetch you a fresh helm and a new lance, my lord?” the squire stammered.

  Realizing that the unfortunate lad was only a snivel away from wetting his braies, Bannor resisted his first impulse to roar a reply. “Just fetch my horse, son,” he said through gritted teeth. “ Tis all I need.”

  He no longer had any interest in jousting. He simply wanted to escape his men-at-arms’ pitying looks and sly asides.

  Bannor stood at rigid attention, his hands locked at the small of his back, while he awaited the squire’s return. His men exchanged nervous looks, but only one of them dared to clear his throat. The awkward silence stretched until it was broken by the tinkling of bells, so delicate and ethereal that Bannor once again scanned the meadow, half expecting to see a band of fairy folk frolicking among the toadstools.

  The tinkling swelled as the squire emerged from the stables, leading the white stallion who had carried Bannor into more battles than he could remember.

  La Mort Galloping, the French had christened him. Standing over seventeen hands high, the pale horse had cut a swath of terror through the ranks of his enemies, rippling like molten moonlight through the blackest night.

  But that was before someone had woven pink ribbons through his silky tail and mane and draped a harness of silver bells over his neck. They jingled merrily with each plodding step he took until at last the stallion stood before Bannor. As he hung his mighty head inshame, a crown of chrysanthemums slid down over his brow, leaving him to eye Bannor with one soulful brown eye.

  Bannor rubbed the beast’s velvety nose, knowing exactly how he must feel.

  “I only left him alone in his stall for a moment, my lord, I swear it,” the squire said, beginning to babble in earnest. “I can’t imagine who would have done such a dreadful thing.”

  “Nor can I.” Undeterred by the violent jingling of the harness, Bannor jerked the reins out of the lad’s quaking hands and swung himself astride the horse. “But I intend to find out.”

  He kicked the horse into a canter. He’d traveled only a few paces when the saddle slid sideways, dumping him on his ass hard enough to jar his teeth. A cloud of flour flew up from his hair.

  He sat there for a long time. Long enou
gh for the horse to trot around the list once, then return to nudge him in the shoulder. Bannor fingered the leather cinches dangling from the stallion’s back. They hadn’t been cut. They’d been deliberately frayed to the point where they would be sure to give way as soon as they were forced to bear the weight of a rider—especially a rider of his weight and stature.

  As Bannor climbed to his feet, every man on that field took an involuntary step backward. A piteous whimper escaped the squire’s throat.

  Bannor paced before them, his hands once again locked at the small of his back. “Today,” he called out, his masterful baritone silencing every whisper, “I will teach you the hardest lesson that any warrior, no matter how bold or courageous, must learn before he rides into battle.”

  The men exchanged expectant glances and craned their necks.

  “How to make a graceful retreat.” Bannor sketched them a brief bow, then started for the castle, dusting grass and sand off his backside as he went.

  ———

  Bannor paced the north tower, feeling nearly as frantic as he had on the night Hollis had returned to Elsinore with his bride. Then he had longed only to be rid of her. Now he longed only to find her. He paused at the window, drawn there against his will by the hellish glow drifting up from the courtyard below.

  A crackling bonfire spat stinging clouds of brimstone into the night sky. A band of imps cavorted around it, their sinister shadows an unsettling contrast to the merry giggles wafting to his ears. Although Samhain had come and gone over a fortnight ago, Bannor would have sworn his offspring had declared a pagan celebration of their own—a decadent feast where they might pay homage to the god of unruly children.

  A savage pounding sounded on the door, mirroring his own desperation. “Make haste, my lord! ‘Tis Hollis!”

  Bannor was forced to heave aside three chairs, a table, and a bench before he could lift the crossbar and bid his steward to enter.