Charming the Prince

by Teresa Medeiros

  “Such as forcing him to spend a day in the company of his children?”

  Willow gave him an exasperated look.

  Bannor sank into a chair and propped his boots on the table, heaving a defeated sigh. “Of course I know of such tricks. I’m not some callow lad. But I also know ‘twould be a sin for you and me to practice them.”

  Willow frowned. “Why would such a thing displease God?”

  “Because He created the marriage bed for procreation, not pleasure.”

  Given her husband’s history, she could not quite let that pass without challenge. “And if a man should choose to seek his pleasure outside of the marriage bed? Isn’t that a sin as well?”

  Bannor’s expression was as bland and innocent as an angel’s. “Fornication is a venial sin, preventing conception a mortal one.”

  Willow blinked at him. “I’m beginning to understand why you have a dozen children.”

  He drained the rest of the ale and averted his eyes, the gesture curiously furtive in such a forthright man.

  Willow paced back and forth in front of the table, deep in thought. “If we don’t actually consummate our union, we can hardly be accused of defiling the marriage bed.”

  “Go on ...” Bannor murmured, bringing the empty goblet to his lips.

  “Therefore, we shall remain sinless in the eyes of God,” she finished brightly, planting her palms on the table.

  Bannor cleared his throat. He seemed to be having great difficulty choosing his words. “I trust ‘twas not Father Humphries’s counsel you sought to come to this conclusion.”

  “Not precisely.” It was Willow’s turn to avert her eyes. “If you must know, I paid a visit to the village whore.”

  Bannor jerked his feet off the table and sat up straight. “You spoke with Netta?” For just an instant, Willow would have sworn he looked more guilty than she did.

  “Aye, I did. And very forthcoming she was.” Willow leaned across the table, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Did you know, for instance, that a man can give pleasure to a woman without ever taking his own?” When Bannor’s expression didn’t even flicker, she sighed ruefully. “No, I don’t suppose you did.”

  An endearing flush began to creep up his throat.” Tis not fitting that a husband and wife speak so frankly of such matters. I’ve certainly never done so before.”

  “Not even with Mary or Margaret?”

  The notion seemed to horrify him. “Most certainly not with Mary or Margaret. Such things should only be dealt with in the most hushed of whispers.” When Willow continued to look dubious, he added firmly, “In the dark. Beneath the blankets.” He waved his hand in a vague motion. “A touch, a smile, a satisfied sigh should be utterance enough between any man and woman.”

  Willow shrugged, sighed, and turned away as if to take her leave. “Very well, my lord. ‘Twas my intention to please you, not displease you.”

  Before she could quite reach the door, Bannor barked, “Just what else did this woman teach you?”

  Willow slowly turned, struggling to hide a smile. “Netta claimed she didn’t wish to overwhelm me on my first visit, so she chose to share only one of her tricks with me.” Willow fumbled in her skirt pocket, drawing forth a shiny coin. She held it up for Bannor’s perusal.

  “A shilling?” he said, arching one dark brow. “And what do you plan to do with that? Make it disappear into your ear?”

  Willow giggled. “Don’t be ridiculous. Netta told me precisely where I could put this coin to prevent you from getting me with child. And it most certainly wasn’t my ear.”

  Both of Bannor’s eyebrows shot up as Willow sat down primly on the edge of the bed and began to lift her skirt. As her trim ankles came into view, followed by the shapely curves of her calves, the goblet rolled out of his fingers and hit the floor. She had to wiggle a bit to hike her skirt high enough to expose her knees. By then, Bannor’s breathing had deepened to an audible rasp.

  She slanted him a shy look. He was still staring, seemingly entranced by the deft motion of her fingers as she parted her legs and firmly tucked the coin...

  ... between her knees.

  “There,” she said, squeezing her knees together.

  “Netta swore to me that no man has ever gotten a woman with child while she was holding a shilling between her knees.”

  All of Bannor’s breath seemed to leave him in a mighty sigh. His eyes glittered with dry amusement. “This Netta must be a very wise woman indeed.”

  “Oh, she is! She told me you could do anything you wanted to me, as long as you took care not to dislodge the shilling.”

  “Anything?” If Bannor had been a wolf, his ears would have pricked up. He rose and came around the table. He sauntered around the bed in a predatory half-circle, making the hairs on Willow’s nape tingle. “Anything at all?”

  “Within reason,” she amended, eyeing him nervously.

  Her trepidation mounted as he disappeared from her line of vision. The bed creaked beneath his weight as he climbed to his knees behind her, sinking deep into the feather mattress.

  His husky whisper warmed her ear. “Then I suppose there would be no harm at all in my doing this.”

  He ran his hand beneath the curls at her nape, lifting them to expose her tingling flesh to the moist brush of his lips. Willow could not help but moan as all the tension melted from her body, leaving her as boneless as one of Mary Margaret’s rag dolls.

  The shilling clattered to the floor.

  “Sorry,” she muttered, scrambling to retrieve it. She stole a glance over her shoulder at Bannor as she wiggled back into place. “I have a feeling this is going to be much more difficult than it sounded.”

  “I certainly hope so,” he murmured, nuzzling the sensitive shell of her ear.

  Willow struggled to keep both her eyes and her knees clenched tightly shut as his lips tenderly traced the feather-soft hairs at her temple, the sleek plane of her cheekbone, the vulnerable curve of her jaw—finally coming to nestle against the pulse throbbing beneath the silky skin of her throat.

  Willow’s appetite was whetted by the delicious sensation of his mouth against her flesh. She turned her head, blindly seeking a taste of him. But he would kiss only the very corner of her mouth, lightly flicking it with the tongue she longed to draw deep inside of her. The gentle press of his hands on her shoulders held her captive to that delectable torment, until they began to glide downward, his broad thumbs lingering against the fluted arch of her collarbone, then hooking in the bodice of her kirtle.

  Willow’s eyes flew open. “What are you doing?” she demanded, both frightened and stirred by the inexorable descent of those hands.

  “Only what you gave me leave to, my sweet lady,” he whispered. “Anything. Anything at all.”

  He leaned over her shoulder, pressing his cheek to hers. Raw excitement flickered through her, its pulsing flame fed by the beguiling prickle of his beard stubble, the intoxicating spice of the ale on his breath, the ragged pounding of his heart against her back. Both of their hearts seemed to skip a beat as Bannor peeled down her bodice in one smooth motion, leaving her naked to the waist.

  Nothing could have prepared Willow for the icy flush that heated her skin as her breasts were exposed to the firelight and to his gaze for the very first time.

  For a timeless eternity, it seemed as if he would be content only to look, to drink his fill of her with his smoldering eyes.

  Then he curled his palms around her, filling them as if with the most bountiful of treasures. As his knuckles grazed their pebbled tips, his groan of pleasure mingled with her gasp of delight.

  Willow wanted to close her eyes, but she could not drag her gaze away from the sight of Bannor’s callused fingers tugging gently, but firmly, at her distended nipples. A greedy mewling welled up from deep within her throat. She clenched her legs together even tighter, not to hold fast the shilling, but in a vain attempt to assuage the sweet sting between them.

  It was the same dart of l
ightning she had felt in her belly the first time their eyes had met, a white-hot flame that licked lower and hotter with each deft squeeze of Bannor’s fingertips, threatening to engulf everything in its path.

  When Willow could no longer bear its fevered kiss, she pressed her small hands to the backs of his, molding both of their hands to her breasts. She never dreamed that he would take her unspoken plea as an invitation to slide his hand out from beneath hers and slip it beneath her skirt. And not even when his hand drifted gently up her thigh did she guess he would be so bold as to seek to soothe that sting himself.

  Which only rendered the shock of his big, blunt forefinger raking through her silky nether curls that much greater. A shudder of pure reaction seized her as he slid his finger into the throbbing cleft between her legs, burrowing as deep as he dared.

  “The shilling, Willow,” he reminded her, his voice resonating with the same urgency that was mounting deep within her. “Remember the shilling.”

  It was an exquisite torture to squeeze her legs together when her every instinct was begging her to let them fall apart, entreating her to let him dabble his fingers in the warm honey melting from the feminine heart of her.

  The shilling might prevent him from reaching that overflowing cup, but it could not stop him from finding the glowing ember nestled in her damp curls. He stroked it to raw flame using nothing more than the supple twist of his finger. Willow bucked and writhed, but there was no escape from the sweet madness pulsing through her womb.

  She clung to his powerful forearms as pleasure began to spill through her, culminating in a surge of rapture so deep and hard she never even heard her own wail, or the musical tinkle of the shilling striking the floor. Bannor’s hand slid down, cupping her so hard she had no choice but to ride another wave of pleasure to its soul-shattering crest.

  She was still being rocked by lingering tremors of delight when he drew her hard against him, burying his lips in her hair.

  “Oh, my!” she gasped, her breath coming in convulsive little pants. “I never... I never ever... I never even dreamed . . .” Clutching her bodice to her heaving breasts, she twisted around to give him a fierce scowl. “You miserable knave! You did too know it was possible to give a woman pleasure without taking your own!”

  Bannor smoothed a sweat-dampened tendril of hair from her cheek, a crooked smile quirking his lips. “Indulging you, my lady, was one of the greatest pleasures I’ve ever known.”

  Willow’s heart melted at his gallant declaration. She pressed her mouth to his, kissing him with passionate fervor.

  When he finally managed to disengage himself, the strangled note in his voice was unmistakable. “You mustn’t forget the shilling, Willow. There’s one more thing you must do to ensure its success.”

  She blinked at him, still drunk on the potent sweetness of his kiss. “And what would that be?”

  “Leave,” he said firmly.

  “Leave?”

  “Aye, leave. Now. This very moment.”

  Before she could gather her scattered wits or her shilling, Bannor had drawn her off the bed and to her feet. He tucked her back into her gown, his hands as matter-of-fact as if he were dressing one of his children, then hauled her to the door. He gave her a hot, hard kiss that left her weaving, then shoved her onto the landing and closed the door in her face.

  Before she could stagger toward the stairs, it flew open again. “Oh, Willow?”

  “Hmmm?” she murmured, bestowing a dreamy smile upon him.

  Bannor leaned against the door frame, his tousled hair and heavy-lidded gaze making him look every bit as deliriously wicked as the satyr she had once believed him to be. “Come back tomorrow night. I’ve a few tricks of my own to show you.”

  Nineteen

  Hugging her cloak tight around her, Willow darted across the bailey, hoping she could make it to the drawbridge before the dozing guard awoke from his slumber. Even in her haste, she could not resist stealing a look at Bannor’s tower. A smile touched her lips as she imagined him sprawled across the feather mattress, his hair rumpled, and his skin smelling of sleep. She hoped the embers of the fire she had kindled would still be glowing when he awoke, a smoldering reminder of what had passed between them only a few short hours ago.

  “M’lady! M’lady!”

  Willow clapped a hand to her pounding heart as Fiona came lurching out of the dawn mist. “Good heavens, Fiona, I thought you were a haint.”

  The old woman certainly looked the part. Despite the morning chill, she wore naught but a ragged shawl draped over her white gown. Her tidy bun had unraveled, leaving her hair to hang in lank wisps around her face. Willow had never seen the little woman look quite so frazzled.

  “Forgive me, m’lady. I saw ye from the nursery window and knew I’d have to make haste if I was to catch ye. Mags has taken the colic and sweet Peg here has hardly got a wink o’ sleep all night. Every time the poor creature starts to drift off, Mags wakes up screamin’ and there they both go, howlin’ their wee heads off.” Fiona thrust the basket dangling from her wizened arm at Willow. “I was hopin’ ye wouldn’t mind lookin’ after the poor mite fer a spell?”

  Willow took an involuntary step backward. “Oh, Fiona, I really don’t think—”

  “I’d ask one o’ the maidservants to do it, but they just haven’t got yer tender touch with the wee ones.” The old woman’s bottom lip quivered so piteously Willow feared she might burst into tears herself.

  Willow sighed. “Very well. Give her over.” She hooked the basket over her arm. “It’s certainly not as if I’ve never had a baby foisted off on me before.”

  “May God bless ye, m’lady!” As a second baby’s strident shriek pierced the morning hush, Fiona’s toothless smile tightened to a wince. Muttering beneath her breath, she hastened back toward the castle, leaving Willow alone with her new charge.

  Willow started to tighten the hood Fiona had fashioned, but some foreign impulse prompted her to peel back its folds and steal a look at the child’s face. She expected the baby to be sleeping, not gazing up at her with a wide-eyed curiosity no less keen than her own.

  “Well, hello there,” she murmured, nonplussed by the babe’s unwavering stare.

  Peg’s rosy cheeks had already began to ripen. She was becoming less puckered and more puckish, looking less like a wizened old man and more like a jolly elf. The head that had been bald only a fortnight ago was now covered with fuzzy blond down. Willow could not resist brushing her fingertips across it.

  A bubble of laughter escaped the baby’s lips, so merry and engaging that Willow was startled to find herself laughing.

  “Aren’t you a good-natured thing,” she said, gently tweaking the creature’s pug nose.

  The baby wiggled her fist free of her blankets and grabbed Willow’s finger. As Willow gazed down into that happy little moon of a face, she was caught off guard by a bittersweet rush of tenderness. This wasn’t just any baby. This was Bannor’s baby. A baby he had created with some nameless and faceless woman—a woman who had known the full measure of his desire, not just a tantalizing taste of it.

  Willow tucked the baby’s flailing arm back into the blanket and drew up the hood to shield her from the wind. Once Willow might have pitied the child’s mother, but as she trudged toward the drawbridge, the basket clutched to her chest, she feared she was coming to envy her.

  ———

  When Netta yanked open her door to find Willow and wee Peg waiting on her doorstep, she paled as if she’d seen a ghost.

  She stared at the basket for a long moment before jerking her gaze back to Willow. “If I didn’t want your jars of honey or your fancy candles, I don’t know why you’d think I’d want that.”

  Willow braced herself, waiting for Netta to slam the door in her face, but instead the woman wheeled around and marched back into the cottage, leaving it agape.

  ‘Twasn’t quite an invitation, but Willow decided to pretend it was. She slipped her head into the cottage to find Netta st
anding in the middle of the room with her back to the door. She was hugging herself, as if simply appearing in the doorway had chilled her to the bone. Her hair was unbound and her feet bare, but her bed was empty.

  “I hope you don’t mind me bringing the baby along,” Willow said cheerfully, lugging the basket through the door. “Fiona asked me to mind it while she tended to one of Bannor’s other babes.”

  “Put her on the hearth,” Netta commanded without turning around. “So she won’t catch a chill.”

  Willow gently rested the basket on the warm stones before shrugging off her cloak and settling down on the stool. “How did you guess she was a girl?”

  Netta shrugged her wiry shoulders. “A girl? A lad? It makes no difference, does it? They’re all destined for the same life of toil and heartache.”

  Willow chuckled. “Oh, Bannor would never stand for that. His children might sorely vex his patience, but I’d wager he would lay down his life to ensure their happiness.”

  Netta turned around, her lips twisted in a bitter smile. “Then the child should count herself well blessed to have such a fine father.”

  “Aye,” Willow said softly, thinking of her own papa. “Indeed she should.”

  “Why is she making those noises?” Netta demanded, her expression curiously fierce. “Is she hurting? Or hungry?”

  “Just bored, most likely.” Willow stretched out her leg and rocked the basket with her foot, a skill she’d perfected while learning to juggle Blanche’s brood. The baby’s fretful whimpers soon subsided into blissful chortles. She kicked away the blanket and began to play with her toes.

  Netta’s tension also seemed to ease. She sank down on the foot of the bed, eyeing Willow with a mixture of wariness and curiosity. “To be honest, I never expected to find you on my doorstep again.”

  “And why not? Your shilling trick was a most splendid success.”

  Netta’s hazel eyes widened. “It was? Why, I thought Bannor would laugh you out of his chamber!”