Charming the Prince

by Teresa Medeiros

  Willow stiffened before saying softly, “And why would you think that?”

  Netta bit her bottom lip as if realizing too late that she’d revealed too much. Her shrug seemed to lack its usual indifference. “ ‘Twas naught but a harmless bit of mischief, my lady. An innocent jest.”

  “And I suppose ‘twas my innocence that was the jest. Or was it my ignorance? Did you spread word of my visit throughout the village so that Bannor’s villeins would know that their lord’s bride was as foolish as she was mad?”

  Willow could hardly bear to think that Bannor might have been laughing at her as well. That their tender encounter might have been nothing more to him than a virgin’s folly. She rose from the stool, jerking up her cloak and wrapping it around her.

  She fought to keep her voice cool and her hands steady as she drew a velvet purse from her sleeve and tossed it on the bed. “I hope that will be enough to compensate you for any coins you might have lost while you were tarrying with the village idiot.”

  As she started for the door, Netta sprang up from the bed, dogging her steps. “So what’s to be my punishment for mocking the grand lady of Elsinore? Will you have me tarred and feathered? Driven out of the village? Stoned?” Although Netta hurled the words at her with brash bravado, Willow sensed the undercurrent of fear.

  She hesitated, her hand on the door latch. She had been powerless for so long that it had never even occurred to her that she now had the authority to indulge in something as petty and rewarding as revenge. She remembered all the times Stefan and Reanna had so cruelly mocked her, all the times Blanche had punished her for some imagined offense, all the times her papa had turned his face away rather than meet her pleading gaze.

  She cut Netta a cool, clear glance. “Twould hardly be fair to punish you for my folly, now would it?”

  Willow slipped out of the cottage without bothering to draw up her hood. ‘Twas still early and there were only a handful of villagers scattered along her path. She answered their curious glances with a defiant stare. She was halfway up the hill that led to the castle when she realized with an icy start of horror that she’d forgotten Peg.

  She spun around and sprinted through the winding streets, her cloak flapping behind her. As she turned down Netta’s lane, a baby’s shrill cry rent the air. Willow thought it might very well be the worst sound she’d ever heard, until it ceased as abruptly as it had began.

  The cottage door was still standing open. Willow stumbled through it without bothering to knock. Her fright swelled to panic when she saw the empty basket on the hearth.

  Had the thundering of her heart not completely ceased for a beat, she might have never heard the husky, off-key humming. She whirled around to find Netta perched on the end of the bed, gazing down at the blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms. A bundle that squirmed, cooed, then let out a resounding burp more suitable to a burly ale master.

  Netta lifted her head, offering Willow a smile as winsome as Peg’s own. “I do believe she likes me. She quieted right down as soon as I started to sing.”

  Willow staggered over and plopped down on the stool, wiping her brow with her sleeve. “I’m delighted to know the two of you are getting along so well. Perhaps we can all sing a round together as soon as I catch my breath.”

  Netta dragged her gaze away from the baby’s face, her smile fading. She rose and thrust the baby at Willow. “Forgive me, my lady. I forgot myself. I should never have touched her with these hands.”

  Willow studied the woman’s stricken face for a moment before waving her away. “And why not? They’re clean and sturdy, aren’t they? Just make sure you keep one of them under her head and one of them under her rump, or she’ll flop about like a beached pike.”

  Netta hesitated for a moment, then drew the baby back to her chest. When she lifted her eyes this time, the wariness within them was tempered by reluctant admiration. “I’ve met many ladies in my life, but none who deserved the title. If you still want me to, I’ll teach you whatever you wish to know about pleasing your precious Lord Bannor.”

  Willow’s lips curved in a thoughtful smile. “Everything. I wish to know everything.”

  ———

  By noontime the morning mist had drifted down the river, leaving the inhabitants of Elsinore with the promise of a crisp, sunny afternoon. They came spilling out of the castle, eager to savor every moment of freedom they could steal before the coming snows imprisoned them behind the high stone walls until spring.

  The bailey resounded with the shrill giggles and pelting footsteps of running children while the list rang with the clash and thunder of mock skirmishes. Even the washerwomen had dragged their tubs out of the dank laundry and into the sun, their massive forearms jiggling as they swapped jests and gossip.

  Willow, Beatrix, and Mary Margaret trudged out to the meadow bordering the list, dragging a straw-stuffed dummy behind them. Willow knew that giving in to Mary Margaret’s persistent pleas to teach her to shoot a bow might not be the wisest decision she’d ever made, but at least it would help her pass the interminable hours until midnight. A sweet shiver of anticipation rippled through her. Thanks to Netta’s generous tutelage, tonight she would storm her husband’s tower armed with far more than just a smile and a shilling.

  “You’re blushing.”

  Willow jumped as her stepsister’s accusation shattered her reverie. “No, I’m not. I’m simply flushed from the heat.”

  Beatrix’s skeptical snort made a cloud of fog in the chilly air. “From the heat of your daydreams perhaps.” She leaned over to whisper, “Or perhaps from the heat of dreams that have already come true, judging how late it was when you crawled into bed last night.”

  Willow glared at her. There were certain disadvantages to sleeping with a meddlesome stepsister. Especially one who knew her so well.

  While Beatrix lashed the dummy to a nearby tree, Willow ushered Mary Margaret to a small rise in the land. The child’s bow was even smaller than Desmond’s; its feathered arrows weren’t much larger than darts. As Willow knelt behind her, she prayed the only consequence of teaching her how to use it would be a row of headless and disemboweled dolls riddled with arrow holes.

  “My mama got shooted by an arrow and went to heaven,” Mary Margaret announced as Willow slotted one of the shafts and sought to arrange her small fingers on the bowstring.

  “My mama went to heaven, too,” Willow informed her.

  “Did she get shooted by an arrow?”

  “No, she got very sick when I was born.” Willow pressed her cheek to Mary Margaret’s, steadying the child’s hand with her own. “Perhaps both of our mamas are smiling down upon us right now.”

  “Or cringing in horror,” Beatrix muttered, eyeing the deadly tip of the arrow.

  Confident that the child had a firm grasp on the weapon, Willow withdrew a few steps and nodded toward the dummy. “See that red heart painted on his chest? I want you to aim straight for it. Can you do that?”

  Mary Margaret nodded. Her eyes narrowed to a fierce squint as she drew the bowstring taut. Willow held her breath, waiting for the telltale ping.

  “But what if I shoots him in the head?” Mary Margaret suddenly blurted out, swinging the bow around.

  Beatrix ducked while Willow reached over and gently plucked the bow from the child’s grasp. “Rule number one, pixie. You must never take your eyes off your target.”

  “Why, look,” Beatrix murmured, plucking a stray leaf from her hair as she gazed toward the list. “There’s Lord Bannor.”

  “Where?” Willow whirled around, forgetting that she still held the bow.

  At first she thought her stepsister was teasing her again, but there was no mistaking the noble bearing of the man strolling along the fence with Sir Hollis. He stood head and shoulders over his companion and most of the other men in the list. As he inclined his head toward Sir Hollis, the sun glinted off his hair, gilding it to a raven sheen. Kell and Edward dogged his every step, their own bright and dark heads bobbi
ng in uncanny imitation of the two men. When Bannor paused to inspect a knight’s armor, Edward crashed into the back of his legs, earning an exasperated look.

  Willow might have believed Bannor was too preoccupied to notice her, had it not been for the brief sideways flicker of his glance and the dazzling flash of his smile.

  She heard the ping she had been waiting for. The arrow left the bow, sailing across the meadow and toward the fence in a neat arc.

  She was still standing frozen in shock when Mary Margaret tugged at her sleeve. “Oh, Willow, you shooted my papa! Is he going to heaven, too?”

  Twenty

  The last thing Willow expected Bannor to do was draw the arrow from his shoulder, give it a puzzled glance, then toss it over his shoulder, all without missing a step. Surely, she thought, ‘twould be only a matter of seconds before he crumpled face first into a pool of his own blood.

  Jerking herself out of her horrified daze, she lifted her skirts and went running across the meadow. She cleared a sagging rail of the fence in a graceless bound and went staggering right into his arms.

  Her words came spilling out in a jumbled torrent. “Oh, Bannor, can you ever forgive me? I forgot I was holding the bow and then I saw you and you smiled at me and I had just rebuked Mary Margaret for taking her eye off the target and oh, I never meant to shoot you, I swear I didn’t!”

  He cupped her elbows, holding her steady. “Was that your arrow? I thought one of the pages had misfired again.”

  She tugged at his arm. “Make haste, my lord! You must lie down before you collapse!”

  “But I feel fine,” he protested, shooting Hollis a bemused look.

  “Of course you don’t! The pain and blood loss are simply impairing your judgment.”

  Willow threw her arms around his neck, attempting to drag him to the ground. Their scuffle was beginning to attract the curious stares of Bannor’s men.

  “All right! All right!” he shouted, sinking to his knees in the sand-sprinkled grass. “There’s no need to throttle me. I’ll go quietly.”

  As a crowd gathered around them, Willow drew his head into her lap and began to stroke his hair tenderly. “There, now. Doesn’t that feel better?”

  “I do believe it does,” he murmured, snuggling his head deeper into her bosom.

  Hollis rolled his eyes. “I can assure you, my lady, that there is no need for alarm. Lord Bannor has endured far worse insults at the hands of the—”

  Bannor cleared his throat, cutting him off. “Perhaps Lady Willow is right.” He allowed his eyes to drift shut. “I am beginning to feel a bit light-headed.”

  Bannor was beginning to feel other things as well, most of them centered in the region of his loins. He never dreamed he’d allow his men-at-arms to see him stretched out full-length on the ground with his head in a woman’s lap. But Willow’s wordless murmur was like the haunting notes of a siren’s song, both sweet and seductive. He was no stranger to the gifts of women. He had partaken eagerly of their many pleasures. But he had always denied himself their comfort, equating its solace with a weakness he could not afford.

  Desmond’s flat voice penetrated the silken web Willow had woven around him. “What happened to him?”

  “Willow shooted him. He’s going to heaven.”

  Bannor opened one eye to find his daughter standing over him, her mane of golden curls haloed by the sun. “Would you miss me, sweeting, if I died?”

  Mary Margaret thought about it for a minute, then shrugged. “Don’t s’pose so. It can’t be much farther away than France.”

  “He can go straight to hell for all I care.”

  Willow gasped and both of Bannor’s eyes flew open to meet Desmond’s defiant stare. Kell and Edward cupped their hands over their mouths to smother their shocked giggles. The men gathered around them shuffled their feet and exchanged uneasy glances as they awaited their lord’s explosion of wrath.

  Bannor sighed wearily. “I hate to disappoint you, lad, but the only place I’m going right now is to bed.”

  “Can you walk, my lord?” Willow inquired, shooting Desmond a savage look. “Or shall I have your men fetch a litter?”

  “I believe I can walk.” Bannor blinked up at her, using his thick, dark lashes to their full advantage. “With your help.”

  She braced her slender shoulder beneath his, helping him to his feet.

  As they went staggering toward the castle, Sir Darrin dragged off his helm and scratched his grizzled head. “That’s most odd. Lord Bannor never needed any help the time he crawled out of that moat in Poitiers with a dozen arrows poking out of his back.”

  “Or the time he escaped from that dungeon in Calais after they’d starved and tortured him half to death,” one of his companions added.

  Sir Darrin shook his head. “I do hope he’s not going soft on us.”

  Hollis poked his nose between the two men. “As long as Lady Willow is around, you needn’t fret yourselves about that.”

  ———

  Willow kept her arms wrapped tightly around Bannor’s waist as she led him through the broad passages of the castle, bellowing orders that sent the flustered maidservants and pages scurrying to fetch bandages, hot water, and a cornucopia of healing herbs.

  As they made their way up the winding stairs, she glanced over to find Bannor eyeing her askance. “What is it, my lord?”

  “I can’t believe I ever thought you had a small mouth.”

  Willow might have chided him for the jibe if he hadn’t suddenly grabbed his shoulder and let out a heartrending groan. Only after she had him settled in his bed did she dare leave him long enough to retrieve the supplies she’d requested from the servants hovering outside the door.

  Bannor reclined on a nest of pillows while Willow arranged the bandages, a basin of steaming water, and a bowl of fresh herbs on a bench beside the bed. “Desmond didn’t mean what he said, you know,” she said without looking at him.

  Bannor snorted. “Of course he did. The lad loathes me.”

  Willow crumbled a pinch of marjoram into the water, shaking her head. “If he loathed you, he’d be indifferent to you, not furious with you.”

  Bannor cocked his head to study her. “How is it that you know so much about that wayward son of mine?”

  She devoted all of her attention to folding the bandages into narrow strips, then dipping half of them into the water. “Because there was a time in my life when I would have done anything to make my father take notice of me. Even told him to go straight to hell.” She gave Bannor a wry glance. “Or insisted upon wedding a man I’d never laid eyes on.”

  A shadow flickered across Bannor’s face. “An act of mutiny you’ve no doubt had great cause to regret.”

  Instead of replying, Willow said lightly, “Let’s take a look at that wound, shall we?”

  Bannor winced as she gently pried his hand from his shoulder. Her brow furrowed in puzzlement as she smoothed her fingers over the flawless linen of his shirt. She glanced at the opposite shoulder, where a narrow slash marred the fabric.

  Bannor immediately shifted his grip to that side. “It must have been phantom pain. Tis a most vexing sensation.”

  “Most vexing indeed,” Willow murmured, surveying him through narrowed eyes. His sun-bronzed skin didn’t betray even a trace of pallor.

  She peeled the shirt from his shoulder with less care than she had been taking, but all of her sympathy and remorse came flooding back when she saw the puckered wound that marked his smooth flesh.

  “Oh, Bannor, I should have never been so careless.” She wrung out one of the bandages and gently dabbed away a thin trickle of blood. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  He heaved a ponderous sigh. “Fortunately for you, I’ve never been one to hold a grudge.”

  She tried to tug his shirt farther down his shoulder, but the rich linen resisted her pull. “I believe I’d be able to better dress your wound if we took this off.” Without waiting for his reply, she began to wrestle the garment over his
head.

  “That might not be the best idea,” Bannor said, his voice muffled by the material.

  But it was too late. The garment had already unfurled in Willow’s hands, leaving her to gaze in naked amazement upon his exposed chest. It was God who had wrought a masterpiece from the powerful slabs of muscle and crisp coils of dark hair. And it was man who had done all in his power to destroy it.

  When she had spied upon him in the tower, the flickering candlelight had shielded her from the most shocking of his secrets. Robbed of speech, Willow reached out her trembling hand and stroked her fingertips across the jagged scar that ran from the top of his breastbone to the bottom of his rib cage.

  “I earned that one in my first tournament,” Bannor said softly, keeping his gaze on her face. “ ‘Twas a blessing that the lance just grazed me.”

  Still mute, she traced the thin rope of scar that bisected his left nipple and curved around his heart, then looked at him questioningly.

  “A dagger. King Philip of France hired an assassin who crept into my tent while I was sleeping, stabbed me, and left me for dead.” A dangerous smile quirked his lips. “The man was most surprised when I paid a visit to his tent the following day and returned his dagger.”

  She touched the pocked circle to the right of his breastbone, then the identical scars on each side of his heart.

  “Arrow. Another arrow. Yet another arrow,” he confessed, rolling his eyes.

  He drew in a ragged breath as her hand skated lower, grazing the shiny, rippled flesh that covered half the plane of his abdomen, then disappeared into his hose.

  “Boiling pitch.” He shrugged. “ ‘Twas my own fault really. I didn’t roll over the top of the wall fast enough.”

  He stiffened, but didn’t protest when she urged him forward. As his back came into view, Willow finally found her voice, choking out a gasp.

  His back was pocked with arrow scars even more numerous and vivid than the ones on his chest. It wasn’t those souvenirs of battles both won and lost that made her eyes sting, but the pale wheals that crisscrossed the satiny expanse of flesh from his broad shoulders to his lower back.