Charming the Prince

by Teresa Medeiros

  Bannor would have fallen to his knees right then and there, had he not been determined to make the most of the blessing God had given him.

  ———

  Bannor the Bold strode through the great hall of Elsinore, girded for battle. Beneath the saffron tunic emblazoned with his coat of arms, he wore a hauberk woven of mail, and a steel breastplate. The scabbard sheathing his massive broadsword clanked against the plates armoring his calves and thighs, in a discordant counterpoint to his jingling spurs. From the other side of his belt hung a jeweled scabbard, outfitted with a short but deadly dagger.

  His expression was grim, the glint in his eye lethal. He was not marching into battle to defend his country or his honor, but to seek a prize more precious than any the king could offer.

  Hollis trotted along beside him, forced to take two steps for every one of his master’s long strides. “I wish you’d let me accompany you. It doesn’t feel right for you to go riding off without me by your side.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Bannor agreed. “But I need you here at Elsinore. If this break in the storm doesn’t last, you’ll have to look after the castle—” he hesitated for a painful moment, “—until I can find my way home.” His brow clouded. “And the children.”

  “Fiona and Netta can look after the children. But I feel so damned helpless. Surely there must be something I can do to help bring Willow back.”

  “There is,” Bannor said, pausing just long enough to clap a firm hand on his steward’s shoulder. “Go to the chapel, my friend, and pray.”

  Bannor threw open the main doors, trusting that his squires would have his mount ready for him. They did not disappoint. The pale stallion seemed to rise out of the moonlit snow, puffing steam from his nostrils like some mythical dragon. Bannor accepted the horse’s reins from a somber-faced lad and swung himself astride. Giving Hollis one last salute, he guided the horse in a prancing half-circle, only to find his path to the drawbridge blocked.

  Thirty One

  Desmond, Ennis, Mary, Hammish, Edward, Kell, and Mary Margaret awaited him, their mounts lined up as neatly as they themselves had once stood in this very courtyard to welcome their new mother to Elsinore. Bannor supposed he ought to at least be thankful that Mary Margaret was riding a pony instead of a pig. The miniature bow Willow had shot him with was slung over the child’s shoulder, along with a quiver of tiny arrows.

  They’d armored themselves in a motley assortment of kitchen pots, platters, fur leggings, and mangy pelts. Edward looked as if he might be wearing an entire bear, while Hammish sported an iron kettle for a helm. They were armed with a menacing array of pitchforks, scythes, awls, and clubs, much as they had been the night they’d battered down the wall of his tower. The night he’d savored his first taste of Willow’s lips. They sat in absolute silence, awaiting his command.

  “Stand aside,” he called out, “or I’ll have my men throw the lot of you in the dungeon.”

  Desmond urged his dappled gray mare forward. Bannor couldn’t be sure if it was the stark white of the bandage against his chestnut hair, or the beautiful blonde riding side-saddle behind him, that lent his son a startling new air of maturity.

  “We wish to accompany you, Father. Willow is our lady as well as yours.”

  “I cannot argue with that, son. But ‘tis distressing enough to know that my wife’s life is in the hands of a lunatic. I’ll not risk the lives of my children as well.”

  “That lunatic is my brother,” Beatrix reminded him. “I might be able to talk some sense into him.”

  Bannor arched one eyebrow. “And if you can’t?”

  The girl gave his sword a meaningful glance. “Then I’ll let you do it.”

  Bannor leaned back in his saddle, surveying them all as if for the first time. He knew only too well what formidable adversaries they could be. They possessed equal amounts of cunning and determination, the two qualities no warrior could survive without.

  “Please, Father,” Desmond said, his green eyes betraying a hint of desperation. “Don’t leave us behind again. We only want to help you find the loathsome churl who took Willow.”

  A crooked smile slowly spread across Bannor’s face. “And may God help him when we do.”

  At his father’s words, an answering grin spread across Desmond’s face. Bannor guided his stallion between them to take the lead. Mary Margaret unleashed a gleeful war cry as they all went cantering through the castle gates and down the drawbridge, the snow beneath their horses’ hooves exploding in a glittering cloud of Stardust.

  ———

  Hollis found Netta in the chapel, kneeling before the altar of burnished oak. With her eyes pressed shut and her face bathed by the glow of the candlelight, she was as beautiful to him as the marble Madonna who kept watch over the nave. He cast a wry glance heavenward, praying God wouldn’t consider such a tribute blasphemy.

  At the whisper of his footfalls, Netta scrambled to her feet, blushing as if she’d been caught defiling the altar instead of worshipping at it. When she recognized him, an all too familiar mask of wariness descended over her features, making him want to swear a less than pious oath.

  “I was praying for our lady,” she said, cocking her head at a defiant angle. “Although I don’t suppose you believe God listens to the prayers of whores.”

  “On the contrary. ‘Tis written that after His resurrection, our Lord appeared first to Mary Magdalene, a woman of some questionable virtue.”

  “That may be true, but I’ve found that his followers are more likely to cast the first stone than to confess their own failings.”

  “You must not believe that of Lady Willow, or you wouldn’t be here praying for her safe return.”

  Netta shrugged, but the downward flicker of her eyes betrayed her distress. “She has been kind to me. As has Lord Bannor. I do not wish to see either of them come to any harm. Now if you’ll excuse me, sir, I shall leave you to examine your own conscience.”

  “Don’t go,” Hollis said, weary of their endless game of wits.

  She brushed past him. “If you want the pleasure of my company, ‘twill cost you a shilling. Twice that if you want—”

  She faltered when he grabbed her wrist. ‘Twas the first time he had ever dared to touch her. The first time he’d ever allowed her to see the flash of his temper. “Do you honestly believe you’re worth naught more than the coins a man will pay you to share his bed? Did it never occur to you that a man might simply wish to converse with you, or to sit quietly by your side?”

  She tipped her head back, deliberately taunting him with the nearness of her lips. “You can pretend your interest in me is prompted by naught but the most chaste of motives, but I know that look in your eyes. I’ve seen it oft enough in the eyes of the countless men who came before you.”

  Hollis freed her arm and took a step backward, wishing he could despise her for her cruelty. “I won’t deny that I want you in my bed. I won’t pretend that I don’t wake up in the night, shivering with desire, and reach for you.” His voice softened. “But I would be content only to adore you from afar for the rest of my life. How much will that cost me, Netta? If my undying devotion isn’t enough for you, then perhaps this will be.” Hollis jerked a velvet purse from his belt and tossed it down. It landed with a solid jingle at her feet.

  Knowing he could not bear to see her pick it up, he turned to stride from the chapel.

  “Sir?”

  Refusing to sell himself so cheaply, Hollis kept walking.

  “Hollis?” This time Netta’s plea was only a whisper, but it stopped him in his tracks.

  He slowly turned. Netta’s hand was outstretched, but the purse still lay on the floor at her feet.

  Hollis gazed at her, as mesmerized by the tremble of her hand as he was by the tears sparkling in her eyes. “Would you care to join your prayers to mine?” she asked. “Perhaps then they’d be more likely to reach the ears of God.”

  Hollis closed the distance between them, and gently folded her
hand in his. He kept a firm grip on that hand as they knelt side by side and inclined their heads to pray that God would shine His infinite mercy upon their lord and lady.

  ———

  Willow forced herself to put one trembling leg in front of the other, all of her concentration centered on wading through the sea of snow, when all she wanted to do was sink deep into its powdery waves and drift off to sleep.

  If she succumbed to that seductive temptation, she knew she would never wake up. Whenever its siren call became too loud, she would almost swear she could hear Bannor’s mother whispering in her ear—urging her to keep slogging forward, to keep moving, to keep hoping. But perhaps it was only the wind, wailing a lament for her dying dreams.

  She hugged her cloak tight around her, but the embrace of her own arms was too feeble to stop her shivering. She yearned for Bannor. For the warmth of his arms, the sizzling sweetness of his kiss, the fevered press of his flesh against her own.

  The chill settled deep into her bones, making her flesh quake and her teeth rattle. As her stockings froze solid, her feet went from tingling to numb.

  It took her a dark eternity to realize that the wind was no longer driving stinging needles of snow into her face. She stumbled to a halt at the bottom of a hill and lifted her head, surveying the glittering tundra with childlike wonder. Brittle motes of snow sparkled like fairy dust beneath the shimmering caress of the moon, breathtakingly beautiful even in their cruelty.

  Something slammed into her back, driving her to her hands and knees. If not for the scalding surge of fury that coursed through her veins, Willow might have remained there, her head hung low in defeat. But that fury gave her the strength to stagger to her feet and swing around to face her assailant.

  “There’s no need to glare at me like that,” Stefan spat, his lips tinted the same icy blue as his eyes. “If you hadn’t spooked the horse into running away, we’d be halfway to Scotland by now.”

  “If I hadn’t spooked the horse,” Willow bit off through her chattering teeth, “we’d be at the bottom of the river. You were the lackwit who nearly drove him over the edge of the cliff.”

  “Only because you had your hands over my eyes.”

  “Do forgive me. I was aiming for your mouth.”

  An ugly smirk twisted his lips. “You can sneer down your nose at me all you want, Willow, but scrubbing the mud off your face and donning a fine gown won’t make you a lady. Nor will being swived by a lord.” Stefan stroked his thumb along her cheek, his touch making Willow’s stomach churn. “I wanted to be the first,” he whispered, his breath a blast of brimstone against her icy skin. “I wanted to be the one to make you bleed.”

  Trembling with more than just the cold, Willow knocked his hand away. “You’ll be the only one bleeding when Bannor finds us.”

  Stefan snorted. “He’ll probably be glad to be rid of you. With you out of the way, he’ll be free to marry Beatrix as he should have done in the beginning.”

  Willow drew herself up, refusing to let that old taunt draw blood. “I doubt that he’ll be so glad to be rid of the mother of his child.”

  As Stefan’s gaze darted to the hand she’d curved possessively over her abdomen, a gratifying shadow of fear and distaste darkened his eyes. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve already got that wretch’s brat in your belly?”

  She tilted her chin to a proud angle. “Aye, I do, and I can promise you that Bannor will hunt you down to the ends of the earth if you harm his babe.”

  Stefan cocked his head to the side, eyeing her thoughtfully. “He probably would at that.”

  As her stepbrother slowly uncoiled a length of rope from his belt, Willow took a step backward, realizing too late that she might have misjudged the depths of his depravity. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Stefan shrugged his broad shoulders. “It seems that if I’m to have any hope of escaping your husband’s wrath, I shall have to disappear.” He lunged toward her. “And so shall you.”

  Before Willow could coax her numb limbs into motion, Stefan had lashed out, snaking the rope around her wrists. He jerked it tight and knotted it off before casting a second rope around her ankles.

  Willow tugged against him, striving to keep the panic from her voice. “You can’t do this, Stefan. If I don’t keep moving, I’ll freeze to death.”

  “Don’t worry, sister, dear,” he said, giving the rope a last vicious jerk before shoving her down in the snow. “I’m sure your devoted husband will find you. After the spring thaw.”

  “Stefan!” she shouted as her stepbrother went loping away, without so much as a backward glance.

  Willow screamed until her throat was raw. She thrashed about in the snow like a turtle on its back, praying her fury and frustration would keep the blood pumping through her veins.

  When her strength began to desert her, she glared up at the impassive face of the moon, cursing the unfairness of it all. She’d fought so hard to stay on her feet, to keep moving, to keep believing that Bannor would find her, no matter what. But it had all been for naught. He would never know how brave she had tried to be, or how hard she had fought for their child. As she struggled against the ropes, bitter tears began to course down her cheeks, freezing before they could fall.

  She curled into a ball, trying to shelter the babe in her belly from the bite of the wind. As the snow began to fall harder, enveloping her in a downy white blanket, a delicious lethargy began to steal over her. She was tired, so very tired. Pearls of frost weighted her lashes, making her eyes ache with the effort it took to keep them open. Perhaps if she just closed them for a little while, she might be able to sleep. She might be able to dream once more of her prince and his magical kisses.

  Willow no longer had to imagine his face. She had traced every inch of its rugged beauty with her fingertips and her lips. Those lips curved into a wistful half-smile, as she closed her eyes, snuggled her cheek into a pillow of snow, and waited for her prince to come.

  Thirty Two

  As Bannor and the children started up a rolling hill, he kicked his stallion into a gallop. Ever since they had discovered the rambling set of tracks in the snow, his urgency had been mounting along with his hopes. It had hardly surprised him that Willow’s idiot of a stepbrother had managed to lose his horse somewhere along the way. The beast had probably cantered straight back to Elsinore and was even now munching oats in the toasty warmth of the stables.

  One set of tracks was too erratic to even be called footprints. But they still made Bannor’s heart surge with joy. Their shambling awkwardness could mean only one thing: Willow was alive.

  He drove his horse up the hill, desperate to follow the tracks across the shallow valley before the rising wind could obliterate them. The snow was coming down harder now, and as he crested the hill, a bank of clouds shrouded the moon, throwing the valley into darkness.

  Bannor reined in his horse, swearing beneath his breath. The children followed suit, flanking him on both sides.

  They waited, each impatient breath a silvery puff of fog, until the moon shook off its veil, flooding the valley with an almost supernatural brilliance.

  Bannor’s worst fears were realized. The wind gust-ing through the valley had swept the tracks away, leaving behind a pristine carpet of snow undefiled by human feet.

  “Look, Papa!” Mary Margaret cried, pointing toward the bottom of the hill.

  Bannor was forced to blink the snowflakes from his lashes before he could focus. There was something peeping out of a deep drift—a splash of color billowing against the virgin snow.

  His hands tightened on the reins. Although it shivered him to the bone to imagine Willow out there without her cloak, Bannor prayed the garment had simply slipped off her shoulders, and Stefan had been either too viciously stupid or too savagely cruel to allow her to retrieve it.

  “Wait here,” he commanded his children, slipping off the horse.

  For once, they obeyed him without questioning.

  Bannor scr
ambled down the hill, but his steps began to slow as he reached the floor of the valley.

  As the moon ducked behind another cloud, he stretched a hand toward that billowing scrap of fabric, already anticipating the moment when he could unearth it from its grave of snow, laugh, and hold it aloft to show his children that it was nothing they should be afraid of.

  The moon reappeared, bringing each detail into focus with an almost deliberate cruelty.

  A single dark curl, frosted with ice; a glimpse of marble flesh; a slender foot that should have been safely encased in the doeskin slipper he carried in a pouch next to his heart.

  Bannor staggered to his knees and began to claw at the snow. As he gathered Willow into his arms, a cry that mirrored his own anguish wafted down from the hillside above. Through a haze of agony, he saw Beatrix start down the hill, saw Desmond snatch her back and cradle her face to his chest.

  Bannor tore the rope from Willow’s wrists and struggled to brush the snow from her face and hair, a low keening rising from deep within his throat. Time seemed to roll backward until he was no longer Bannor the Bold, Lord of Elsinore, but simply a frightened six-year-old boy who couldn’t understand why his mama wouldn’t wake up. As he gazed down upon Willow’s face, frozen forever in sweet repose, he finally understood that it was not love that had killed his mother, but the lack of it.

  “Oh, God in heaven, forgive me!” he cried, snatching her to his breast. He buried his face in her cold, stiff curls, rocking back and forth. “I love you, Willow,” he whispered, tears beginning to course down his cheeks. “I loved you from the first moment I laid eyes on you, and I’ll love you until the day I die.”

  Bannor pressed a fierce kiss to her icy lips, his tears pattering against her skin like a warm spring rain. He was so dazed with grief that it took him a moment to realize she was kissing him back.