Charming the Prince Page 12

  As he secured the crossbar, then wandered toward the window, his gait seemed to lack its usual swagger. He gave the parchments scattered across the table a rueful glance, then reached around to rub the back of his neck, almost as if he wished there was someone there to do it for him. He unlatched the shutter and stood gazing up at the stars, his silent sigh hanging in the frosty night air. Willow wondered if he was pining for one of his lost wives, or perhaps for the woman who had taught an innocent boy that love was naught but an affliction to be scorned rather than suffered.

  As he closed the shutter and began to tug wearily at the buttons of his doublet, Desmond sank back on his heels, snorting in disgust. “We might as well retreat. There’s naught to see here.”

  Willow wasn’t so sure about that. As Bannor shrugged out of his doublet, the supple roll of his muscles sent a strange languor melting through her limbs, robbing her of both the strength and the will to rise.

  “You go along,” she murmured, her eye still plastered to the peephole. “It might be prudent for me to observe him a bit longer. To seek out his weaknesses.”

  But as Bannor drew his linen shirt over his head and tossed it carelessly aside, then propped one foot on a bench to peel down his hose, she had to admit that he didn’t seem to have any. Even in the dim candlelight, ‘twas evident that his powerful chest was perfectly complemented by powerful thighs and powerful calves, all lightly dusted with dark hair.

  Desmond shrugged. “Suit yourself. But don’t get captured.”

  As the boy scrambled away on all fours, Willow was too chagrined to confess that she had already been captured. Captured by the mellow bronze glow of Bannor ‘s skin in the flickering candleshine, by the crisp coils of dark hair that thatched his chest, by the sweet melancholy of his expression.

  She was so beguiled by that hint of vulnerability amidst all that power that it took her a moment to realize he had stripped down to naught but a scrap of linen no wider than one of the bandages Mary Margaret had torn from the bed hangings. Willow’s eye widened in alarm as he gave it an absent tug. At the precise moment it fell away, he turned his back on her and padded naked to the mattress, stretching with the effortless grace of some magnificent male animal who isn’t aware it is being observed.

  It wasn’t until he’d rolled to his side, presenting her with his broad back, and dragged the blanket over his hips that Willow was able to pry her eye away from the peephole. She collapsed against the wall. Her mouth had gone dry and her breath was coming in short pants, as if she’d been the prey this night instead of the predator.

  As Willow waited for her breath to steady and her limbs to regain their strength, she was shaken to the core to realize that she hadn’t discovered Bannor’s weakness, but her own.

  Thirteen

  On day five of the siege, Bannor lurked in the shadows of the buttery, his anger mounting as he listened to the shameless rustling of the rat who had descended the stairs to the spice cellar only minutes before he’d arrived.

  He could no longer deny it. He had a traitor in his midst. His suspicions had been confirmed earlier that evening when a contrite Sir Darrin had reported to the tower.

  “ Tis just as you suspected, my lord,” the grizzled old knight had blurted out. “At last count, we were missing two wheels of cheese, six rashers of bacon, five loaves of barley bread, a barrel of salted stockfish, and one smoked ham.”

  “I knew it!” Bannor exclaimed, slamming a triumphant fist into his palm. “The pampered little bratlings should have raised the white flag the first night they were deprived of their fig pudding. There’s no way they could have held us off for three days if they weren’t getting food from somewhere.” He fixed the knight with a forbidding glower. “Or someone.”

  Sir Darrin took an involuntary step backward. “The spice cellar has been locked the entire time, my lord, just as you ordered. No one could have come or gone except for them that has the keys. Shall I post a guard?”

  Bannor stroked his jaw, pondering the man’s words. “I don’t believe that will be necessary. I’d prefer to tend to the matter myself.”

  As the knight wheeled around to make a hasty exit, Bannor squinted at the back of his head. “Whatever is that thing in your hair?”

  “ ‘Tis a goose feather, my lord,” he admitted. He tugged, but the downy wisp was held fast to his graying locks by a gooey wad of pitch. “The gatehouse suffered an attack last night while my watch was sleeping.”

  The proud old knight’s sheepish confession had only made Bannor more determined to catch the thief who was betraying them all. The rustling coming from the spice cellar suddenly ceased. The muted thud of a door being drawn shut was followed by the stealthy click of a key turning in a lock. Bannor pressed himself to the wall, resting his hand on his sword hilt.

  His quarry began to mount the stairs, humming an off-key Irish ditty Bannor knew only too well. His mouth fell open in disbelief, then thinned into a sardonic smile.

  He waited until the interloper had crept past before folding his arms over his chest and stepping out of the shadows. “Hungry, Fiona?”

  The old woman let out a startled shriek and spun around, dropping her entire armload of pilfered goods. Bannor nudged a shattered egg with his toe. “Thank God that wasn’t one of the babies you were carrying.” He surveyed the carnage, clucking in sympathy over the tragic remains of several meat pies, a slab of salted beef, and a sack of apples. “How thoughtless of me. It appears I’ve gone and ruined your supper.”

  The old woman’s mouth puckered into a pout that would have done Mary Margaret proud. “Me mum always said I was cursed with a most fierce appetite.”

  Bannor arched one eyebrow. “Fierce indeed. Although I would have thought even the most voracious appetite would have been satisfied by two wheels of cheese, six rashers of bacon, five loaves of barley bread, a barrel of salted stockfish”—his voice rose to a roar— “and one smoked ham!”

  Fiona thrust out her wizened arms in surrender. “Go on,” she wailed. “Call yer soldiers. Have me clapped in irons and dragged off to the dungeon. I promise to go quietly. Bein’ eaten by the rats is no more than I deserve for smugglin’ supplies to the enemy.” She dabbed at her nose with the hem of her apron. “I’m an old woman. I wasn’t goin’ to live much longer anyway.”

  Bannor rolled his eyes, exasperated by her theatrics. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve no intention of casting you into the dungeon for feeding my children. In truth, I can’t even blame you for taking their side in all this. After all, you’re the one who practically raised them while I was off fighting the king’s war all those years.”

  “The children?” Fiona repeated, her long-suffering demeanor shifting to a fierce glower. “Why, I taught those children to fend fer themselves from the day they was born. Wee Edward alone could keep ‘em fed fer months on naught but pigeons.” The old woman drew herself up to her full height, which put the topknot of her bun squarely at the middle of Bannor’s chest, and stabbed a finger at his chest. “I’m not doin’ this fer the children. I’m doin’ it fer her.”

  “Her?” Bannor echoed weakly, already dreading Fiona’s response.

  “Aye, her—yer lady! ‘Tis that poor lass I’m sidin’ with, and I can tell ye right now that I’m not the only one. After seein’ the heartless way ye treated her, most of the women in the castle feel the same way.”

  “I suppose that explains why my doublets have been returning from the laundry with all their buttons snipped off.”

  Fiona cocked her head to the side, her beady little eyes making her look remarkably like Desmond’s crow. “Do ye remember the night we met?”

  “I’d be hard pressed to forget.” Bannor rubbed his temple with the flat of his palm. “You hit me over the head with an iron kettle.”

  The night he’d seized Elsinore, he and his men had managed to battle their way through the halfhearted defenses of his brother’s men-at-arms with nary a scratch. But upon emerging into the castle kitchens, Bannor had
been laid low by a howling banshee. He’d dropped his sword and sat down abruptly on the floor, clutching his ringing ears.

  Fiona shook her head. “Those of us that had been at Elsinore long enough to remember what yer da had done were sure ye’d come to raze the castle and slaughter us all. When I clobbered ye with that pot, I was shiverin’ in me boots. I knew ‘twas only a matter of time before ye recovered yer wits and lopped me head off.”

  “As I remember it, old woman, you were every bit as saucy and unrepentant as you are right now. You stamped your foot and accused me of putting a dent in a perfectly good pot.” That was when Bannor had thrown back his head and roared with laughter. He smiled at the memory. “I’ll never forget how you dropped to your knees, cradled my head to your bosom, and crooned, ‘Poor lad! I’ve gone and made ye daft, haven’t I?’”

  “And when ye claimed the castle fer yer own,” Fiona asked, “wasn’t I the one who spoke up on yer behalf? ‘He’s a bastard by birth,’ I told ‘em all, ‘but not a bastard by nature like that wretched brother o’ his.’”

  Bannor’s half-brother had been a notorious tyrant, just as his father had been, and in truth, most of the castle denizens had been relieved to be rid of him. “They would have never accepted me as their lord with such ease had you not appointed yourself my champion.”

  Fiona’s head bobbed in a self-righteous nod. “I always praised ye to the heavens fer yer kindness and gentleness toward yer sweet lady wives. And in all the years I’ve known ye, ye’ve never given me cause to regret me loyalty or to be ashamed o’ ye.” She wagged a grizzled finger in his face. “Until now!”

  Bannor barely resisted the urge to duck his head like a chastened page. He’d rather be stripped of his spurs by the king than endure one of Fiona’s lectures. His chagrin mounted when he realized Fiona’s staunch bottom lip was beginning to quiver.

  “And ashamed o’ ye I am! Ye let those children make mock o’ that poor lass when all she wanted was to be a fit bride to ye. When I think o’ the look on that dear child’s face when she came marchin’ into that hall all smothered in honey and ye just smirked down yer arrogant nose at her ... Why, it put me in mind of some-thin’ yer da would do, aye it did!”

  Fiona’s face crumpled. Just as Bannor reached for her, she threw her apron over her head, burst into noisy sobs, and fled down the darkened passageway.

  When the last echo of her sobs had faded, Bannor slumped against the wall, deeply shaken. He had sought to escape his father’s legacy, not preserve it, yet the old man seemed to haunt him at every turn.

  It was Bannor’s most bitter regret that his father hadn’t lived long enough to feel the point of his son’s sword at his throat as Bannor demanded the surrender of all he held dear. He had eluded that fate by dying in the arms of a buxom maidservant, coming and going in the same moment as it were. She’d later been overheard to remark that the randy old goat had been no stiffer in death than in life. His legend had only been enhanced when she had borne what would be the last of his many bastards.

  Those bastards had been scattered from one end of England to the other. Bannor could never quite meet the eyes of even the lowliest of village peasants or castle servants without wondering if they were a brother or sister he would never know.

  He raked a hand through his hair. Perhaps Fiona wouldn’t think so ill of him if she knew how hard he was fighting to atone for his father’s sins and just how much that battle was costing him.

  Bannor had always prided himself on his honor on the battlefield, but if he ever hoped to put an end to this conflict with Willow, he could not afford to fight fair. His eyes narrowed as he gazed down the shadowy passage that had swallowed Fiona and her sobs. It seemed that Willow had found a devoted ally in his camp. Perhaps ‘twas not too late for him to find one in hers.

  ———

  On day six of the siege, Beatrix lifted the iron grate set in the ceiling of the privy, poked her head out, and looked both ways. After making sure that the ramparts were free of Bannor’s guards, she hiked up her skirts and clambered to freedom, drinking in hungry gulps of the frosty air whipping across the battlements.

  She couldn’t bear to spend another minute in the company of those surly brats. If she did, she might just yank sweet little Mary Margaret bald or stuff one of her stockings down Edward’s throat to stifle his incessant chattering.

  She marched faster along the battlements, working herself into a fine huff. Desmond was the most intolerable of the lot, always bossing her about as if he was already lord of the castle instead of just a scrawny boy no older than she was. His voice had developed a strange tendency to crack whenever she was near, causing him to croak like a toad just when he was struggling to be at his most haughty.

  Why, only yesterday he’d ordered her to fetch one too many things and she’d been forced to sit on him until he’d bellowed for Willow, forgetting for a satisfying moment that such a scuffle was beneath her dignity.

  And Willow! Who could make sense of her stepsister? Beatrix sighed, her steps slowing to a dreamy meander. If Lord Bannor wanted to conquer her, she would surrender herself into his arms and his bed without so much as a squeak of protest.

  “Bea?”

  The husky whisper drifted to her ears, sending a shiver that had naught to do with the cold fluttering over her skin. She hugged her cloak tighter around her just as the object of her wicked fantasies came sauntering out from behind one of the stone chimneys. With a woman’s instincts far beyond her years, Beatrix recognized immediately that this wasn’t Lord Bannor the warrior she was facing, but Lord Bannor the man. The man who had fathered a dozen children on only God knew how many women. The man who could wield his charm as ruthlessly as he wielded his sword.

  She took a cautious step backward, making ready to flee.

  Bannor’s beguiling smile and outstretched hand cut off her retreat more effectively than an entire garrison of soldiers. His dark blue eyes twinkled with good humor. “There’s no need to be frightened, child. Contrary to what your mistress may have told you, I’m not your enemy.”

  Beatrix blinked up at him adoringly, longing to blurt out the truth. To tell him that she wasn’t Willow’s maid, but her sister. The sister he should have pledged both his heart and his troth to from the very beginning. But some damnable loyalty to Willow stopped her. However, that same loyalty didn’t prevent her from moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue or pushing back her hood so her silvery tresses could ripple in the wind. After all, she thought, squelching a twinge of guilt, Willow had all but said she was welcome to him.

  “How could I be frightened of you, my lord, when you’ve shown me naught but kindness?” she purred, deliberately loosening her shawl so it would fall away from her bosom. Bannor’s amused gaze flicked briefly downward to acknowledge her efforts. “Have you a message for my mistress?”

  “Oh, I have several messages for your mistress.” That sulky-sweet mouth of his tightened, sending a faint thrill through Beatrix. “But I’m patient enough to wait until I can deliver them with my own lips.”

  “Then why did you waylay me?” she asked breathlessly, savoring the feel of the word in her mouth.

  “Because I would like to propose a truce.” He leaned closer and winked at her. “Just between the two of us.”

  “The two of us?” Beatrix echoed, dazed by the possibilities. “You and me?”

  When he nodded, she shot a furtive glance behind her. ‘Twould be just like Kell or Edward to come popping out of the privy grate and catch her conversing with the enemy. Sensing her reticence, Bannor backed toward the chimney and crooked a finger at her, inviting her to follow him.

  Beatrix hesitated, torn between her allegiance to the woman who had all but raised her, and the irresistible dimple that had just appeared in Lord Bannor’s jaw.

  Fourteen

  On the seventh and final day of the siege, Willow was scrambling around on hands and knees in a shadowy tunnel on the second level of the castle, trying to gathe
r up the arrows her stepsister had just dropped for the third time.

  “What on earth is the matter with you tonight, Beatrix? You’re as nervous as a rabbit!”

  Beatrix looked fearfully over her shoulder, her half-hearted fumbling scattering more arrows than she retrieved.

  Willow thrust the last arrow into the quiver, then shoved the quiver back into her stepsister’s hands. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear we were the ones about to be ambushed.”

  The quiver slipped from Beatrix’s hands; the arrows spilled over Willow’s feet. Willow took a deep breath before shooting her stepsister a look of pure exasperation.

  “Sorry,” Beatrix whispered, looking uncharacteristically contrite.

  As Willow groped once again for the stray arrows, her hands weren’t much steadier than Beatrix’s. When the quiver was full, she slung it over her own shoulder, where it joined Desmond’s small bow, and led the way down the tunnel. They’d gone on many such missions in the past sennight, but none so important as this one. Tonight they weren’t going to bombard the garrison with pitch and feathers or drop a stinkpot down the chimney of the great hall. Tonight they were going to strike at the very heart of Bannor’s defenses.

  ‘Twas the only heart the man possessed, Willow thought grimly as Beatrix took the lead.

  Oddly enough, the inspiration for the attack had come from Beatrix. She had been the one to point out that although Bannor’s tower was even more impenetrable than theirs, since it contained no secret entrances, the path he must take to reach that tower was not. If they situated themselves somewhere along his nightly route, it might be possible to trap him. Once they had Bannor at their mercy, his men would have no choice but to lay down their own arms and surrender.

  The prospect of having Bannor at her mercy made Willow’s skin prickle with a most unsettling mixture of dread and delight.

  Beatrix had began to feel her way along the wall. “Here,” she pronounced, dipping her fingertips into a shallow groove. “This must be the one.”