Charming the Prince Page 15

  She wandered through the maze of narrow dirt streets, realizing too late that she hadn’t the faintest idea where she was going. When a pack of exuberant boys sprinted past, nearly knocking the basket from her arm, she seized the smallest lad by the arm.

  Ignoring his frantic squirming, she leaned down and whispered something in his ear. He flushed and pointed toward a row of identical wattle-and-daub huts crowned by hay-thatched roofs before scampering off to join his friends.

  Willow was trying to decide which one to approach first when the door to the end cottage flew open and a man came spilling into the street. His face was flushed and the drawstrings of his hose untied. Willow shrank into the shadows, feeling a wicked thrill to learn that someone could be indulging in such debauchery while most of the castle residents were still in the chapel dutifully reciting their morning prayers.

  The man reeled in a drunken circle. “Lord, woman, you’ve got me so addled, I don’t know whether I’m comin’ or goin’.”

  “You’re no better at one than the other,” came a woman’s tart voice from inside the cottage. “So you might as well be going.”

  The door slammed in his face.

  “Saucy bitch,” he muttered. The poor confused fellow spent several interminable moments fumbling with his dangling drawstrings before finally lurching down the street, still cursing beneath his breath.

  Willow waited until he had disappeared around a corner before creeping toward the door. In response to her timid knock, the woman within shouted, “Unless you’d care to buy a dose of pox with your shilling, you’ll give me a moment to wash up.”

  “Well,” Willow murmured, thankful there was no one around to witness her blush. “I do believe I’m at the right cottage.”

  She had time to shift the basket between her aching arms three times before the door finally creaked open. A tall, rawboned woman appeared in the doorway. Willow’s courage wilted beneath her suspicious gaze. At an utter loss for words, she held out the kerchief-draped basket.

  The wariness on the woman’s face immediately sharpened to contempt. “I know your kind. I’ve seen it on my doorstep before. You bundle up in your warm cloak, creep out of your cozy cottage, and draw your hood up over your face so only God will know you took pity on the village whore. Well, you and your fine Christian charity can go straight to the devil,” she snarled, “for I’ll have none of it!”

  She would have slammed the door in Willow’s face had Willow not wedged the basket between door and frame. “Please don’t send me away! I haven’t come to offer you pity or charity. ‘Tis I who am in need. I who require something from you.”

  The woman showed no sign of relenting. Desperate to sway her, Willow shoved back her hood.

  The woman froze, then reached over almost absently to finger one of Willow’s butchered curls. An enigmatic smile touched her lips as she stood aside and jerked her head toward the shadowy interior of the cottage. “Let it never be said that old Netta would turn away her lord’s lady.”

  ———

  The fire sputtering upon the ash-encrusted hearth revealed that “old Netta” was probably no more than a dozen years older than Willow. With her slender waist and mane of honey-brown hair, she had probably been what most men would call a handsome woman before time and disappointment had etched a permanent sneer on her lips and carved gaunt hollows beneath her soaring cheekbones.

  Although a basin and cloth perched on a stool in front of the hearth, there was no mistaking the musky aroma that still hung in the air. Willow kept her gaze averted from the rumpled bed, trying not to imagine how many men must have taken their pleasure there. That task became more difficult when Netta plopped down on the foot of it and leaned back on her elbows.

  Painfully aware of the woman’s measuring gaze, Willow moved the basin to the hearth, sat down stiffly on the stool, and rested the basket at her feet.

  “So how do all the fine folk at the castle fare?” Netta asked lightly. “Your lord? His brood?”

  ‘Twas not the question Willow had expected. “My lord and his brood are quite well, thank you. And they’re precisely why I’ve come to see you today.” She toyed with the sleeve of her kirtle, finding it impossible to keep from fidgeting. “It has been brought to my attention that you are a woman of some... um... experience.”

  Netta arched a plucked eyebrow, urging her to continue.

  “Which is why I was hoping you could teach me...” Willow faltered.

  “To satisfy your man?” Netta ventured. “There’s no need to stammer and blush, you know. You’re certainly not the first bride to seek my counsel. Nor will you be the last.”

  “Oh, I don’t think my man is going to be very difficult to satisfy,” Willow confided, blushing even more furiously than she had on the doorstep. “What I am seeking is some way to satisfy him without ending up with his babe in my belly.”

  Netta surveyed her for a bemused moment, then threw back her head and cackled with laughter. “I’m a whore, not a witch, child. I’ve no potions or spells to prevent a man’s seed from taking root in his woman’s womb. Especially not your man’s.”

  “ ‘Tis not a potion or spell I seek,” Willow said desperately, “just some sensible advice. Surely you must practice such tricks. If you didn’t, this cottage would be overrun with children, would it not?”

  Netta’s smile faded. She gazed at the hearth, cocking her head as if she could hear the ghostly laughter of all the children who would never play there. “Aye, I suppose it would,” she said softly.

  “I can pay you.” Willow fumbled for the satin purse she’d tucked into her sleeve.

  Netta rose from the bed, her face hardening once again to a resentful mask. “You can keep your coins, my lady. I won’t do it. It’s far too dangerous a game you play. I’ve known men who had their wives burned at the stake for less. I’ll not help you deceive your husband.”

  “But I have no intention of deceiving my husband. On the contrary, I believe Lord Bannor will be delighted to learn that I’m partaking of your instruction. Why, I plan to tell him this very night!”

  Netta rested her hands on her hips and blinked at Willow. “What they’re whispering about you in the village is true, isn’t it? You really did declare war on our lord and take his children hostage. You’re quite mad, aren’t you?”

  “Would you help me if it was a lover I sought to thwart?” Willow asked, her growing desperation making her bold.

  Netta snorted. “I’d never believe you. Why would any woman be unfaithful to such a man as Lord Bannor?”

  Willow opened her mouth, unable to keep from asking the one question she’d promised herself she would not ask. “Has Lord Bannor ever .. . ? Have the two of you... ?”

  Netta did not reply for a long moment. When she finally did, her husky laughter was edged with regret. “I might risk my bones in the arms of a drunken soldier, but I’m not fool enough to risk my heart for any man. Bones will heal, but hearts... ?”

  Willow lowered her eyes, reluctant to reveal that she might be just such a fool.

  Netta held out her hand. “Have you a shilling on you?”

  Willow looked up, startled. “I thought you told me to keep my coins.”

  “I did,” Netta replied, an impish grin transforming her careworn face. “And I’m about to show you where.”

  ———

  “Four hundred and ninety-five. Four hundred and ninety-seven. Four hundred and ninety—”

  “Oh, Beatrix,” Willow crooned, interrupting her stepsister’s long-suffering recitation, “I do believe you missed a stroke. Perhaps you should begin again. At four hundred.”

  As Beatrix glared at her stepsister’s reflection in the hand mirror Willow was holding, Willow stole a look at the glazed window of her chamber. The moon seemed to be creeping across the sky with agonizing slowness.

  Beatrix gritted her pearly white teeth and began to drag the silver-handled brush through Willow’s hair once again, giving one of the sleek curls a spitefu
l tug.

  “Ow!” Willow cried, springing up from the stool. “ ‘Tis not as if you have any right to sulk. Combing my hair five hundred strokes is no more punishment than you deserve for betraying me to Bannor last night.”

  “When I agreed to deliver you into his hands, Lord Bannor swore to me that he wouldn’t hurt you.” Beatrix’s petulant gaze raked her up and down. “And you certainly don’t seem to be any the worse for enduring his heartless tortures.”

  For once, Willow was tempted to agree with her stepsister. She held up the mirror, hardly recognizing the lustrous dark curls, sparkling eyes, and flushed cheeks of the woman gazing back at her. ‘Twas almost as if she was seeing herself through the tender glow in Bannor’s eyes.

  While Willow was distracted, Beatrix snatched the mirror from her hand. The girl had always had little patience for anyone’s vanity but her own. As she turned the mirror this way and that, surveying her face, her breasts, and her plush hips from every conceivable angle, her usual smirk of satisfaction was marred by a shadow of doubt. “Did Lord Bannor truly say I was fat?”

  “Of course not,” Willow assured her. Since Bannor had actually said Beatrix was plump, she hoped God wouldn’t count it as a lie. “You know better than to pay any mind to Edward’s gibbering. Lord Bannor said you were . .. fair. Exceedingly fair.” As the gloating smirk returned to Beatrix’s face, she could not resist adding, “But far too immature for his tastes.”

  Ignoring her stepsister’s infuriated gasp, Willow plopped back down on the stool. “I believe you stopped at four hundred.” She smiled sweetly. “Or was it three hundred and fifty?”

  While Beatrix resumed her reluctant ministrations, Willow tried not to squirm. She should have been aching with exhaustion from all that she’d accomplished that afternoon, but anticipation tingled through her veins like the most potent of meads, making even the pretense of sleep impossible. Beatrix had reached a sullen four hundred and twenty-two when the chapel bells began to toll, their crisp cadences ringing sweetly through the night.

  Willow sprang to her feet, leaving Beatrix’s hand hanging in mid-stroke, and raced out the door.

  “Where on earth is she going in such haste?” Beatrix murmured just as the chapel bells tolled their twelfth stroke.

  ———

  Bannor plodded up the winding steps, more exhausted than he’d ever been after a day of battling the French. His head pounded, his knees throbbed, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shrug away the nagging ache between his shoulder blades.

  The pain in his knees was certainly no mystery. He’d spent the last two hours scampering about the flagstones of the great hall on hands and knees while Meg, Margery, and Colm took turns straddling his back, tugging at his hair, digging their sharp little heels into his ribs, and shouting, “Faster, Papa, faster!” If the chapel bells hadn’t tolled midnight when they had, he’d have been tempted to rear up, toss one of his hapless little riders into the air, and gallop to freedom.

  It hadn’t taken him long to realize he was going to regret promising to do Mary Margaret’s bidding. The child was no princess crowned by golden ringlets, but a blue-eyed tyrant who made Attila the Hun look like the most benevolent of masters. After only a day of fetching this and destroying that, he could understand why most of her dolls were missing both their heads and their limbs.

  Kell’s and Edward’s constant squabbling was still ringing in his ears. Ennis and Mary had spent most of the day with their dour little noses poked into the air, trying to prove that at twelve and ten, they were far too old and sophisticated to be “played with.” Only the good-natured Hammish had applauded all of Bannor’s desperate efforts to entertain them. He’d especially enjoyed making mock war with the soldiers Bannor had fashioned using green apples for their bodies and twigs for their arms and legs. Until he’d been compelled to eat the entire French army. Bannor shuddered. He’d spent nearly an hour holding the lad’s head over a privy shaft while he groaned and retched out his misery.

  At least he’d been spared the acerbic lash of Desmond’s tongue. The boy had scorned all of their attempts to coax him into joining their frantic merrymaking. Bannor had glanced up more than once to find him perched on the ramparts with his crow on his shoulder, brooding over them like a sullen gargoyle.

  Willow had remained even more elusive. Bannor had caught only a single glimpse of her during that interminable day. Before he could seek her out, the twins had tugged at his hands and Mary Margaret had bellowed out another command at the top of her little lungs.

  He yawned as he reached the landing at the top of the stairs, longing only to stumble to his mattress and collapse. Even though the chill was just the sort to claw itself deep into a man’s aching bones, he refused to waste time or effort building a fire. The cold rarely troubled him. He’d spent too many nights sleeping on the frozen ground in some dense thicket of French forest, only to wake up more often than not shrouded in a blanket of snow.

  He dragged open the tower door, that feeble effort sapping the last of his strength.

  The tangy aroma of wood smoke drifted to his nose, startling him nearly as much as the cozy snap and crackle of the fire on the grate. An invisible cloak of warmth enveloped him. The relentless fist of the wind knocked in vain, for the rattling of the shutters had been muffled by the burgundy palls of velvet draped over each window to thwart the icy drafts.

  A rug woven of wolf skins had been spread before the hearth. The plank floor had been strewn with winter savory and fresh mint. The oak table held only a chess set, its carved soldiers arranged with rigid military precision, and a pile of scrolls bound in tidy ribbons. The hole his children had punched in the west wall was now veiled by a gold-and-scarlet-hued tapestry depicting a knight inclining his head to receive the tender blessing of his lady before riding off to war.

  Bannor rubbed his bleary eyes, wondering if perhaps in his exhaustion he’d taken the wrong set of stairs. But no. ‘Twas definitely his own treasured collection of weapons that had been mounted with loving care on the curve of the wall beside the door. He reached up to absently run his fingers over the blade of the broadsword that had been given to him by the king, upon emerging triumphant from his imprisonment in Calais.

  A faint creak drew his gaze to the oak-and-leather bed frame that had replaced his narrow straw tick. A nest of quilts draped its plump feather mattress, and emerging from that nest was a woman garbed in a gown of rich green velvet trimmed in mink. A woman whose short-cropped curls and shy smile gave her heart-shaped face a gamine charm he could never hope to resist.

  When she started toward him, Bannor did not hesitate. He snatched the massive broadsword from the wall, leveled it at her heart, and growled, “Don’t take another step, my lady, or I shall run you through.”

  Eighteen

  Willow gazed at Bannor in disbelief, not sure whether she should laugh, or snatch one of his shields down from the wall to protect herself. The wild glint in his eye made him look even more dangerous than the grim determination etched on his features.

  She took a tentative step forward. Bannor took a step backward, as if even the two and a half feet of icy steel that lay between his hand and her heart was an inadequate defense.

  “Have you declared an end to our truce, my lord?” she asked softly, taking another step toward him.

  “No, you have,” he ground out from between his clenched teeth. “By plotting this diabolical ambush.”

  She took another step, daring to rest her fingertips lightly on the tip of his blade. “On the contrary. I’ve come here to lay down my arms. Why don’t you do the same?”

  Bannor glowered at her from beneath the sooty sweep of his lashes as she traced the shimmering length of steel down to his clenched fist. If it hadn’t been for the heated whisper of his breath in her hair, she would have sworn he’d been forged from the same immutable metal. But his rigid fingers unfolded at her touch, allowing her to disarm him with surprising ease.

  Before she coul
d drop the heavy weapon, Bannor caught it in one hand and returned it to its pegs on the wall. “I should have known a sword wouldn’t be enough to deter you. Perhaps I should send to the chapel for a crucifix and a rope of garlic.”

  His expression was so grim that Willow could not help laughing. “That won’t be necessary. I can assure you that I’m quite harmless.”

  “Isn’t that what the serpent said just before he coaxed Eve into eating that nice shiny apple?”

  Bannor strode to the cupboard and flung open the door. He spent several minutes pawing through its contents and swearing beneath his breath, giving Willow ample time to retrieve the flagon of ale he was searching for from the hearthstones where it had been warming. When he slammed the cupboard door and wheeled around, she was already holding out a goblet brimming with the amber brew, an inviting smile curving her lips.

  Their fingers brushed as he reluctantly accepted her offering and took a long, thirsty swig. “I thought I granted you your freedom. Why are you still here?”

  “You granted me my freedom only if I so desired it. Perhaps I don’t.”

  He paced to the far side of the tower, positioning the table as a barricade between them. “Just what do you desire, my lady? To invade my every refuge? To leave me no haven where I can escape your smile, your scent?” His voice softened as he fingered the velvet ribbon binding one of the scrolls. “Your touch?”

  A tingling warmth crept through Willow. “Perhaps when you hear what I have to say, you won’t be so eager to escape. I believe I know what ails you, my lord. And I believe I may have found the cure.” He eyed her warily as she approached the table. Mustering all of her courage, she blurted out, “Did you know that there are ways a woman can prevent a man from getting her with child?”