Charming the Prince Part 10

Willow shot a wry glance heavenward. Those genteel ladies, Mary and Margaret, would no doubt rise wailing from their crypts if they could see what Willow and the children had done to their elegant bedchamber.

Kell and Edward had torn the palls of purple silk from the walls and were using them to fashion bold sashes they could all wear over their tunics. The fine floor of Norwegian fir now sported numerous scars, gouged when Ennis and Hammish had dragged all the nonessential furniture from the chamber and shoved it down the stairs, creating an impromptu barricade. Mary and Mary Margaret had stripped the hangings from the bed and were slicing them into bandages. Although no one had suffered anything more life-threatening than a splinter or a skinned knee while scampering out of the reach of Bannor's men, Willow believed in being prepared.

The youngest children were tearing feathers from the mattress in great handfuls, hoping to use them in some diabolical plot of Desmond's involving a vat of pitch and a garrison of sleeping soldiers. The children required no bed. They preferred to sleep wrapped in blankets on the floor just like the soldiers they were pretending to be.

Last night, Willow had joined them there. There was something oddly comforting about being surrounded by their snug little bodies. As she had lain in the dark, listening to their various snores, snorts, and snuffles, she had realized that she was having something she hadn't been allowed to have in a very long time-fun.

Kell and Edward suddenly broke into a noisy tug-of-war match over one of the sashes. Willow was moving to separate them when Desmond came tumbling out of the cupboard.

She had been shocked to discover that her very own cupboard was a door to one of the secret pa.s.sages Desmond had described that fateful evening on the gallows. The pa.s.sages and peepholes scattered throughout the castle made it possible for them to come and go without being detected. Bannor might be a master of strategy, but he'd yet to figure out how Willow and the children were privy to his battle plans practically before he made them.

Willow's mouth curved in a tight little smile. Perhaps if he had spent more time at home with his children and less time indulging his appet.i.tes for war and women, he might be familiar with the pa.s.sages his children had been traversing since they were toddlers.

Desmond's face had lost its pinched, sullen look. The crow on his shoulder let out a triumphant caw as he swept them an exaggerated bow. "Captain of the guard reporting for duty."

Ten-year-old Mary stopped shredding the bed hangings long enough to shoot him a resentful look. "I don't see why you always get to be captain of the guard."

"Because I'm the oldest."

"No, you're not. I am." Beatrix scrambled to her feet, her nose still red from her fit of tears. She was the exact same age as Desmond, but she towered over him like an Amazon princess.

He tried to sneer up his nose at her, but couldn't seem to coax his gaze into traveling any higher than her heaving b.r.e.a.s.t.s. A flush crept into his freckled cheeks. "You can't be captain of the guard. You're naught but a maidservant. And a girl."

Willow cleared her throat pointedly.

Desmond jerked his gaze away from Beatrix's chest and flushed deeper. "Beg pardon, Willow. But you're not a girl. You're our commander." His bony chest swelled. "And I've come to bring you tidings of great import."

Beatrix rolled her eyes while the children crowded around, eager to hear his news.

"Proceed," Willow commanded, waving a regal hand.

Desmond threw a nervous glance over his shoulder, as if he feared one of his father's spies might come bounding out of the cupboard. "I was hiding in the pa.s.sageway behind the hearth in the kitchen just waiting for a chance to s.n.a.t.c.h a hare from the spit when I heard one of the maidservants say that Fath-" his face hardened,"-the enemy had just given the order that all the food stores were to be removed to the spice cellar, where they're to be kept under lock and key." Desmond paused for dramatic effect. "He plans to starve us out."

The children gasped as one, but it was Hammish's piteous whimper that cut straight to Willow's heart. The shy lad could bear any physical blow without wincing, but the prospect of having his food cut off made his plump cheeks go pale with dread.

Willow wrapped an arm around the boy's shoulders, stirred by a rush of fierce protectiveness. Gerta or Harold would have squirmed out of her embrace, but Hammish only snuggled nearer. What manner of monster would starve his own children? she thought bitterly. It seemed her husband was a prince after all. A prince of darkness.

"Don't you fret, sweeting," she a.s.sured Hammish, ruffling his cinnamon-colored hair. "We'll find something for you to eat. I swear it."

The boy's hopeful gaze strayed to the crow on Desmond's shoulder.

Desmond stroked the bird's sleek feathers and glared back at his brother. "We might just have to eat you. At least there'd be plenty to go around."

Before Willow could chastise him, Edward piped up. "We won't have to eat none of us. I'll just wait 'til the pigeons come to roost on the battlements for the night. As soon as they fall asleep, I'll sneak up behind 'em and bash 'em over the head with a club." Edward mimed the entire hunt. Kell staggered beneath the blow of the invisible club, then collapsed onto his back, his fingers curled into rigid talons.

Beatrix groaned. "I'm not eating a filthy pigeon. My const.i.tution is far too delicate."

"You didn't look so delicate yesterday when you were wolfing down that lark pasty I brought you," Desmond reminded her, earning a scornful look.

Willow struggled to hide her own grimace of distaste. " Tis a fine idea, Ed. We can roast the pigeons right here on the hearth. Margery and Colm can turn the spit."

The four-year-old twins beamed, delighted to be included in the adventure.

The devilish mischief melted from Desmond's face, leaving it curiously sober. "There's more you should know, Willow."

The children ceased their fidgeting and fell into a grave hush. A claw of foreboding tickled Willow's nape. "Go on."

"My father told his men that if they should succeed in routing us, there's only one thing he wants."

"And that would be?"

"You."

The single word shivered Willow to the core. The children exchanged wide-eyed glances, their eyes gla.s.sy with dread.

"We've heard tales about what Papa does with the prisoners he captures," Mary whispered.

"Aye, we have," Ennis said somberly. "Some say he cuts off their heads, strings them on a rope, and hangs them from his saddle."

"Others say he pitches them into a deep, dark hole and covers them over with dirt," added Kell. "While they're still alive."

"I heard he boils 'em in a big pot," Edward offered cheerfully, "then sucks the marrow from their bones." He lifted an invisible bone to his lips and made smacking noises.

Mary Margaret rushed over and buried her face in the leg of Willow's breeches. "Oh, Willow," she wailed, "what if Papa eats you all up?"

Willow stroked Mary Margaret's ringlets, as much to hide the trembling of her own hand as to comfort the child. She never wanted the little girl to learn that there were far more diabolical punishments a man could visit upon a woman.

"If he takes you hostage," Beatrix declared, striking a n.o.ble pose that didn't quite hide the hungry dart of her tongue over her ripe, pink lips, "I shall offer myself in your place."

Desmond snorted. "He'll be paying us to take you back."

Before Beatrix could box the boy's ears, Willow said, " 'Tis a grand gesture, Bea, but that won't be necessary. Lord Bannor would have to capture me first. And I have no intention of letting him do that." She managed a bold smile. " 'Twill be only a matter of time before your wicked papa is forced to surrender."

"Once he does," Desmond asked eagerly, "what will you do with him?"

It wasn't until Willow's gaze had traveled the expectant circle of their bloodthirsty little faces that she realized she hadn't the faintest idea.

On day four of the siege, Willow and Desmond huddled in the secret pa.s.sageway tucked into the wall of the north tower. For both of them to see through the narrow peephole bored in the stone, they had to crouch with their faces pressed cheek to cheek.

Despite the cozy grace of the chamber Bannor had prepared for her, it appeared that he had been living in spartan squalor since returning to Elsinore. The walls of his tower were bare stone, with no trace of the richly hued tapestries scattered throughout the rest of the castle. Crude shutters veiled the windows, their wooden teeth chattering beneath each bullying gust of the wind. The table and chairs were littered with crumpled sheaves of parchment and a veritable a.r.s.enal of weapons-the rusty head of an ancient battle-ax, a ma.s.sive crossbow it should have taken two men to handle, maces, shields, and at least half a dozen broadswords, their deadly blades polished to a gleaming sheen.

Bannor didn't even allow himself the luxury of a bed, but instead chose to sleep on a straw-stuffed mattress beneath one of the windows. He ought to at least drag it in front of the fire, Willow thought irritably, now that the nights had turned so bitter cold. Of course, half the time he didn't even bother to light a fire, but slept huddled beneath a thin blanket. 'Twas almost as if he equated comforts with weakness and sought to deny himself even the most primitive of them.

"Here he comes," Desmond hissed, jabbing an elbow into her side as the tower door swung open.

Willow rubbed her ribs. "Let's pray Sir Hollis is with him so we can learn what they've got planned for the morrow."

Willow could not help wondering how she would feel if Bannor drew a woman into that candlelit tower behind him. One of the women from the village, perhaps, who had already welcomed him into her bed and borne his child. But the door drifted shut to reveal he was alone.

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 b.u.t.tons 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 sc.r.a.p 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 b.u.t.tery, 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 G.o.d 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 appet.i.te."

Bannor arched one eyebrow. "Fierce indeed. Although I would have thought even the most voracious appet.i.te 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 ap.r.o.n. "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 la.s.s 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 b.u.t.tons snipped off."

Fiona c.o.c.ked 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d by birth,' I told 'em all, 'but not a b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 la.s.s 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 ap.r.o.n over her head, burst into noisy sobs, and fled down the darkened pa.s.sageway.

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 b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.

Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds 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.