Charming the Prince Part 16

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 c.o.c.ked 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 h.e.l.l." 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 m.u.f.fled 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 G.o.d 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 a.s.sa.s.sin 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.

He tensed as she traced one of them from beginning to end. "A mere twenty lashes. My French jailers were most displeased when I strangled one of the guards with the whip he was using to beat me."

Overcome by emotion, Willow wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek to his ravaged back, wishing there was some way she could heal him with the balm of her tears.

Bannor's breath left his lungs in a raw shudder. He was a man born with an almost inhuman tolerance for pain, yet Willow's tears sent a jolt of pure agony through him. He struggled to hide it behind a rueful laugh.

"I cannot blame you for hiding your face. I know this battered body of mine is a frightful sight to behold. Now you know why I always chose to bed my wives in the dark. Beneath the blankets."

Willow's lips flowered against his back, leaving him suspended somewhere between pain and pleasure. "You wear your scars as badges of honor, my lord. They are beautiful to behold."

Bannor held himself rigid as she kissed each one in turn. "I never dreamed you'd be so cruel as to torture a confession out of me," he said unevenly. "Very well. I confess. The wound you gave me is naught more than a scratch. I simply used it as an excuse to escape the clutches of my children and lure you to my bed before midnight. I was never even light-headed. Although I'm beginning to feel that way now." he muttered. His eyes drifted shut as Willow began to nibble her way around the muscular column of his throat.

Willow was remembering the first time she'd seen him-how she had longed to explore each of his imperfections just to prove he was real. Her prince seemed only a pallid ghost of a man, as she nuzzled her lips against the tantalizing shadow of a beard that always darkened Bannor's jaw and breathed in the fragrant spice of his skin. His eyes were closed, his thick lashes fanned against his cheeks. He groaned deep in his throat as she touched her lips to his.

Her prince's teeth had been without flaw, which only made the chip in one of Bannor's front teeth more beguiling. She traced its jagged edge with her tongue, driving him to the verge of madness. Before he could seize that elusive prize for his own, she had drifted lower.

Her prince's chest had been as smooth and hairless as a boy's. Willow raked her fingernails through the whorls of dark hair that swirled over Bannor's chest, savoring their crisp texture, before pressing her mouth to the broad ribbon of scar that ran from his breastbone to his rib cage.

She rained moist kisses down its length, longing to give pleasure where before there had been only pain. If Bannor's ragged breathing was any indication, he was suffering a bit of both. Her fingers sought the grave insult carved by the a.s.sa.s.sin's dagger. It made her tremble to think that someone had tried to still forever the mighty heart beating beneath her hand. As she swirled her tongue around the rigid nub that had been bisected by that treacherous blade, Bannor tangled his hands in her hair, breathing an oath that sounded more like a prayer.

Her puckered lips caressed the puckered flesh around each arrow scar before gliding down, down, down, until they reached the burn scar on his abdomen.

Bannor would have sworn he hadn't had any sensation in the area of that scar for over a decade, but just watching Willow's ripe mouth glide over his ruined flesh was enough to make him dizzy with longing.

When her luscious lips traced the scar all the way to the top of his hose, his muscles contracted with crazy antic.i.p.ation. He seized her by the shoulders, drawing her up to his eye level. "Now might be a good time to warn you, my lady," he growled, "that I don't have a shilling on me."

A bold and silky smile curved her lips. "You won't be needing one, my lord, unless you wish to hold it between your knees."

Bannor's wariness melted to shock when she inclined her head to tug at the drawstring of his hose with her teeth. The slight sag in the fabric was all she needed to reach a belly that had rarely even been exposed to the kiss of the sun. As her questing mouth eased the hose even lower, Bannor would have sworn he was on fire again, the flickering flame of Willow's tongue a taste of both heaven and h.e.l.l. He nearly came off the bed when she gently cupped her hand around him through the hose.

" Tis a most imposing codpiece, my lord," she whispered, her breath tickling his belly.

"I'm not wearing a codpiece." he gritted out between his clenched teeth.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, managing to sound both sultry and innocent at the same time.

Bannor collapsed against the pillows, throwing an arm over his eyes.

Willow decided to take his hoa.r.s.e groan as one of surrender. She held her breath as she eased down his hose. In her innocence, she had never even dared to imagine her prince as possessing such a mysterious wonder.

Her breath escaped in a reverent sigh. The imperfections that had come before only made the perfection of him seem that much more overwhelming. She cupped him in both hands this time, shyly measuring both the length and breadth of him. His fulsome splendor only made the hungry ache within her deepen.

Bannor's hips bucked as Willow's lips tenderly enfolded him. 'Twas a boon neither Mary nor Margaret had thought to grant him, and one he would have been too proud to propose. He could not resist watching as Willow took him, not in darkness, nor beneath the blankets, but in the dazzling sunlight that spilled through the west window, limning her hair in silver.

He fisted his hands in those dark, silky curls, unableto decide if his bride was a she-devil or an angel. In truth, he did not care. He only knew that he was blessed to be held in her tender thrall for as long as she would have him. And have him she did. He threw back his head and roared with ecstasy as she delivered a sweeter death than any a.s.sa.s.sin, an arrow to the very heart of him.

He was still suffering fierce aftershocks when he dragged Willow into his lap and tangled his tongue with hers in a long, hot kiss.

They both started guiltily when an impatient knock sounded on the door, followed by Mary Margaret's imperious tones. "Willow, has Papa gone to heaven yet?"

Bannor buried a chuckle in Willow's hair. "Indeed he has," he whispered, "and you, angel, are the one who sent him there."

The chapel bells were just beginning to chime twelve times when Willow slipped into Bannor's tower that night, a wooden platter tucked in the crook of her arm. She deposited her burden on the table, arranging cheese, bread, and flagon of mulled wine in a welcoming tableau.

She took one of the torches dipped in pitch from its iron bracket and used it to light the nest of kindling she had arranged on the hearth earlier that evening. A cozy crackling soon filled the tower, along with the crisp fragrance of burning pine. She doused the torch in the bucket of water kept in the corner for just that purpose, preferring the gentle flickering of the firelight.

Willow surveyed her efforts with satisfaction. But as she wandered to the bed, she knew the warmth, food, and wine were only a shadow of the pleasures to come. Her breath quickened with antic.i.p.ation as she remembered the promise of sweet revenge Bannor had whispered in her ear, before reluctantly extracting himself from her embrace and going to rea.s.sure Mary Margaret that her papa wasn't going to heaven just yet.

The quilts were rumpled and the mattress still bore the imprint of Bannor's body. Unable to resist the temptation, Willow kicked off her shoes and clambered up on the bed. She curled her body into the larger hollow left by Bannor's, feeling as snug as a baby animal in its burrow.

When Willow awoke, the chapel bells were tolling again. Once. Twice. Three times.

She sat up and rubbed her eyes, both puzzled and disoriented. The cheese and bread sat untouched on the table; the fire burned low on the hearth, casting little more than shadows.

"Bannor?" she whispered. Her timid query was greeted by silence.

Without bothering to don her shoes, Willow slipped from the tower and padded down the stairs.

She poked her head in the first door she came to. Although the children had several beds between them, they nearly always ended up in the ma.s.sive four-poster shared by Desmond, Ennis, Kell, and Edward. But tonight Desmond slumbered there alone, looking impossibly lost in the middle of that enormous bed. With his mouth hanging open and his lashes resting against his freckled cheeks, he looked closer to five than thirteen. Willow gently drew the blanket over him, wondering if he remembered ever having a mother to do so.

Growing more perplexed by the moment, she crept down the broad stone stairs that cascaded into the heart of the castle. Since it was not uncommon for drunken stragglers and weary travelers seeking shelter from the cold to linger after an evening of merriment, she was not surprised to find a heap of bodies huddled around the hearth.She was surprised to discover that the heap of bodies belonged to the lord of the castle and his offspring.

Willow bit back a smile. It appeared the children had lost their valiant battle to stay awake until midnight. And so had their father.

Bannor lay in their midst like a fallen giant cast into an enchanted slumber by a sparkling pinch of fairy dust. Meg, Margery, and Colm had their little heads pillowed on his muscular thighs. Ennis and Mary sprawled on the two benches flanking him while Hammish, Edward, and Kell curled up at his sides. Edward was mumbling in his sleep and Hammish's mouth was pressed to Kell's ear. Willow could only pray the lad didn't dream he was partaking of some tender delicacy.

Bannor held Mary Margaret snuggled in the crook of one arm. Although she had claimed not to care if he went off to heaven or France, her little hand clenched the front of his doublet as if she had no intention of ever letting him go. When she whimpered in her sleep, Bannor's arm tightened around her, forming a brawny shield that no night terror, no matter how bold, would dare to challenge.

When the chapel bells had tolled midnight only three short hours ago, Willow would have sworn she had everything she had ever desired. But as she gazed at the dark and gold heads of father and daughter through a blur of tears, she discovered that she was really no better than a greedy child herself, always craving more than she had.

'Twas no longer enough that Bannor should want her. She wanted him to love her, too.

Just as she loved him.

The realization made her heart ache with a bittersweet yearning more keen than any she had ever felt for her prince. Until that moment, she had never understood how Bannor could consider love an affliction. But as she slipped silently from the hall, she was already beginning to shiver with a fever from which there was no cure.

Twenty One When Willow awoke the next morning, she had good reason to shiver. The temperature had plunged during the night, leaving sparkling diamonds of frost on the glazed window of her chamber. A sullen sky brooded over the castle, mirroring her mood.

Although she knew that Beatrix had rarely risen before noon at Bedlington, she still felt compelled to try to shake the girl out of her stupor. Beatrix simply mumbled a protest, snuggled deeper into the feather mattress, and drew the pelts over her head. Willow sighed, wishing she could do the same.

Instead, she donned a fur-lined gown cut from crimson wool and hastened downstairs to seek the warmth and cheer of the great hall. A fat yew log burned on the ma.s.sive stone hearth. Bannor, Sir Hollis, and the children were gathered around the high table while various knights, squires, and men-at-arms broke their fasts at the long trestle tables scattered throughout the hall.

Bannor interrupted his conversation with Sir Hollis as she approached. "Good morning, my lady," he murmured, his eyes narrowing as he studied her face. "I trust you had a satisfying night's sleep?"

" 'Twas most fulfilling, my lord," she replied, wondering if he'd been disappointed to find his bed cold and empty when he'd finally retired to his tower.

The chair beside him was empty, but she deliberately joined Hammish on one of the benches. Let Bannor think she was sulking because he'd failed to keep their midnight tryst. 'Twas better than having him suspect the truth.

Garbed in brown hose and a crisp doublet of emerald green camlet, Bannor looked none the worse for having spent most of the night sleeping on the stones before the hearth. His jaw was freshly shaven, and his eyes possessed their usual sparkle. His children, however, didn't seem to have fared as well. Mary poked at a sticky pomegranate with one finger, while Ennis sluggishly stirred his fig pudding. Kell and Edward slumped over the table, their eyes drooping and their chins propped on opposite hands. A dozing Mary Margaret was in imminent danger of falling face first into her bowl. Even Hammish seemed to be making only a perfunctory effort to lick his plate clean.

Desmond was the only one eating with grim ferocity, as if he intended to choke down every honeyed pomegranate and spoonful of fig pudding in the castle, even if it killed him.

The children's attention sharpened when a squire emerged from the kitchens, staggering beneath the weight of a pewter platter laden with a succulent array of meats. Mary Margaret snapped out of her doze, her pert nose twitching like a rabbit's.

As the squire lowered the platter to the table, Bannor rubbed his hands in gleeful antic.i.p.ation. Willow shot him a suspicious glance. She'd never seem him partake of anything before noon more hearty than brown bread washed down with ale.

As he stabbed a thick slab of bacon with his knife, popped it into his mouth, and began chewing with deliberate relish, the children followed his every move, their mouths hanging open. "Would you care for some bacon," -their faces brightened, then fell again as Bannor gallantly added-"my lady?"

"No, thank you, my lord," Willow replied, hiding a reluctant smile. "I'll just have what the children are having."

"You can have mine," Ennis said, shoving his bowl and spoon at her. "If I never see another bowl of fig pudding, 'twill be too soon for me."

Willow twirled the spoon in the bowl with even less enthusiasm than he had. It seemed her unfortunate affliction had also robbed her of her appet.i.te.

"I'd like some of that pheasant," Sir Hollis said cheerfully, knife already in hand.

Bannor stretched halfway down the table to hand the platter to him. The children licked their lips as it pa.s.sed only inches beneath their noses, then watched through glazed eyes as the knight helped himself to a slice of roast pheasant dripping with a piquant plum sauce. Desmond shoveled another heaping mouthful of fig pudding into his mouth, swallowing with an audible gulp.

While Bannor and Hollis savored their feast, pausing only long enough in their vigorous chewing and swallowing to swap effusive praise for the cook and all of his minions, Edward began to claw at his chest. "Might I have a bath today? I'm starting to itch."

Scowling, Kell inched away from him. "You're starting to smell, too."

Bannor tucked a hearty bite of pork savory in his mouth. "I'm sorry, son, but according to the terms of our treaty, you're not due for a bath for at least another fortnight."

Kell pinched his nose shut and made a gagging noise.

Edward elbowed him in the ribs. "Don't know what you're going on about. You don't exactly smell like the queen yourself." He sn.i.g.g.e.red. "Or maybe you do."

Plainly hoping to avoid a round of fisticuffs, Bannor dabbed at his mouth with a linen napkin and rose to his feet. Before his offspring's hopes could rise with him, he gestured for the squire hovering behind the b.u.t.tery screen to remove the platter from the table.

When it was gone, his cheerful gaze traveled the circle of glum little faces that ringed him. "So what are we to play today? Is it to be hoops and tops? Or perhaps a few rousing games of hot c.o.c.kles and hoodman blind?"

Desmond glared into his bowl, while the rest of them simply blinked at him, their eyes drooping at half-mast. Mary Margaret hid a yawn behind her hand.

Bannor shrugged and sighed, managing to look nearly as crestfallen as Hammish. "Well, if no one wishes to play with me this morning, I suppose I'll just wander out to the list and see if perhaps I'm needed there." Shooting Willow a wink that made her heart do a somersault in her chest, he turned away from the table.

"Perhaps you should go to Windsor. The king might need his a.r.s.e wiped."

Although Desmond's head was inclined, his voice still carried throughout the hall. All talking and chewing seemed to cease at the same moment. Some of Bannor's men gaped openly at the high table while others took a sudden and profound interest in the red-and-gold banners strung from the rafters.

Bannor slowly pivoted on his heel, his hands curling into fists. "What was that, son?"

Willow held her breath, waiting for Desmond to mutter some falsehood or denial, but he shocked them all by surging to his feet. She realized then that the crimson creeping into his rigid jaw was not a stain of embarra.s.sment, but anger.

He faced his father squarely, his own hands clenched into fists. "Please don't let me detain you, Father. You'd best hasten to the lists and whip out your mighty sword because you never know when the French might declare war on us again. And you know what? I pray they do! Then you'll have to rush to the king's side, won't you? Only this time, I hope you never return. Unless it's draped belly-down over your horse's back!"