Charming the Prince Part 22

The two of them had been making an almost comical effort to keep up their pretense of despising each other. Their constant bickering was at such odds with the yearning glances they cast each other when they thought no one was looking that Willow could not resist laughing out loud. When Desmond went stalking off toward the other children in a mock huff, Willow began to limp toward her stepsister, intending to recruit her in the search for her shoe.

A majestic blast from a hunting horn froze Willow in her tracks. A wave of excitement rippled through the bailey. Visitors were a rare occurrence in the heart of winter. Especially visitors consequential enough to be announced by the lookout in the gatehouse watchtower.

Willow turned, squinting toward the road.

A single chariot was wending its way up the hill, accompanied not by a retinue of knights, but by three scruffy-looking men-at-arms who slouched low in their saddles.

Even from a distance, Willow could see the slivers of gilt peeling from the chariot's cream-colored wheels. The chariot wasn't drawn by six snowy white steeds, but by a team of mismatched cart horses. Yet the bells threaded through their bridles struck a discordant note in Willow's memory.

That off-key echo seemed to go on and on, deafening her to everything but the sound of Beatrix behind her, breathing out the one word guaranteed to send a jagged splinter of dread plunging through Willow's heart.

"Mama?"

With each revolution of the chariot's wheels, time seemed to roll backward, hurtling her into the past. As the chariot grew larger and larger, Willow could feel herself growing smaller and smaller. She almost wished she would just go on shrinking until she disappeared altogether.

Her gaze still riveted on the road, she touched a hand to the dusty kerchief that bound her curls, then absently smoothed her bodice, half expecting to find a row of clumsily st.i.tched roses embroidered there.

She never saw Bannor emerge from the gatehouse, beaming with antic.i.p.ation. She never saw him nudge Hollis and murmur, "See the look of surprise on her face," or heard Hollis hiss, "If you ask me, she looks as if she's going to be ill."

She only saw that familiar chariot rumbling up the drawbridge, pa.s.sing beneath the arch of the gatehouse, and rolling to a halt not twenty feet in front of her. One of Bannor's squires hastened forward to throw open the door.

Everyone in the bailey seemed to hold their breath as one elegant hand, shrouded to the elbow in a pristine white glove, emerged from that silken coc.o.o.n to take the blus.h.i.+ng squire's arm. Time might have tinted Blanche's blond hair with silver, but the smile that played around her lips had lost none of its enigmatic charm. The pearl-encrusted girdle that had once belonged to Willow's mother hugged her shapely hips.

Her gaze flickered across the bailey, lighting briefly on Willow. Stepping down from the carriage, she cried, "Oh, my beloved daughter, how I have missed you!"

As she started toward Willow with arms flung wide, Bannor frowned. "Is it possible I could have misjudged the woman so sorely?"

But at that precise moment, Blanche went flying past Willow as if she didn't exist, and threw her arms around an open-mouthed Bea.

Twenty Eight Beatrix hung awkwardly in her mother's embrace, looking as confused and miserable as a fox with its paw caught in a poacher's trap. Blanche was crooning, Bannor was glowering, and Desmond was glaring at Beatrix as if she'd deliberately betrayed him. Willow watched it all through a murky veil of shock.

That veil did not lift until her papa clambered stiffly down from the carriage, cradling his weak arm to his chest.

"Papa?" she whispered, taking an involuntary step toward him.

He turned toward her, a tremulous smile hovering on his lips. Before Willow could take another step, Stefan descended from the carriage behind her father. They both froze as Stefan strode past Sir Rufus, seized Willow by the shoulders, and planted a less than brotherly kiss upon her mouth.

He held her at arm's length, his features cast in a mask of concern. "Don't grieve yourself just because the heartless knave has decided to cast you aside, my dear sister. As long as I am master of Bedlington," he said, ignoring Sir Rufus's outraged gasp, "you'll always have a home." He touched his lips to her temple, lowering his voice to a husky whisper intended only for her ears. "And a bed."

Before Willow could jerk herself out of her stepbrother's possessive grip, the heartless knave in question came striding toward Stefan with his hand on his sword hilt and murder in his eyes. Blanche stepped between the two men. Beatrix managed to squirm out of her mother's grip and duck behind her while Stefan wisely sidled away from Willow, a triumphant smirk still playing around his lips.

"Explain yourself, woman," Bannor thundered, still glaring daggers at Stefan. "What is the meaning of this?"

Blanche spread the ferret-trimmed skirts of her cloak in a graceful curtsy. "Ah, you must be Lord Bannor. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Blanche of Bedlington."

"I know d.a.m.n well who you are." Bannor stabbed a finger at Beatrix, who was peeping over her mother's shoulder, her eyes huge and her face ashen. "I want to know who the h.e.l.l she is."

Blanche looked briefly taken aback, but it didn't take her long to recover her aplomb and slant Bannor a flirtatious glance. "Surely you tease me with your riddles, my lord. She is my daughter and your betrothed, is she not?"

Sir Rufus began to sputter in earnest, but Bannor was too dumbfounded to even form a denial.

Blanche spared Willow a pitying glance. "I must confess that I wasn't terribly surprised to learn that our Willow simply wouldn't do. I hope you don't blame us for foisting the unfortunate girl off upon you. We would have never done so, had your steward not insisted." Digging her gloved fingers into the girl's arm, Blanche hauled Beatrix back in front of her. "You can be a.s.sured that my daughter will make you a marvelous bride."

"Have you taken leave of your senses, woman?" Sir Rufus thundered. "Lord Bannor already has a bride. My daughter."

Bannor finally found his own voice. "You, my lady, are the one speaking in riddles. Contrary to what you may believe, I have no intention of wedding this-this child!"

Stefan's smirk faded and Blanche's smile turned frosty. "I don't understand, my lord. You were the one who sent the missive inviting us to attend the wedding of our cherished daughter. You were the one who insisted we journey to Elsinore for the event."

"You?" The word was spoken softly, but with such crystalline clarity that they all swiveled around to stare at Willow.

Although Bannor had never backed down from a fight in his life, the bruised accusation in his wife's eyes made him itch to bolt.

"You?" she repeated. "You did this? You invited them here without asking my leave? Without doing me the courtesy of warning me that they were coming? You're the one who made me the b.u.t.t of this terrible jest?"

Bannor shot Hollis a desperate look, wis.h.i.+ng that he was on some battlefield in the heart of France, dodging enemy arrows. Or perhaps chained in the stygian gloom of a dungeon, with only rats and skeletons for company. Hollis just shrugged, as if to say that this was one battle he would have to fight alone.

Bannor stretched out a hand, using the same tone he had once used to disarm a French spy disguised as a camp follower, who had ended up spilling her own secrets against his lips before he gently removed her from his bed. "I summoned them here so they could pay tribute to you, sweeting, while I hosted a magnificent wedding in your honor."

"And is this how you believe I would choose to greet our guests?" She shook her mudstained skirts at him, her voice rising. "Just look at me, Bannor!"

Bannor could hardly believe that this spitting feline was the same sweet-tempered kitten who had spent last night cuddled in his arms, purring with pleasure. He raked his gaze up and down her, drinking in her glittering gray eyes, the roses in her cheeks, the row of saucy pink toes peeping out from her torn stocking.

He shook his head in genuine bewilderment. "I don't know that I've ever seen you look more beautiful." His confession only made her groan. "I never intended to do you a discourtesy. 'Twas meant to be a surprise."

"Oh, it was. A delightful surprise! Nearly as delightful as an unexpected visit from the king's tax collectors. Or an outbreak of the plague."

It was Blanche's turn to sputter. "Well, I must say, that's not very hospitable of you."

As Willow turned to Blanche, an eerie calm descended over her. She was not a child anymore, but a woman grown. She no longer had to swallow whatever bitter poison her stepmother decided to ladle down her throat. "What would you know about being hospitable, Blanche? You made me feel unwelcome in my own home for thirteen years."

Blanche stomped her slippered foot. "How dare you address me in such a disrespectful manner? I won't stand for it!"

"And what will you do to stop me?" Willow jerked off the kerchief to reveal her cropped curls, eliciting a strangled gasp from Stefan. "Threaten to cut off all my hair? Thrash me? Force Papa to send me to bed without supper?"

As if inspired by Willow's words, Blanche whirled on Rufus. "She's your daughter. You should be the one to deal with her insolence. If you're man enough, that is."

"Why, I-I . . ." Sir Rufus drew out a kerchief and mopped his florid brow, his bravado deserting him in the face of his wife's scorn. "Perhaps if the two of you made a better effort..."

As the man she had once idolized stood there, trapped between his daughter and his wife, Willow wished desperately that she could feel something for him besides a weary mixture of pity and contempt.

She patted his stooped shoulder. "Don't trouble yourself, Papa. We shall strive to make amends."

Willow faced her stepmother, her eyes still glittering with defiance. "Forgive me, my lady. I spoke in haste." She could tell from the acid curl of her stepmother's mouth that the words meant no more to Blanche than they did to her.

Willow's unyielding grace made Bannor's heart swell with pride. He rested his hands on her shoulders, sweeping his most formidable glower across Blanche, Beatrix, and the rest of their misbegotten clan. "I don't know what sort of scheme you and this daughter of yours have devised, but 'tis Willow who is, and always shall be, my wife. She is the woman I... the woman I..." As Bannor caressed the gentle curve of Willow's collar-bone, the tenderness he harbored in his heart seemed to swell into his throat, choking him.

Willow cast him a look over her shoulder, her gray eyes enormous. Not even at the height of their love-making had he seen such utter vulnerability in their misty depths.

She seemed to be holding her breath, while Bannor was suddenly having difficulty catching his. He knew instinctively that he had it within his power to atone for every sin committed by man since a sniveling Adam had pointed his finger at Eve and blamed her for giving him the apple.

When the words finally came, they spilled out in a desperate rush. "She is the woman I intend to marry for a second time this very night."

Hollis groaned and buried his face in his hand. Stefan's lips curled into a scornful sneer he did not bother to mask.

Willow disengaged herself from Bannor's embrace with an icy precision that chilled him to the bone. "I think not, my lord," she said. "For had I known what a churlish lout you were, I would have never married you the first time." Tugging Beatrix from her mother's arms, Willow gave the girl a halfhearted shove toward Bannor. "I hope the two of you will be very happy together!"

As she went stalking toward the castle, her head held high, Beatrix burst into tears and fled the bailey, her noisy sobs lingering long after she'd gone.

Bannor was still gazing after Willow, his empty hands hanging helplessly at his sides, when Hollis sidled up behind him. " Tis fortunate that you've become such an expert on women, is it not? A less able man might have bungled that entire situation."

Desmond found Beatrix in the barn, perched on the very same mound of hay where they had shared their first kiss. As he approached, she hugged her knees and shot him a petulant look from beneath her tear-dampened lashes. "If you've come to scowl and growl at me, I'm in no mood for it."

"Can you blame me for being angry? You led me to believe you were naught but a common maidservant, when all along you were a... a..." he grimaced in distaste, "... a lady."

" 'Twas Willow's idea to disguise me as her maidservant. She was afraid that if Lord Bannor knew I'd run away from home, he'd make her send me back." Beatrix swiped at her nose with the back of her hand. "Now Willow hates me, and Lord Bannor will probably send me back anyway."

Desmond swung around to stare at her. 'Twas the first time the possibility had occurred to him. "No, he won't," he said with an arrogance that would serve him well when he was master of the castle. "I won't stand for it."

"What do you care?" she flung at him. "You're behaving as if you hate me, too."

Desmond paced away from her, stroking the spa.r.s.e stubble on his chin as if it were a full beard. "As long as you were a maidservant, I was free to dally with you as I pleased. I could chase you around the garden and steal all the kisses I wanted." He swung around to glare at her. "But now that you're a lady, I can't very well just tumble you into a haystack and seduce you. d.a.m.ned if I won't have to marry you first!"

Beatrix blinked up at him, tears of joy flooding her misty blue eyes. "Why, I do believe that's the nicest proposal I've ever received," she whispered.

Desmond's eyes glowed with both tenderness and resolve as he stretched out one freckled hand and drew her to her feet. "If I have anything to say about it, Lady Beatrix of Bedlington, 'twill be the last one as well."

When Bannor arrived at the top of the stairs just before dusk, he found ten of his children huddled on the landing outside Willow's bedchamber, their hushed whispers proclaiming the gravity of their vigil. Desmond and Beatrix shared the top step, their clasped hands poorly hidden by the folds of her skirt. When Bannor appeared, they gave a guilty start and edged away from each other, twin blushes darkening their cheeks.

So that was to be the way of it, Bannor thought with a wry glimmer of amus.e.m.e.nt, as he picked his way between them. Although he didn't look forward to negotiating a betrothal contract with the girl's grasping mother, at least he didn't have to worry about his son and heir wooing the laziest maidservant in all of England.

He cast the arrow loop a grim glance. If the snow kept tumbling from the sky as it had in the past few hours, he feared he'd have ample time to negotiate that contract. Bannor shuddered at the thought of being trapped in the castle with the nest of adders Willow called a family until the spring thaw. Her father had been drinking himself into a stupor ever since that scene in the bailey and Bannor couldn't so much as catch a glimpse of her stepbrother's sullen smirk without wanting to drive his fist into it.

The rising wail of the wind was the only sound on the landing. m.u.f.fled sobs, outraged shrieks, or the crash of pottery shattering would have been preferable to the piteous silence seeping out from behind the door of Willow's bedchamber. Bannor closed his eyes briefly, cursing himself and all of his male ancestors for being so d.a.m.nably thickheaded. If he had just heeded Hollis's counsel, he might be sharing Willow's bed right now instead of standing outside the door of her bedchamber, as empty-handed as a beggar.

As he lifted his hand to knock, his children regarded him with a disconcerting mixture of chagrin and pity.

"She won't let you in," Mary predicted, her round little face more doleful than usual.

"How can you be sure?"

"Are you the last man on earth?" Mary Margaret demanded, tugging on the leg of his hose.

"I don't believe so," he ventured.

The little girl pondered his reply for a moment before shrugging. "Well, even if you were, Willow still wouldn't let you in."

"Or stay married to you," Ennis muttered.

"Or throw you a rope if you tumbled headfirst down a well," Edward added cheerfully.

"How do you know that?" Bannor inquired.

Hammish cringed in sympathy. "She told Fiona, then Fiona told us."

Bannor blew out a pensive breath. It seemed this was going to be much more difficult than he'd antic.i.p.ated.

Swallowing his trepidation, he rapped his knuckles softly against the door. "Willow? Sweeting? Might I have a word with you?"

He would have thought it impossible, but the silence became even more p.r.o.nounced. He pressed his ear to the oak, encouraged by a faint rustling within. His heart soared as the door slowly creaked open.

Then plummeted when Fiona's wizened visage appeared in the crack. The chamber behind the stooped old woman was veiled in shadows.

Fiona greeted him with a sorrowful shake of her head. "Ye'd best take yerself off, lad. She'll not see ye right now."

Still shaking her head, Fiona began to shut the door. Bannor jammed the toe of his boot into the narrowing crack. "Wait, Fiona! Tell her..."

Tell her what? That his arms ached with emptiness whenever she wasn't in them? That he was a stubborn fool with more pride than courage?

Gazing down into Fiona's expectant face, Bannor shook his own head before saying softly, "Just tell her that I'm sorry."

Fiona nodded before gently closing the door in his face.

Once Bannor might have called for a battering ram to pound it down, but if Willow had taught him anything in the past few months, it was that such reckless posturing might destroy the very prize he sought to win.

Willow could not seem to stop crying. It was as if all the tears she'd choked back since she was six years old had decided to come pouring out of her in one bitter torrent. She longed to wail and rage and kick her feet as Mary Margaret would have done, but she'd spent too many years crying into her pillow, her body wracked by silent sobs.

Every time the salty flood subsided, she would relive the scene in the bailey, remembering her papa's painful confusion, Blanche's frosty contempt, and Stefan's blatant sneer at witnessing her humiliation.

Most d.a.m.ning of all had been the raw panic she'd glimpsed on Bannor's face, when he had been unable to choke out the one word that would have forever redeemed her pride in the eyes of her family.

Willow's shuddering hiccups deepened to sniffles, her sniffles to snuffles, and her snuffles to sobs. Before long she was weeping full force again, and Fiona was patting her back and crooning soothing words in a language she did not understand. Although the snow was still falling in a blinding veil outside the window, Willow refused to let the old woman light a candle. The gloom suited her.

"Oh, Fiona," Willow mumbled, "I think I hate him!"

"Of course, ye do, darlin'," Fiona murmured. "He's a loathsome toad. All men are."

Willow stopped crying long enough to cast the old woman a look over her shoulder, her eyes still br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears. "But he's not loathsome at all. He's kind and strong and gentle." She collapsed face first into the feather pillow. "Oh, G.o.d, that only makes me hate him more! How did Mary and Margaret bear it? They're probably glad they're dead. I wish I was dead, too!" She seized upon the idea with savage satisfaction. "Perhaps I'll cry myself to death, and then he'll be sorry he never loved me."