Charming the Prince (16 page)

 
She swung around, hands on hips, to survey her own ranks. Unlike Bannor's men, they did not stand in orderly rows, gazing straight ahead with their shoulders thrown back. Instead, they scampered about the chamber, each engrossed in the task Willow had set before them. Their concentration was frequently broken by a fit of giggles or a shoving match when they disagreed over how to proceed. It was not yet noontime, and Willow had already had to break up two fistfightsand dry a flood of petulant tears. The latter had belonged to Beatrix, who resented being asked to turn her dainty hands to the task of whittling table legs into arrows.

 
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 passages Desmond had described that fateful evening on the gallows. The passages 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 appetites for war and women, he might be familiar with the passages 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 breasts. 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 passageway behind the hearth in the kitchen just waiting for a chance to snatch 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 assured 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 constitution 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 glassy 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 noble 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 passageway 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 arsenal of weapons—the rusty head of an ancient battle-ax, a massive 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 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.