Charming the Prince (22 page)

 
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 could 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?"

"Such as forcing him to spend a day in the company of his children?"

Willow gave him an exasperated look.

 
Bannor sank into a chair and propped his boots on the table, heaving a defeated sigh. "Of course I know of such tricks. I'm not some callow lad. But I also know 'twould be a sin for you and me to practice them."

 
Willow frowned. "Why would such a thing displease God?"

 
"Because He created the marriage bed for procreation, not pleasure."

 
Given her husband's history, she could not quite let that pass without challenge. "And if a man should choose to seek his pleasure outside of the marriage bed? Isn't that a sin as well?"

 
Bannor's expression was as bland and innocent as an angel's. "Fornication is a venial sin, preventing conception a mortal one."

 
Willow blinked at him. "I'm beginning to understand why you have a dozen children."

 
He drained the rest of the ale and averted his eyes, the gesture curiously furtive in such a forthright man.

 
Willow paced back and forth in front of the table, deep in thought. "If we don't actually consummate our union, we can hardly be accused of defiling the marriage bed."

 
"Go on ..." Bannor murmured, bringing the empty goblet to his lips.

 
"Therefore, we shall remain sinless in the eyes of God," she finished brightly, planting her palms on the table.

 
Bannor cleared his throat. He seemed to be having great difficulty choosing his words. "I trust 'twas not Father Humphries's counsel you sought to come to this conclusion."

"Not precisely." It was Willow's turn to avert her eyes. "If you must know, I paid a visit to the village whore."

 
Bannor jerked his feet off the table and sat up straight. "You spoke with Netta?" For just an instant, Willow would have sworn he looked more guilty than she did.

"Aye, I did. And very forthcoming she was." Willow leaned across the table, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Did you know, for instance, that a man can give pleasure to a woman without ever taking his own?" When Bannor's expression didn't even flicker, she sighed ruefully. "No, I don't suppose you did."

An endearing flush began to creep up his throat." Tis not fitting that a husband and wife speak so frankly of such matters. I've certainly never done so before."

"Not even with Mary or Margaret?"

 
The notion seemed to horrify him. "Most certainly not with Mary or Margaret. Such things should only be dealt with in the most hushed of whispers." When Willow continued to look dubious, he added firmly, "In the dark. Beneath the blankets." He waved his hand in a vague motion.
"A
touch, a smile, a satisfied sigh should be utterance enough between any man and woman."

 
Willow shrugged, sighed, and turned away as if to take her leave. "Very well, my lord. 'Twas my intention to please you, not displease you."

 
Before she could quite reach the door, Bannor barked, "Just what else did this woman teach you?"

 
Willow slowly turned, struggling to hide a smile. "Netta claimed she didn't wish to overwhelm me on my first visit, so she chose to share only one of her tricks with me." Willow fumbled in her skirt pocket, drawing forth a shiny coin. She held it up for Bannor's perusal.

"A
shilling?" he said, arching one dark brow. "And what do you plan to do with that? Make it disappear into your ear?"

 
Willow giggled. "Don't be ridiculous. Netta told me
precisely
where I could put this coin to prevent you from getting me with child. And it most certainly wasn't my ear."

 
Both of Bannor's eyebrows shot up as Willow sat down primly on the edge of the bed and began to lift her skirt. As her trim ankles came into view, followed by the shapely curves of her calves, the goblet rolled out of his fingers and hit the floor. She had to wiggle a bit to hike her skirt high enough to expose her knees. By then, Bannor's breathing had deepened to an audible rasp.

 
She slanted him a shy look. He was still staring, seemingly entranced by the deft motion of her fingers as she parted her legs and firmly tucked the coin...

... between her knees.

"There," she said, squeezing her knees together.

 
"Netta swore to me that no man has ever gotten a woman with child while she was holding a shilling between her knees."

 
All of Bannor's breath seemed to leave him in a mighty sigh. His eyes glittered with dry amusement. "This Netta must be a very wise woman indeed."

 
"Oh, she is! She told me you could do anything you wanted to me, as long as you took care not to dislodge the shilling."

 
"Anything?" If Bannor had been a wolf, his ears would have pricked up. He rose and came around the table. He sauntered around the bed in a predatory half-circle, making the hairs on Willow's nape tingle. "Anything at all?"

"Within reason," she amended, eyeing him nervously.

Her trepidation mounted as he disappeared from her line of vision. The bed creaked beneath his weight as he climbed to his knees behind her, sinking deep into the feather mattress.

 
His husky whisper warmed her ear. "Then I suppose there would be no harm at all in my doing this."

 
He ran his hand beneath the curls at her nape, lifting them to expose her tingling flesh to the moist brush of his lips. Willow could not help but moan as all the tension melted from her body, leaving her as boneless as one of Mary Margaret's rag dolls.

The shilling clattered to the floor.

 
"Sorry," she muttered, scrambling to retrieve it. She stole a glance over her shoulder at Bannor as she wiggled back into place. "I have a feeling this is going to be much more difficult than it sounded."

 
"I certainly hope so," he murmured, nuzzling the sensitive shell of her ear.

 
Willow struggled to keep both her eyes and her knees clenched tightly shut as his lips tenderly traced the feather-soft hairs at her temple, the sleek plane of her cheekbone, the vulnerable curve of her jaw—finally coming to nestle against the pulse throbbing beneath the silky skin of her throat.