Charming the Prince (38 page)

Then the shivering would stop. The pain would fade away. The blue tinge would creep into her eyelids, her fingertips, her lips. The pearls of frost clinging to her skin would crystallize into an icy shroud so hard that all the tears in the world wouldn't melt it. Instead of dying with a child in her arms, as his mother had done, she would die with his child in her belly.

 
She would die without ever knowing how very much he loved both her and that child.

 
Bannor dropped his head into his hands. Somewhere in the darkest corner of his soul, he had believed that if he could somehow stop himself from loving Willow, he could keep her safe. If he never uttered the words, she would never leave him as his mother had done.

 
A gentle hand brushed his hair. For one crazy moment, Bannor thought it might be Willow's, but he lifted his head to find Beatrix kneeling before him.

 
Tears spilled down her cheeks in a swelling torrent. " 'Tis all my fault, my lord. I would have never wished her harm, you know. Why, she's the only real mother I've ever known."

 
Ignoring Blanche's outraged gasp, Bannor folded the girl into his arms, muffling her sobs against his chest. "Don't cry, child," he said fiercely. "I'll find her. As God is my witness, I swear I shall find her and bring her back."

As he pressed his eyes shut, Bannor could only pray that God wouldn't have allowed him to swear such an oath if He wasn't going to help him keep it.

"Listen!" Desmond cried, lunging to his feet.

 
Bannor cocked his head to the side, but all he could hear were Bea's watery hiccups. He rose, gently guiding the girl into Fiona's arms, but it still took him a bewildered moment to realize exactly what it was his son wanted him to hear.

Silence.

The wind had ceased its terrible wailing, leaving behind a hush as sweet and crystalline as the tolling of the chapel bells. Bannor rushed to the doors and flung them open. Feathers of snow no longer driven by the relentless lash of the wind brushed like angel wings against his face. A jolly pearl of a moon seemed to wink at him from amongst the scattering clouds, its luminous light drenching the snow in silver.

Bannor would have fallen to his knees right then and there, had he not been determined to make the most of the blessing God had given him.

******

 
Bannor the Bold strode through the great hall of Elsinore, girded for battle. Beneath the saffron tunic emblazoned with his coat of arms, he wore a hauberk woven of mail, and a steel breastplate. The scabbard sheathing his massive broadsword clanked against the plates armoring his calves and thighs, in a discordant counterpoint to his jingling spurs. From the other side of his belt hung a jeweled scabbard, outfitted with a short but deadly dagger.

 
His expression was grim, the glint in his eye lethal. He was not marching into battle to defend his country or his honor, but to seek a prize more precious than any the king could offer.

 
Hollis trotted along beside him, forced to take two steps for every one of his master's long strides. "I wish you'd let me accompany you. It doesn't feel right for you to go riding off without me by your side."

 
"No, it doesn't," Bannor agreed. "But I need you here at Elsinore. If this break in the storm doesn't last, you'll have to look after the castle—" he hesitated for a painful moment, "—until I can find my way home." His brow clouded. "And the children."

"Fiona and Netta can look after the children. But I feel so damned helpless. Surely there must be something I can do to help bring Willow back."

 
"There is," Bannor said, pausing just long enough to clap a firm hand on his steward's shoulder. "Go to the chapel, my friend, and pray."

 
Bannor threw open the main doors, trusting that his squires would have his mount ready for him. They did not disappoint. The pale stallion seemed to rise out of the moonlit snow, puffing steam from his nostrils like some mythical dragon. Bannor accepted the horse's reins from a somber-faced lad and swung himself astride. Giving Hollis one last salute, he guided the horse in a prancing half-circle, only to find his path to the drawbridge blocked.

Thirty One

 
Desmond, Ennis, Mary, Hammish, Edward, Kell, and Mary Margaret awaited him, their mounts lined up as neatly as they themselves had once stood in this very courtyard to welcome their new mother to Elsinore. Bannor supposed he ought to at least be thankful that Mary Margaret was riding a pony instead of a pig. The miniature bow Willow had shot him with was slung over the child's shoulder, along with a quiver of tiny arrows.

 
They'd armored themselves in a motley assortment of kitchen pots, platters, fur leggings, and mangy pelts. Edward looked as if he might be wearing an entire bear, while Hammish sported an iron kettle for a helm. They were armed with a menacing array of pitchforks, scythes, awls, and clubs, much as they had been the night they'd battered down the wall of his tower. The night he'd savored his first taste of Willow's lips. They sat in absolute silence, awaiting his command.

 
"Stand aside," he called out, "or I'll have my men throw the lot of you in the dungeon."

 
Desmond urged his dappled gray mare forward. Bannor couldn't be sure if it was the stark white of the bandage against his chestnut hair, or the beautiful blonde riding side-saddle behind him, that lent his son a startling new air of maturity.

"We wish to accompany you, Father. Willow is our lady as well as yours."

 
"I cannot argue with that, son. But 'tis distressing enough to know that my wife's life is in the hands of a lunatic. I'll not risk the lives of my children as well."

 
"That lunatic is my brother," Beatrix reminded him. "I might be able to talk some sense into him."

Bannor arched one eyebrow. "And if you can't?"

 
The girl gave his sword a meaningful glance. "Then I'll let you do it."

 
Bannor leaned back in his saddle, surveying them all as if for the first time. He knew only too well what formidable adversaries they could be. They possessed equal amounts of cunning and determination, the two qualities no warrior could survive without.

 
"Please, Father," Desmond said, his green eyes betraying a hint of desperation. "Don't leave us behind again. We only want to help you find the loathsome churl who took Willow."

 
A crooked smile slowly spread across Bannor's face. "And may God help him when we do."

At his father's words, an answering grin spread across Desmond's face. Bannor guided his stallion between them to take the lead. Mary Margaret unleashed a gleeful war cry as they all went cantering through the castle gates and down the drawbridge, the snow beneath their horses' hooves exploding in a glittering cloud of Stardust.

******

Hollis found Netta in the chapel, kneeling before the altar of burnished oak. With her eyes pressed shut and her face bathed by the glow of the candlelight, she was as beautiful to him as the marble Madonna who kept watch over the nave. He cast a wry glance heavenward, praying God wouldn't consider such a tribute blasphemy.

 
At the whisper of his footfalls, Netta scrambled to her feet, blushing as if she'd been caught defiling the altar instead of worshipping at it. When she recognized him, an all too familiar mask of wariness descended over her features, making him want to swear a less than pious oath.

 
"I was praying for our lady," she said, cocking her head at a defiant angle. "Although I don't suppose you believe God listens to the prayers of whores."

 
"On the contrary. 'Tis written that after His resurrection, our Lord appeared first to Mary Magdalene, a woman of some questionable virtue."

 
"That may be true, but I've found that his followers are more likely to cast the first stone than to confess their own failings."

 
"You must not believe that of Lady Willow, or you wouldn't be here praying for her safe return."

 
Netta shrugged, but the downward flicker of her eyes betrayed her distress. "She has been kind to me. As has Lord Bannor. I do not wish to see either of them come to any harm. Now if you'll excuse me, sir, I shall leave you to examine your own conscience."

 
"Don't go," Hollis said, weary of their endless game of wits.

 
She brushed past him. "If you want the pleasure of my company, 'twill cost you a shilling. Twice that if you want—"

 
She faltered when he grabbed her wrist. 'Twas the first time he had ever dared to touch her. The first time he'd ever allowed her to see the flash of his temper. "Do you honestly believe you're worth naught more than the coins a man will pay you to share his bed? Did it never occur to you that a man might simply wish to converse with you, or to sit quietly by your side?"

 
She tipped her head back, deliberately taunting him with the nearness of her lips. "You can pretend your interest in me is prompted by naught but the most chaste of motives, but I know that look in your eyes. I've seen it oft enough in the eyes of the countless men who came before you."

 
Hollis freed her arm and took a step backward, wishing he could despise her for her cruelty. "I won't deny that I want you in my bed. I won't pretend that I don't wake up in the night, shivering with desire, and reach for you." His voice softened. "But I would be content only to adore you from afar for the rest of my life. How much will that cost me, Netta? If my undying devotion isn't enough for you, then perhaps this will be." Hollis jerked a velvet purse from his belt and tossed it down. It landed with a solid jingle at her feet.

Knowing he could not bear to see her pick it up, he turned to stride from the chapel.

"Sir?"

 
Refusing to sell himself so cheaply, Hollis kept walking.

 
"Hollis?" This time Netta's plea was only a whisper, but it stopped him in his tracks.

 
He slowly turned. Netta's hand was outstretched, but the purse still lay on the floor at her feet.

 
Hollis gazed at her, as mesmerized by the tremble of her hand as he was by the tears sparkling in her eyes. "Would you care to join your prayers to mine?" she asked. "Perhaps then they'd be more likely to reach the ears of God."

 
Hollis closed the distance between them, and gently folded her hand in his. He kept a firm grip on that hand as they knelt side by side and inclined their heads to pray that God would shine His infinite mercy upon their lord and lady.

******

 
Willow forced herself to put one trembling leg in front of the other, all of her concentration centered on wading through the sea of snow, when all she wanted to do was sink deep into its powdery waves and drift off to sleep.

 
If she succumbed to that seductive temptation, she knew she would never wake up. Whenever its siren call became too loud, she would almost swear she could hear Bannor's mother whispering in her ear—urging her to keep slogging forward, to keep moving, to keep hoping. But perhaps it was only the wind, wailing a lament for her dying dreams.

 
She hugged her cloak tight around her, but the embrace of her own arms was too feeble to stop her shivering. She yearned for Bannor. For the warmth of his arms, the sizzling sweetness of his kiss, the fevered press of his flesh against her own.

The chill settled deep into her bones, making her flesh quake and her teeth rattle. As her stockings froze solid, her feet went from tingling to numb.

 
It took her a dark eternity to realize that the wind was no longer driving stinging needles of snow into her face. She stumbled to a halt at the bottom of a hill and lifted her head, surveying the glittering tundra with childlike wonder. Brittle motes of snow sparkled like fairy dust beneath the shimmering caress of the moon, breathtakingly beautiful even in their cruelty.

 
Something slammed into her back, driving her to her hands and knees. If not for the scalding surge of fury that coursed through her veins, Willow might have remained there, her head hung low in defeat. But that fury gave her the strength to stagger to her feet and swing around to face her assailant.

 
"There's no need to glare at me like that," Stefan spat, his lips tinted the same icy blue as his eyes. "If you hadn't spooked the horse into running away, we'd be halfway to Scotland by now."

 
"If I hadn't spooked the horse," Willow bit off through her chattering teeth, "we'd be at the bottom of the river. You were the lackwit who nearly drove him over the edge of the cliff."

"Only because you had your hands over my eyes."

"Do forgive me. I was aiming for your mouth."

An ugly smirk twisted his lips. "You can sneer down your nose at me all you want, Willow, but scrubbing the mud off your face and donning a fine gown won't make you a lady. Nor will being swived by a lord." Stefan stroked his thumb along her cheek, his touch making Willow's stomach churn. "I wanted to be the first," he whispered, his breath a blast of brimstone against her icy skin. "I wanted to be the one to make you bleed."