Charming the Prince (6 page)

 
The knight's mustache twitched as if he was fighting back a sneeze. "I can assure you, my lady, that Lord Bannor returned from France with all of his significant parts intact."

 
Willow frowned, wondering just which parts a man might consider significant. "What of his temperament, then? Is he a kind man? A fair man? Or is he given to brooding and violent fits of temper?"

Sir Hollis blinked at her. "My lord would be the first to assure you that he is not a man given to strong drink, uncontrollable rages, or blasphemy."

 
Willow settled back on the bench, folding her hands in her lap. "I suppose a woman can ask no more than that of her husband."

Yet once she had wanted more. Much more. A fleeting vision of her prince drifted before her eyes, evoking a bittersweet pang of yearning. She would never again hear the rich echo of his laughter. Never again taste the honeyed sweetness of his imaginary kiss. The time had come for her to exchange her girlish dreams for a man wrought of flesh and blood, sinew and bone. She closed her eyes, bidding her prince farewell with a wistful sigh.

 
She was determined to make this Lord Bannor a good wife. It mattered not if he was old and infirm, harelip, or disfigured in service to king and country. If he was willing to pledge his devotion to her and only her, she could certainly do no less for him.

Fortified by her resolve, Willow opened her eyes. Or at least she thought she did. But the vision framed by the chariot window persuaded her that she must have drifted into a dream.

 
A castle seemed to float upon the cliff that overlooked the sparkling waters of the River Tyne. It bore no resemblance to her papa's crumbling keep. Graceful round towers jutted toward the clouds, crowned by conical roofs of gray slate. A crenellated wall enfolded the massive palace in a sweeping curtain of sandstone.

 
Willow blinked. She must surely be dreaming, for who but a prince could live in such a majestic abode?

 
She didn't realize she had spoken the question aloud until Sir Hollis replied, "Why, you, of course."

She shifted her wide-eyed gaze to the knight.

His tense smile sent a shiver of foreboding down her spine. "For that majestic abode is Elsinore, and you, my dear, are its new lady."

******

"The chariot approaches! The chariot approaches!"

 
As the lookout's cry echoed from the watchtower, followed by a braying blast from a hunting horn, Ban-nor yawned and stretched his long legs, refusing to budge from his chair. Twice in the past week, Desmond had lured him from the tower with a similar ruse. He'd emerged the first time only to go skidding across the buttered planking and down the stairs. If the wall hadn't broken the force of his headlong tumble, he might have snapped his neck. He'd taken more care the second time the horn had sounded, tiptoeing gingerly down the stairs and peeping around corners until the greased pig Mary Margaret had lured into the great hall with a handful of acorns went sprinting between his legs, knocking him flat.

He'd endured many sieges while defending his king's holdings in Guienne and Poitou, but never one so prolonged or so relentless. Since Hollis had departed to seek a mother for his children, Bannor had conducted most of his business from the tower, daring to leave its sanctuary only in the dark of night while the children slept.

 
One morning near dawn, he'd slipped into the warren of interconnecting chambers they shared to find the lot of them nestled like a litter of pups in an enormous four-poster bed. Mary Margaret slept with her golden hair spread across Desmond's breast, her thumb tucked between her little pink lips. A faint snore drifted out of Desmond's open mouth. Studying his son's freckled cheeks and snub nose, Bannor shook his head, marveling that so angelic a visage could be capable of such devilment.

 
The sense of helplessness that plagued him was utterly foreign to his nature. He knew all there was to know about being a warrior, but nothing at all about being a father. How was it that he could command a legion of twelve hundred of the king's most powerful and dangerous men, yet couldn't coax one scrawny boy into granting his simplest request?

 
He was reaching to smooth a tousled lock of the lad's chestnut hair when Mary Margaret's misty blue eyes fluttered open.

"Papa?" she whispered. "Are you a ghost?"

"No, honeypot," he murmured. "Just a dream."

 
She had closed her eyes and drifted back to sleep with a contented sigh, leaving Bannor to slip out of the chamber without a sound.

 
The lookout's cry did not come again. Bannor settled deeper into his chair and rested his chin on his chest, hoping to steal a nap. Sleep had become an elusive prize since he'd taken to roaming the night, haunting his own castle like a beleaguered ghost.

 
When a banging sounded on the door, he jumped to his feet, instinctively grabbing his broadsword.

 
"M'lord, m'lord!" Fiona cried, her brogue muffled by the thick oak of the door. "Yer standard's been spotted on the south road less than a league away! Tis yer lady!"

His
lady. Bemused by the notion, Bannor slowly lowered the sword. He hadn't had a lady to call his own since Margaret had died over six years ago.

 
He could hear the old nurse clucking with impatience as he heaved aside the stout bench he'd been using to block the door and lifted the crossbar. Fiona stood on the landing, wringing her apron in her gnarled hands. " 'Tis yer lady, m'lord! She comes at last!"

 
Bannor snatched his burgundy doublet from the back of the chair and shrugged it on over his shirt. As his large fingers fumbled with the ivory buttons of the closely tailored tunic that flared over his hips, he wished that he was donning mail hauberk, plate armor, and helm to ride into battle instead of marching out without armor or arms to greet his new bride. He looked longingly at his broadsword, knowing how vulnerable to attack he would feel without its familiar weight at his hip.

 
"Have the children been gathered to welcome their mother as I ordered?"

 
"Aye, m'lord. Every last one o' them. Even the babes." Fiona beamed up at him, quivering with joy at the prospect of having a new lady for the castle. She'd adored her first two mistresses and grieved as deeply as Bannor when they'd died so young and so tragically.

 
He draped a chain of braided silver around his hips, then smoothed his disheveled hair. "I suppose I should inspect them before she arrives. A warrior never sends his men into battle without giving them a few words of instruction and encouragement."

"Aye, and eager for yer counsel I'm sure they'll be, m'lord," Fiona promised.

******

 
A less wary man might have been inclined to believe her, Bannor thought as he strode the length of the inner bailey, surveying the children gathered in the walled courtyard. They were actually standing in something that looked remarkably like a row. Fiona brought up the tail of their ranks, juggling the two most recent additions to his household. From the largest to the smallest, the children gazed straight ahead with nary a fidget or a smirk among them. The innocence of their expressions made Bannor distinctly uneasy.

 
Although Desmond looked no less angelic than his siblings, the crow with the splinted wing perched on his shoulder glared at Bannor, and the furry tail protruding from the neck of the boy's tunic twitched in annoyance.

 
Wisely deciding its origins were best left unexplored, Bannor clasped his hands at the small of his back and leaned down to sniff the dirt-ringed neck of the slender, fair-haired boy at his side. "And when was the last time you had a bath, young Hammish?"

 
The boy counted backward on his fingers. "Less than a fortnight ago. But I'm not Hammish, sir." He drove an elbow into the ribs of the solid little fellow standing next to him, eliciting a muffled
oomph.
"He is."

 
"Hmmmm..." Bannor masked his chagrin by turning a thoughtful scowl on Hammish. The lad had stout legs and thick, straight cinnamon-hued hair that made him look as if he was wearing an earthenware bowl on his head. "So you would be Hammish?"

"Aye, my lord."

 
"There's no need to address me as your lord. You may call me 'Papa.'"

"Aye, my lord."

 
Bannor sighed. His head was beginning to ache. He couldn't very well introduce the children to their doting new mother if he couldn't remember their names. He scrambled to come up with a convincing lie. "Before we march into battle, 'tis common practice for all the men fighting beneath my standard to shout out their names. Would you care to try that?"

 
The children leaned forward and craned their necks to the right, looking to the boy who headed their ranks. He lifted his shoulders in a sullen shrug, then dutifully barked, "Desmond!"

The others followed in turn.

"Ennis!"

"Mary!"

"Hammish!"

"Edward!"

"Kell!"

"Mary Margaret!"

"Meg!"

"Margery!"

"Colm!"

The two babes added a goo and a gurgle. Fiona gave Bannor a grin as toothless as the babes. "We just call these wee angels Peg and Mags."

 
Bannor pinched the bridge of his nose. The ache in his head had deepened to a throb, yet he was no closer to being able to pick one of his own children out of a mob of strangers. Hell and damnation, they
were
a mob of strangers.

 
He plastered on a smile. " 'Twas a fine effort. Suppose we try it once more?"

"Lackwit," muttered Desmond.

 
Bannor gave him a narrow look. "What was that, lad?"

 
The boy gave him a cherubic smile. "I said, 'As you wish.'"

 
Before Bannor could confront his insolence, a mighty blast from the lookout's horn sent a tremor of excitement through the courtyard. The jangling of chains was followed by a grinding creak as the gatehouse portcullis inched its way upward. The musical jingle of spurs and rhythmic thud of hoofbeats heralded the chariot's final approach.

 
Bannor fell into line between Hammish and Mary, choosing to make his stand with his troops. As the retinue of knights split away and the chariot rolled to a halt, he tugged at his doublet and reached to smooth a beard that was no longer there. He was not yet accustomed to his clean-shaven jaw, but given his beard's alarming tendency to burst into flames whenever his offspring were near, he decided he soon would be.

 
He was not a man given to fidgeting. Noting his uneasiness, Fiona came over and thrust the youngest babe into his arms. Bannor would have been no more appalled had she handed him a severed head. He tried holding the cooing creature at arm's length, but when it started to squirm, he tucked it under his arm as if it were one of the dried pig bladders his squires spent hours tossing and kicking about the courtyard.

 
Exasperated, Fiona rescued the blanket-wrapped bundle and situated it neatly in the crook of his arm. "Don't fret, m'lord," she crooned, standing on tiptoe to tweak his cheek. "I've yet to meet a lass who could resist a strappin' fellow with a babe in his arms."

 
Bannor opened his mouth to protest that the last thing he needed was a bride who found him irresistible, but 'twas too late.

 
An eager young squire had already rushed over to throw open the door of the chariot, revealing one slender doeskin-clad foot.

Four

 
As the chariot door swung open, Willow hesitated, glancing uncertainly at Sir Hollis.

 
The knight hung back. "Perhaps I shouldn't have eaten that entire mutton leg, my dear. You'd best go first. I'll be right behind you."

 
Willow took a deep breath and gingerly slipped one leg out of the chariot. It would hardly do to come spilling out at her husband's feet like a sack of barley. Thankful for the deep recesses of her hood, she kept her eyes fixed demurely on the cobblestones as she climbed down from the chariot, vowing to herself that she would not flinch when she first looked upon his face, no matter how deformed or unsightly it was.

 
Only when she stood upon her own two feet did she dare to look up. And up. And up.

Into the face of her prince.

Willow gasped, convinced for the second time in that day that she had drifted into a dream. A dream sweeter and more enchanting than any that had come before it.

 
But even she could never have dreamed the man who stood before her. She would never have thought to draw the shallow brackets around his mouth or to shade his chin with the merest hint of beard shadow. It had taken the kiss of the sun to bake faint furrows into his brow and darken his skin to a rich, deep gold. His hair was not lustrous samite, but raw silk, cropped to just above his shoulders and shot through with rare threads of silver. Both wit and humor glinted in the midnight blue depths of his eyes, and an elusive dimple in his right jaw only served to emphasize the sulky-sweet cant of his mouth.