Charming the Prince (34 page)

 
The shock had come when Desmond had vaulted
over
the bench and wrapped his arms around Beatrix. Instead of boxing his ears, as Willow had expected her to do, Beatrix had ducked her head and cast him a shy glance utterly foreign to the bold little vixen.

 
Willow's mouth fell open as Desmond cupped Beatrix's chin in his hand and awkwardly tilted her face to his. The warm mist of their breath mingled as their lips met in a kiss so innocent and full of promise that Willow had to look away, her eyes stinging.

 
Ashamed of herself for spying upon their tender interlude, she silently drew the shutter closed. Surely she wasn't so petty as to still be suffering twinges of envy over her stepsister's good fortune! How could she begrudge Beatrix the devotion of a besotted lad, when she herself was among the most fortunate of women?

 
She had a home. She had a family. She no longer had to labor from dawn to dusk in a vain quest to please a mistress who could never be satisfied.

And she had Bannor.

 
As Willow leaned against the window embrasure, a tender smile softened her lips. Her husband was indeed a man of his word. He had promised her a banquet, and delivered nightly a feast of the senses. He eagerly sought new ways to pleasure her without getting her with child, each more delicious than the last.

 
Only last night he had challenged her to a chess game, in which they were each forced to surrender not only their captured pieces, but an item of clothing as well. Willow had won by forfeit, since the sight of her naked breasts licked by tongues of firelight had maddened Bannor to the point of distraction. Growling beneath his breath, he had swept the chessboard to the floor and lunged across the table at her. Willow had been unable to resist murmuring "Checkmate" in his ear as he lowered her to the wolfskin rug in front of the hearth.

 
It wasn't until she was curled up in the warm cocoon of his arms, listening to the oddly soothing rumble of his snores, that a faint melancholy had stolen over her. Bannor might be her prince, but he would never utter those three magical words that would transform her into his princess.

 
Willow was not so naive as to believe most marriages were built on a foundation of love. On the contrary, most were arranged when the parties were still too young to understand the meaning of the word. Her own papa certainly hadn't married Blanche for love, but for the generous dowry provided by the king.

 
But Willow could still remember the look on her papa's face when he had told her that he would never love any woman as he had loved her mama.

 
Shaking her head at her own folly, she turned away from the window. No matter how cherished Bannor made her feel, perhaps somewhere deep inside, she would always be that awkward little girl who had groped for her papa's hand, only to have him draw it out of her reach.

Twenty Seven

 
Sir Rufus's hands trembled as he uncorked the silver flask and brought it to his lips. The chariot chose that moment to buck its way through yet another jagged rut. Ale dribbled down his chin. Feeling more like an old man than ever before, he swiped it away, then took a deep draught from the flask.

The spicy-sweet brew settled heavily in his belly, but not even its agreeable warmth could take the strident edge off his wife's laughter or soften the smirk curving his stepson's lips. Blanche and Stefan had been whispering and giggling together for most of the journey, behaving more like lovers than mother and son.

 
There was no denying that his strapping blond stepson looked even more satisfied with himself than usual. He reclined on the padded seat next to Blanche, his long, muscular legs taking up more than their share of the chariot's scant room. As the wagon jolted through another rut, the lad's knee struck Rufus's gouty one with a thump that made Rufus wince.

 
"Sorry." Stefan flashed his teeth in a wolfish grin, looking less than penitent, then drew a scrap of parchment from the satin purse dangling from his belt and began to study it.

 
The vellum was yellowed and creased, as if it had been opened, read, then lovingly refolded, countless times. A dab of crimson wax still clung to its broken seal. Rufus craned his neck, but still couldn't make out the words formed by the smudged ink.

 
"Would you care for a cushion, dear?" Blanche inquired, blocking his view with one of the plump pillows she had embroidered with her own pale, graceful hands.

Rufus shifted his gaze to his wife. She was always so kind. So solicitous. So mindful of his comfort. Yet he couldn't quite banish the notion that she'd rather be pressing the pillow over his face.

 
"No, thank you," he said, leaning away from her. "We should reach the godforsaken castle soon enough. That is, if we're not buried alive by the blizzard that's coming." He drew back the velvet curtain and glared at the clouds brooding over the hostile crags. "Don't you find it rather odd that Lord Bannor would summon us in such a high-handed manner? After all, he's already wed Willow once. In my day, that was more than sufficient."

 
Stefan and Blanche blinked at him, looking like a pair of cats who had just shared a particularly tasty canary.

"Perhaps Lord Bannor simply seeks to give Willow the sort of wedding she deserves," Blanche ventured.

 
"That's what we all desire, isn't it?" Stefan murmured, tucking the parchment back into his purse. "To see Willow get what she deserves."

 
Unsettled by the hungry gleam in the lad's eyes, Rufus nodded toward Blanche. "At least 'twill give you the opportunity to fetch home that rebellious daughter of yours."

Stefan exchanged another enigmatic glance with his mother. "Beatrix might very well choose to remain at Elsinore. In her last missive, she assured me that Lord Bannor had taken quite a fancy to her."

 
" 'Tis fortunate we left the rest of the children at home," Rufus muttered. "He might have taken a fancy to them and decided to keep them as well."

 
His hands were still trembling when he let the curtain fall. He had no idea why the prospect of seeing his daughter again should make him quiver with both anticipation and foreboding.

 
He could still remember the last time he had seen her— standing before the priest in the chapel at Bedlington, pale and steadfast. Her voice had not faltered, not even when she had made her vows to a stranger who would soon hand her off to another stranger.

I'll not sell my only daughter!

And why not, Papa? 'Twouldn't be the first time, would it?

 
As he recalled her accusing words, Rufus's heart twisted with a painful mixture of anger and regret. The girl had no right to reproach him! He had always striven to do what was best for her, had he not? After all, everyone knew that a little girl needed a mother. It wouldn't have done to let her keep running through the castle and meadows that surrounded Bedlington like some wild, wee sprite.

 
And hadn't Blanche assured him that after giving birth to six children of her own, she knew just how to handle a headstrong little girl? Hadn't she promised to temper Willow's natural exuberance with maidenly restraint? Whenever Rufus had protested that Blanche might be being a bit too harsh on the child, had she not soothed him with her gentle words, her honeyed lips? How could he protest the heaviness of her hand against his child's flesh when it was wielded with such tender skill against his own? How could he protest the sharpness of the same tongue that wreaked such delicious havoc in the privacy of their bedchamber?

 
The sparkle might have faded from Willow's eyes and her bubbling laughter become naught more than a memory, but Blanche had assured him 'twas only the ransom the girl must pay for leaving behind the frivolous pleasures of childhood to seek the more satisfying joys of womanhood.

Rufus took another swig of the wine, grimacing to find it more bitter than sweet.

 
As the carriage rocked its way up a steep hill, Rufus settled deeper into his cloak. The wine might have failed to ease his foreboding or steady his hands, but it had cast a leaden net over his eyelids. He closed his eyes, dreaming that they had already arrived at Elsinore. Dreaming that he descended from the chariot with the sprightly step of the man he had been before the war and Blanche had robbed him of his pride. Dreaming that a little girl with bouncing dark curls and sparkling gray eyes came racing across the bailey to greet him, an adoring cry on her lips. As she flung herself into his arms and smothered his beard with kisses, he had to bury his face in her curls to hide his tears.

******

Willow raced through the bailey in desperate pursuit of the pig Mary Margaret had just liberated from the irate butcher's ax-wielding clutches.

"Ennis!" she shrieked. "He's coming your way!"

Laughter rippled from her throat as the creature darted between Ennis's gangly legs, then doubled back, in what Willow would have sworn was a deliberate charge, to knock first Margery, and then Colm, flat on their plump little backsides. Willow's laughter deepened to pained grunts as Mary raced over and began to climb her like a tree, in a frantic attempt to escape the beast's wrath.

As Edward and Kell closed in from opposite corners, the pig squealed in outrage. The boys dove for the animal at the precise same moment. They missed it entirely, knocking heads with a crack loud enough to make Willow wince.

As Hammish appeared in the doorway to the herb garden, the pig slowed to a trot. The boy crept forward, his cupped hand extended before him. "Here, piggy-piggy," he crooned. "I've a treat for you."

Mesmerized by the lad's singsong invitation, the pig snuffled once at the air, then buried his snout in Hammish's palm, rooting blissfully among the acorns he found there.

"Nice piggy," Hammish crooned, scratching behind the animal's bristly ears. "Sweet piggy"

"Tasty piggy," Ennis muttered, snorting in disgust as he tried to brush the mudstains from his breeches.

"Little does he know that Hammish is more likely to eat him than the butcher," Mary predicted from her perch atop Willow's shoulders.

"Do you really think Hammish would eat the butcher?" Edward asked, staggering to his feet.

"He would if he was hungry enough," Kell replied, rubbing his own head.

Mary Margaret chose that moment to flounce into the courtyard like some sort of pygmy princess. "Oh, there you are, you naughty pig. I was wondering where you got off to." Looping a lavender ribbon around the animal's neck, she began to parade him around the courtyard, utterly oblivious to the chaos she had caused.

Willow dislodged the toe of Mary's slipper from her ear, and lowered the little girl to the ground. "There you go, dear. I do believe 'tis safe now."

 
As the child went scampering off to admire the newly docile pig, Willow examined the damage done to her kirtle. Muddy handprints and footprints stained the once plush purple wool of her skirt. Her damask bodice had fared little better. Its jeweled buttons had all been driven into the dirt when she'd fallen flat in a vain attempt to tackle the fleet-hooved pig. She lifted her hem to discover that her stockings were torn in several places and one of her shoes was missing.

 
Chuckling ruefully, Willow drew off her sash and used it as a kerchief to bind back her disheveled hair. If she was going to behave like a swineherd, she might as well look like one, too. As she went in search of her shoe, the icy bite of the wind whipped roses into her cheeks. If the black-edged underbellies of the clouds massing in the north were any indication, their reprieve from the snow might very well be coming to an end.

 
She crawled beneath a drummer's cart, but earned naught for her trouble but a fresh smudge of mud on her nose. When she emerged, Bannor and Hollis were striding toward her.

 
Bannor looked every inch the prince with his neatly trimmed beard, ivory hose, and doublet cut from sapphire blue wool. He was so handsome he took her breath away.

 
Unable to resist teasing him, Willow hitched up herskirts in a mocking curtsy that revealed her shredded stockings, and wiggled the grubby toes of her shoeless foot at him in a most impudent manner. "Good day, my lord. Do you fancy my new attire?"

 
Bannor pressed a distracted kiss to her brow and murmured, " Tis most enchanting, my dear," before proceeding toward the gatehouse.

 
Willow dropped her skirts and gazed after him, baffled. He'd been behaving in a most peculiar manner all day—pacing the length of the great hall one moment, flinging himself into a chair to restlessly drum his fingers on its arm the next. Even now, his uneasy gaze kept darting between the winding road that led to the castle and the inky clouds brewing over the mountains. He didn't even seem to notice that his daughter was dragging a full-grown pig around the courtyard by a lavender ribbon.

At least Sir Hollis's glum demeanor was no mystery. Bannor's steward was no doubt still suffering from Netta's chilly rebuffs of his every overture. Despite the knight's engaging warmth toward her, the woman's frosty pride showed no sign of thawing.