Willow sat stiffly on the chariot bench, her hands clenched in her lap, her eyes staring straight ahead. She had not stirred for a long time, not even when the door had flown open and a muscular arm dusted with dark hair had grabbed a handful of Sir Hollis’s tunic and yanked the cowering knight out of the chariot. She had half expected to be removed with a similar lack of ceremony, but it seemed her new husband was content to leave her alone.

Alone. ‘Twas her destiny to be ever surrounded by others, yet ever alone. Her heart beat low and hollow in her ears, a mocking reminder of how freely and carelessly she would have offered it to a stranger. A stranger, it seemed, who had no more need of it than her stepmother had.

Although the voices outside the chariot had subsided to hushed whispers, then silence, long ago, their querulous echoes still rang in her head.

Are you my mama?

Of course, she’s not your mama. Your mama’s dead.

At least you had a mama. We never had no mama a’tall.

That’s ‘cause you’re all bastards.

Willow shook her head to silence them. While extolling his master’s virtues, Sir Hollis had neglected to mention that several of Lord Bannor’s conquests must have been of an amorous nature.

How many children had the man sired, for heaven’s sake? Ten? Twelve? Twenty? She hadn’t awakened from her horrified daze until the moment he had handed her the youngest babe, beaming as if he expected her to clasp the bratling to her breast and swoon with maternal delight. He would never know it was not the babe’s soft coo that had made her knees go weak, but the rugged charm of his smile. A smile that made promises and broke them in the same treacherous breath.

You’re a bastard, aren’t you, my lord?

Aye, son, that I am.

His rueful confession should have warned her. He was no noble prince offering her his heart, but a wicked ogre commanding an ill-tempered army of dwarves. Willow touched a hand to her sooty curls, remembering his horrified expression when she had pushed back the hood of her cloak. At this very moment, he might be nursing a disappointment as bitterly keen as her own.

“M’lady?”

Willow started in dread, but the beseeching voice was neither a man’s nor a child’s, but a woman’s lilting brogue.

“I’ve made ready yer chamber, if ye’d care to come inside.”

Willow lifted the curtain and looked outside. A hunched figure was silhouetted against the shadows of night. She couldn’t very well remain in the chariot forever, she thought despairingly. Nor could she demand to return to a home where she was no longer welcome. Her papa would never allow her to defy Blanche’s wishes, and her stepmother would never return Lord Bannor’s gold.

If she fled back to Bedlington, Blanche would no doubt have her trussed up, tossed over the back of a horse, and delivered right back into her husband’s arms. Even now, the prospect of being bound to such a man sent a strange shiver down her spine.

“Come now, lass,” crooned the woman. “Ye’ve nothin’ to fear from our lord.”

Willow swung open the door, abandoning her haven, though she knew in her heart that the woman was wrong.

———

As the stooped crone led Willow through the broad, flagstone passages of the castle, she cast a toothless grin over her shoulder. “There’s no need to apologize fer yer shyness, lass. After I wed m’darlin’ Liam, God rest his randy soul, it took him two days and three flagons o’ ale to coax me out from under the bed. By then I was too drunk to do any thin’ but lay there with m’skirts over m’head.” She gave Willow an impish wink. “Not that Liam seemed to mind.”

Shaking away a dark image of Lord Bannor ravishing her insensible body, Willow followed the crone up a winding staircase lit by fat beeswax candles perched on stone corbels.

“Ye can’t blame a man for bein’ eager to sample his bride’s wares. But there’s no need to fret, lass. He’s gentle as a lamb, our Bannor is, despite what they say ‘bout his bein’ able to rip a man’s head off with one hand.”

Willow swallowed hard, imagining Lord Bannor ravishing her insensible, headless body.

“Aye, and if any man knows how to pleasure a lady, ‘tis our lord.”

“ ‘Twould appear he’s had ample practice,” Willow said dryly.

Fiona paused on the landing, drawing her nearer with one bony claw, as if to share a girlish confidence. “ Tis whispered he’s so potent he can make his babe quicken within a woman’s belly simply by lookin’ deep into her eyes.”

Willow shuddered. “Then I shall endeavor to avert my gaze whenever he is near.”

The woman cackled, her dried apple of a face puckering into a leer. “Such a vow would be easier to keep were the lad not so comely to look upon.”

Willow could find no retort for the truth. Her steps grew more leaden as they climbed a second set of winding stairs. It seemed her prison was to be a tower. She had expected a spartan cell, or perhaps a straw pallet laid at the foot of one of his bratling’s cradles, identical to the one she’d slept on at Bedlington. As the door at the top of the stairs swung open at Fiona’s urging, her breath caught in a startled gasp.

The moment Blanche had arrived at Bedlington, she had laid claim to every treasure Papa had not yet sold. She’d stripped the remaining tapestries from the walls of the great hall and hung them over her bed. She’d sipped her mead from the silver chalices once used to offer the holy sacraments in the chapel. She’d slept in the pearl-encrusted girdle that had belonged to Willow’s mother. Over the years, Willow had forgotten how seductive such luxury could be.

The plastered walls of this bower had been hung with palls of purple silk. Fragrant sprigs of sweet fennel and pennyroyal had been strewn across a timber floor hewn from the finest Norwegian fir. A fire crackled merrily within the belly of an arched fireplace capped by a stone hood.

Her bed was no straw pallet, but a grand four-poster, curtained with hangings of embroidered linen. Most wondrous of all was the lancet window set deep in the thick stone wall. Unlike the arrow loop on the landing, it was not veiled with crude oak shutters, but glazed with glass—a treasure so rare and precious Willow had never dreamed she would see it in her lifetime.

The chamber looked as if it had been prepared for a pampered princess. Or a cherished bride.

As Willow caught a glimpse of her own stunned reflection in the window glass, she resisted the urge to spin round and round like a giddy child.

“I do hope the chamber pleases ye, m’lady,” Fiona said, beaming up at her. “ ‘Twas Lady Margaret’s chamber, and Lady Mary’s before her.” The old woman crossed herself. “God rest their gentle souls.”

Willow’s giddy delight faded. “Lady Margaret and Lady Mary?”

“Aye—m’lord’s first two wives. As sweet-tempered and dear as angels, they were.” She shook her head and made a sad little tsking noise with her tongue. “The poor lad has always blamed hisself fer their untimely deaths.”

“As well he should,” Willow muttered beneath her breath. They’d no doubt died spewing out his babes in that very bed.

The old woman’s words cast a pall over the cozy chamber. The precocious Beatrix and her married sisters had sometimes whispered of men who measured the vigor of their manhood by the number of children they could sire. Men who looked upon their wives as little more than fertile fields to be plowed thoroughly and repeatedly until their seed took root. Perhaps this Lord Bannor was just such a man. Perhaps he hadn’t sought her out to be a chattel to his children, but a slave to his insatiable lusts.

Her thoughts must have been apparent for Fiona wrapped an arm around her and gave her a quick, hard squeeze. “If ye’re tempted to cower under the bed as I did, lass, just remember that Lord Bannor won’t need a flagon o’ ale to coax ye into his arms. ‘Tis said he has charms no maiden can resist.”

“That’s just what I’m afraid of,” Willow whispered.

But the woman was already gone, leaving her all alone to await her lord’s pleasure.

———

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t throttle you?” Bannor demanded for the dozenth time as he paced the north tower, glancing off the rounded walls like a cornered stag.

“I’m your only worthy chess opponent,” Hollis suggested hopefully.

Bannor leveled an icy glare at him. “I defeated you the last eleven times we played.”

“Ah, but it took you more than five moves.”

“Only because I felt sorry for you. A weakness I’m in no danger of succumbing to at the moment.”

“More’s the pity,” Hollis said glumly, slumping deeper into his chair as if hoping such a pathetic posture would make him a smaller target for Bannor’s wrath.

“I send you out to find me a maternal, bovine dowd to mother my children, and you bring me a... a...” Bannor sputtered to a halt, at a loss to describe the exquisite creature who had emerged from the fur-lined depths of the hood. His voice both roughened and softened as her piquant features and cloud of sable hair danced before his eyes. “A goddess!”

“Not a goddess—a Madonna,” Hollis protested. “You should have seen her with her brothers and sisters. She was the very soul of tenderness and devotion. The moment I laid eyes on her, I knew she would welcome your own children with open arms.”

“Aye, that she did.” Bannor slapped at his chest through the thin linen of his shirt. “That’s why I’m marching around the tower in naught but my shirt and hose while the maidservants scrub piss out of my finest doublet.”

Hollis heaved a defeated sigh. “When I first saw her, she was wearing a cap. And apples.”

Bannor swung around to blink at his steward, wondering if the man had well and truly lost his senses.

“By the time I got a clear look at her, ‘twas too late. The bargain had been struck. She had defied her own father to plight her troth to you.”

“So you chose to defy me by accepting her pledge.”

It was a statement, not a question, and Hollis wisely held his silence. Until he muttered beneath his breath, “You would have done the same.”

Bannor gave him a narrow look.

Hollis dared to meet that look. “If you had seen the heartless manner in which her family treated her while we were waiting for the banns to be read, you would have done the same. Her father ignored her. Her stepmother disdained her. Her brothers and sisters ordered her about as if she was no better than a slave. And her stepbrother...” Hollis shook his head, his mouth thinning to a grim line. “I cared naught for the look in his eyes whenever they lingered upon her.”

The thought of such a delicate treasure being ill used made Bannor want to slam his fist into the wall. Made him long to march upon this Rufus of Bedlington and burn his keep to the ground. Made him yearn to pound that lecherous stepbrother of hers until he begged for mercy.

“Did they beat her?”

“I think not. ‘Twas her spirit that was bruised by their lack of kindness, not her flesh. Bruised, but not broken.”

Bannor had caught a glimpse of that spirit when she’d thrust wee Mags back into his arms and slammed the chariot door in his face. During the war, he’d grown so accustomed to everyone scurrying to obey his commands that he’d been startled by an urge to applaud her defiance.

He should have followed his warrior’s instincts and worn armor to their first meeting—a helm to shield him from her beauty and a breastplate to protect his heart.

He raked a hand through his hair. “I trusted you to find me a wife who would not tempt me to get her with child, and you bring me a woman who makes me think of nothing else. Just how long do you think ‘twill be before her body begins to ripen with my seed? A fortnight? A sennight? A night?”

Hollis brightened. “Perhaps you should consider a vow of celibacy. I’ve no doubt God would find it a most impressive sacrifice, much more pleasing in His eyes than if you had wed some stout fishwife with a mustache.”

Bannor planted both palms on the table, looming over his steward. “If you’d care to keep your tongue, perhaps you should consider a vow of silence.”

Hollis snapped his mouth shut.

Bannor straightened, shaking his head. “I fear there’s only one way to undo this wretched mischief you’ve done.” He went to the door. But he did not open it until after he’d looked furtively out the window and determined that the children should be safely abed.

“Where are you going?” Hollis demanded.

“To inform my bride that a terrible mistake has been made. To tell her that we must petition Edward for an annulment before the union can be consummated.”

Hollis rose to his feet, drawing himself up to his full five feet nine inches. “I cannot bear the thought of her returning to live in such squalor and neglect. If you don’t want her, then I’ll keep her for my own wife.”

Bannor tried to imagine Hollis stroking his bride’s creamy skin, Hollis sifting his fingers through her raven curls, Hollis tickling that delectable upper lip of hers with his mustache. He could not have said what his expression was in that moment, but his steward took a fearful step backward.

“I appreciate your noble offer, Hollis, but I could never ask you to make such a terrible sacrifice.” The sarcasm drained from his voice, leaving it somber with regret. “If Lady Willow does not wish to return to her father’s household after the annulment is granted, then I shall escort her to the sisters at Wayborne Abbey. ‘Tis the only fit refuge for such a woman.”

It pained Bannor to imagine a woman as desirable as Willow devoting herself to a life of pious virtue, but ‘twas preferable to the thought of another man enjoying her.

As he turned to go, Hollis said softly, “Was it not you who claimed that when I returned to Elsinore with this woman, she would be your wife in the eyes of God?”

Bannor hesitated, his friend’s rebuke piercing his armor of resolve like the tiny blade of a misericorde. “Then I can only pray that He will forgive me for what I am about to do.”

———

Willow never would have thought that she would miss Harold’s whining or Beatrix’s imperious commands, but as she gazed around the bedchamber, the unfamiliar hush unnerved her. Once she had longed for silence and solitude—for a few precious moments to think and dream. Now that she was alone at last, she was afraid to do either.

A curious peek behind the bed curtains did nothing to ease her fears. The sable pelts had been folded back and the linen sheet sprinkled with velvety rose petals, confirming her dark suspicion that Lord Bannor intended to waste no time in getting his brat on her.

After shrugging out of her cloak, she lifted the linen napkin on the table. A mincemeat pie sat on a silver plate, still warm to the touch. Nibbling its flaky crust, she wandered into a curtained alcove to discover not a chamber pot, but the decadent luxury of an actual privy. The queenly throne was outfitted with a wooden seat and surrounded with fresh handfuls of straw. She barely resisted the childish urge to yell “Halloo” down its murky shaft.

An ornate cupboard had been set against the wall opposite the bed. Willow swallowed the last of the pie and approached it. The rearing stag carved into its door seemed to leer at her, his mighty antlers a threat to any maiden who dared to trespass upon the secrets he guarded.

“ ‘Tis a wonder Lord Bannor didn’t choose a rutting stag for his coat of arms,” she muttered darkly.

As the cupboard creaked open, she braced herself, half expecting to find the crumbling bones of Lord Bannor’s most recent wife. But its silk-lined interior yielded only a silver comb and a chemise woven of a sendal so fine she could see her splayed fingers through two layers of the stuff.

Its very existence invited fondling. But as Willow held the garment up to her chest, testing its length against her own, ‘twas not her hands she saw caressing the gossamer silk, but a man’s hands—their backs dusted with crisp, dark hairs.

Cursing her vivid imagination, she dropped the chemise and scuttled backward. Her heel caught on an uneven board, sending her tumbling through the bed curtains. The feather mattress swallowed her up in one hungry gulp. The bedframe’s leather springs creaked madly as she struggled to escape before Lord Bannor discovered that she’d stumbled right into his perfumed trap.

———

Bannor’s determined strides did not slow until he reached the foot of the winding stone staircase that led up to the south tower. The dismay he’d felt at confronting his children was only a twinge compared to the panic roiling inside him now. He’d challenged the grim specter of death without flinching too many times to count, but the prospect of facing one willowy slip of a girl iced his palms with sweat and made his heart thud with dread.

He was afraid not so much of her as of himself. Every time he’d taken a brief respite from the war and climbed these very steps to visit the bed of one of his wives, a babe had been born nine months later. As much as it galled him to admit it, he was no different from his father in that respect. No lord of Elsinore had ever been able to touch a woman without getting her with child. And Bannor feared that once he started touching this woman, he wouldn’t be able to stop.

He marched up the stairs, resolved to explain to this Lady Willow that his steward had made a terrible, if well-intentioned, mistake. He had just reached the landing when the door crashed open and his bride came flying from the chamber.

Bannor made an instinctive grab for her, hoping to keep them both from tumbling headlong down the stairs. As he caught her, she jerked up her head and he found himself gazing deep into her dark-lashed eyes.

He expected her to be startled. He did not expect her to let out a scream that curdled his blood in its veins and sent him staggering backward with an unmanly yelp of his own.