Willow backed away from the towering stranger who was now her husband, the echo of her scream still ringing in the narrow stairwell.

Even as she averted her eyes and clapped a protective hand over her stomach, she knew she was being absurd. She had ten siblings. She wasn’t so foolish as to believe a man could make his babe quicken within a woman’s womb simply by gazing into her eyes. Yet how to explain that dart of lightning she’d felt deep in her belly at the precise moment their eyes had met?

She stole a sidelong glance at Bannor. He wore only an ivory linen shirt—belted to flare over his lean hips— black hose, and leather calf boots. With his shirt unlaced at the throat to reveal a dark V of chest hair and his hands resting on his hips, ‘twas almost possible to believe him capable of such wicked sorcery. Willow had always thought blue eyes were cold and soulless, but this man’s eyes crackled with passion, especially with the raven wings of his brows arched over them like forbidding storm clouds.

“Sweet Christ in heaven, woman!” he thundered. “Are you trying to break my neck or yours?”

Willow shifted her hand from her belly to her heaving chest, still avoiding his eyes. “Forgive me, my lord. You startled me.”

He raked a hand through his hair. “Not nearly as much as you startled me. Just where were you headed in such haste? Is the tower afire?” His eyes narrowed. “Has that naughty son of mine tossed another stinkpot into the privy shaft?”

Embarrassed to admit she’d been panicked by nothing more than a feather mattress and a nest of rose petals, Willow shook her head. “ Tis a habit of mine to take the night air. I was simply going for a... a stroll along the battlements.”

His left eyebrow shot up. “Without your cloak?”

“How foolish of me,” Willow replied, seizing the opportunity to escape. “I’ll go fetch it this very moment.”

She darted for the chamber, but Bannor followed, his challenging gaze warning her that he had no intention of having a door slammed in his face for the second time in that day.

As Willow yielded to allow him grudging entry, they were both forced to step over one of the sable pelts that littered the floor. Half the bed curtains had been torn clear from their moorings, revealing rumpled sheets and scattered pillows.

Bannor sauntered over to the bed and plucked a downy white goose feather from what appeared to be a fatal gash in the mattress. He held it up for her perusal.

“Had I a more jealous nature, I might be tempted to check beneath the bed and see if one of my bolder squires was lurking there.”

“I took a nap,” Willow lied. “I’m a restless sleeper.”

“So I gathered.” He squatted to retrieve a fallen rose petal, shaking his head. “Fiona’s been at it again, hasn’t she? When she’s not playing mother hen to whatever chick needs her the most, the woman’s a shameless champion of romance.”

“A trait you do not share?”

The crumpled bloom fell from his fingers as he straightened. “I’m a warrior, my lady, not a sentimental old Irishwoman.”

The boldness of his gaze coaxed another flutter from Willow’s belly. ‘Twas as if a pack of tiny butterflies was beating their wings against an irresistible breeze.

Flustered, Willow fumbled beneath the scattered bedclothes. “I was sure I left my cloak right here.”

Bannor frowned. He couldn’t help noticing that Willow was avoiding his eyes. She’d shown no such shyness earlier. Perhaps she regretted her defiance and feared his reprisal.

The next time she stole a fearful glance at him, he leaned against one of the bedposts and offered her the boyish smile that had been known to ease the fears of even the most timid maiden.

It had the opposite effect on Willow. She paled as if he had struck her, then scowled down at the floor. Perplexed, Bannor captured her chin in his hand and tilted her face toward him. Had her eyes not fluttered shut, he might have been able to resist the temptation to stroke his thumb across that petal-soft rosebud of a lower lip.

“Why do you tremble so, my lady?” he murmured.”Have I so fierce a countenance as to make you cower at my glance?”

Her eyes flew open. Bannor was gratified to find not fear, but defiance, glittering in their depths. “Perhaps I’m simply in danger of falling beneath the spell of your legend. After your maidservant had finished describing your rather gruesome habit of ripping off men’s heads with one hand, she warned me that you could get me with child simply by gazing into my eyes.”

He cocked one eyebrow. “And you believed her?”

Willow stiffened. “I should say not. Contrary to the manner in which I’m presently behaving, I’m not a simpleton.”

“Good. Because I can assure you that I’d have to use both hands to rip off a man’s head.” When her pursed lips failed to soften into a smile, he added, “As for getting you with child, I could never hope to accomplish such a feat with a mere look. I’d have to follow my glance with a wink or...” his gaze drifted of its own volition to her mouth, “... perhaps even a kiss.”

“Do you mock me, sir?”

“Never,” he said softly.

When Bannor realized his thumb was once again straining toward her lips, as if hoping to coax forth the smile his jests had not, he released her. He paced across the tower, trampling the fallen rose petals beneath his boots.

How best to spare her pride? he wondered. How best to inform her that she was not destined to be his bride, but Christ’s?

He swung around to face her. “I’m afraid Fiona spoke in haste, my lady. For I cannot get you with child at all.”

Willow’s lips curved in a brief, but dazzling smile.

“Have you suffered some grievous wound? Sir Hollis assured me that you returned from the war with all your parts intact. All your significant parts anyway.” Her sympathetic frown didn’t quite hide the shy downward dart of her gaze. Bannor felt himself harden as if she’d caressed him with more than just her eyes. “Of course, perhaps Sir Hollis doesn’t consider—”

Bannor held up his hand, hoping to silence her before she gave him yet another reason to murder his steward. “I can assure you, my lady, that my significant parts are not only intact, but in full vigor.” Fuller than he would have liked at the moment, he thought grimly, thankful for the generous cut of his shirt.

An unmistakable grimace of disappointment flickered across Willow’s face.

Bannor stepped closer to peer into her face. “You are a most perplexing creature. I’ve never had a woman recoil with horror at the prospect of bearing my child.”

“Obviously,” she murmured, a rueful smile flirting with her lips.

“Should I be offended or merely curious? Don’t most women believe as the Church does, that the creation of offspring is God’s divine purpose for marriage?”

“If that is so, my lord, then you must be a very devout man indeed.”

Bannor was taken aback. He had not expected to find his bride’s wit as irresistible as her beauty.

“I suppose children can oft be considered a blessing,” she added, “but there are women who choose to wed for other reasons. Security. Rank. Riches.” She ducked her head and slanted him an engaging glance. “Love.”

Bannor gave a scornful snort. “I know naught of love, my lady. Only of war.”

“You must have once loved the lady Mary and the lady Margaret.”

His brow furrowed. “I bore a great and most tender affection for both my wives. I chose them for all the virtues a man most admires in a woman and strove to be the most devoted husband I knew how to be. But love?” He shook his head. “Love is an affliction to be suffered only by fools and lads.”

“You were a lad once.”

“And a fool as well.”

Willow turned away from his cynical smile. As she stretched her hands toward the flames on the hearth, their crackling cheer failed to warm her.

“We’ve spoken of the reasons a woman might choose to wed. But what about a man?” She turned back to face him. “What about you, my lord?”

It was Bannor’s turn to avoid her eyes. He paced to the window, then back again, stroking the hint of beard that shadowed his jaw. “ ‘Twasn’t precisely a wife I was seeking.”

Willow folded her arms over her chest. “ Tis the usual outcome, when a man plights his troth to a woman and has his steward stand before the priest and make his vows for him.”

“I’m well aware of that. But I had a more pressing need of a mother. Not for some child yet to be born, as Fiona might have led you to believe, but for the children I already have. Someone to care for them.”

Willow managed to keep all but the faintest trace of bitterness from her voice. “Then I suppose you chose the right woman. I all but raised my ten siblings.”

“So my steward assured me. But I must confess that, when I sent Sir Hollis to seek out a bride for me, I expected him to bring back someone less... well, more...” Bannor never had any trouble barking commands at his men, but his eloquence deserted him in the face of Willow’s unblinking gaze. “Someone who wasn’t quite so... so...”

“Me?” she offered.

“Exactly!” he shouted, a smile breaking over his face.

“So you are suggesting that we do not suit.”

Although Willow’s expression did not betray so much as a flicker of reproach, Bannor’s relief quickly faded to consternation. Hoping to soothe the sting of his clumsy words, he gathered her hands into his own.

And froze before he could speak.

Had he not been gazing into Willow’s exquisite face, he would have sworn he was holding the hands of a peasant. Roughened and chapped, they sported nearly as many calluses as his own. He must have betrayed himself with a downward flicker of his eyes, the ghost of a pitying wince, for she tugged her hands away from his, but continued to meet his gaze with a pride as unflinching as any he had faced on the battlefield.

Bannor knew then that he could not bear to strike that pride a mortal blow. He could not send her back to her family against her will or imprison her behind convent walls. He briefly entertained the notion of allowing Hollis to keep her as his wife, but his mind rejected the image of Willow in his steward’s arms before it could fully form.

Bannor hadn’t earned his reputation as a master strategist on the battlefield and the chessboard for naught. Perhaps there was a way to make her believe she was still mistress of her own fate. If he could somehow goad her into spurning him, she could depart from Elsinore with both her pride and her innocence intact.

It took him little more than a brief mental calculation, masked by an innocent blink, to plan his campaign. If he wanted to drive his opponent’s queen from the board, he would simply have to send in his army of pawns to stage an attack.

A single fortnight in the company of his children should be enough to bring Willow marching up the stairs to his tower, demanding to be released from their vows. He would then play the part of wounded husband, flattering her with his passionate protests before reluctantly agreeing to petition Edward for an annulment.

Bannor recaptured Willow’s hands in a grip too tender to resist. “On the contrary, my lady. I’m simply suggesting that I give you some time to become better acquainted with my children.”

“With the children?” she echoed wanly.

“And with me, of course,” he hastily added. Even as Bannor uttered the lie, regret coursed through him. He could never hope to know her in the one sense he most longed to—the biblical one. Desperate to escape before he betrayed himself with a whispered endearment or careless caress, he brought one of her callused palms to his lips and pressed a gallant kiss upon it. “Forgive me for tarrying so long, my lady. ‘Tis late and you must be exhausted from your journey. I shall leave you to your dreams.”

He was already drawing the door shut behind him when Willow’s reply came, so soft he might have imagined it. “ ‘Tis far too late for that, my lord.”