Bannor rolled off of Willow, his warrior’s instincts returning to life an instant too late to save either of them. For a dazed moment, all Willow could see was feet—a forest of grubby little feet crowned by chubby little toes. Her bewildered gaze fixed on the pair of feet directly in front of the mattress. They were larger and dirtier than the rest, but not so dirty she couldn’t make out the freckles peeping through the grime.

She traced those angular feet up to a familiar bow gripped in a pair of freckled, white-knuckled hands, up even farther to a pair of narrowed green eyes, then back down to the arrow pointed at Bannor’s heart.

Acting on pure instinct, Willow flung herself across Bannor’s chest, arms outstretched, and shouted, “Hold your fire!”

It wasn’t until she saw the disgusted shock on Desmond’s face that she realized she had betrayed not only the children, but herself as well. It took the boy a heartbeat longer than she would have liked to lower the bow.

“I should’ve shot the wretch in the back while he was wallowing all over you,” he snarled.

“At least I’d have died a happy man,” Bannor murmured into her hair.

Desmond’s comrades were similarly armed. Ennis wielded a sickle, Mary a pair of sheep shears, Edward a club, Kell a blacksmith’s awl, and Mary Margaret a pitchfork. Hammish was clutching something that looked amazingly like a ham bone, while Meg and the twins balanced a miniature battering ram between them. Given the amount of dust drifting through the air, it must have been the same battering ram they’d used to smash their way through the stone wall.

“How did you find me?” Willow asked.

After returning the arrow to its quiver and shrugging the bow back on his shoulder, Desmond reached behind him and dragged forth a flushed and rumpled Beatrix. Willow might have been tempted to believe her stepsister had suffered an attack of conscience if the girl’s hands hadn’t been bound in front of her and her contrite grunt hadn’t been muffled by the kerchief stuffed between her lips. She wiggled her fingers at Willow in a sheepish wave.

“When Bea returned from the mission without you, I sensed something was amiss.” Desmond cast the girl a smug glance. “It didn’t take much to wring a confession from the little traitor. All I had to do was make Hammish sit on her while I tickled her feet.”

Hammish hung his head while Beatrix tossed hers, the haughty glare she shot Desmond promising retribution.

Ennis lowered his sickle. “You can imagine our alarm when we learned Father had taken you.”

“Don’t I wish,” Bannor whispered, his devilish chuckle making Willow’s earlobe tingle.

Willow dug her elbow into his stomach, but she might as well have been elbowing a rock.

Edward brandished his club in the air, as if to vanquish an invisible enemy. “ ‘Twas me who founded you for ‘em. I was peepin’ through the squint when I heard Papa say your hair was soft as dog fur, your skin was all sticky like somethin’ that’d been left out in the sun all day, and Bea here was fat as a pig.”

The gag failed to muffle Beatrix’s outraged gasp.

Willow blushed, more concerned about what Edward might have seen through the squint than what he might have heard.

“He makes a rather eloquent spy, doesn’t he, my little fishwife?” Bannor muttered.

Mary Margaret planted the tines of her pitchfork in the floor, scowling ferociously. “If Papa wasn’t biting you, then what was he doing?”

Extricating herself from the haven of Bannor’s lap, Willow rose to her feet with as much dignity as possible. She was as aware of her rumpled tunic, tousled hair, and glistening, kiss-swollen lips as she was of Desmond’s suspicious gaze. “Your papa and I were... urn, we were...”

Bannor sprang to his feet. “Negotiating a truce.”

“A truce?” Desmond spat.

The rest of the children groaned in disappointment.

Willow smiled sweetly. “I cannot blame your father for seeking to spare his pride, but what we were really negotiating was his surrender.”

“My surrender?” Bannor glowered down at her.

Desmond still looked skeptical. “If he’s surrendering, then what is there to negotiate?”

“Terms, of course.” She dared to give Bannor’s chest an amicable pat. “After all, compromise is the very nature of surrender, is it not, my lord?”

“I wouldn’t know, my lady,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’ve never surrendered before.”

“So I gathered,” she murmured. “Which is why we shall strive to make this as painless as possible.” She beamed at the children. “You’ll be delighted to know that your father has agreed to all of your demands.”

“Like hell I have—” Bannor’s protest died to a grunt as Willow’s heel came down hard on his toes.

“But in exchange,” she continued before the children could unleash their triumphant cheers, “he has one demand of his own.” Both Bannor and the children seemed to be holding their breath, awaiting her next words. “He wants to spend more time in your company.”

“He does?” Desmond asked, barking out a dubious laugh.

“I do?” Bannor echoed, panic rising in his voice.

Willow ignored them both. “ ‘Twould be a great boon to him if you would allow him to share all of your meals and to tuck you into bed each night.”

“At midnight,” Kell confirmed, testing the sincerity of his father’s pledge.

“Aye, at midnight,” Willow agreed.

Beatrix rolled her eyes as the children huddled together, engaging in a muttered and hissed parley that concluded with a shoving match between Kell and Edward. When they separated, it was Mary Margaret who approached Bannor.

“We wants one more thing,” she proclaimed, the pitchfork clutched like a royal scepter in her chubby little fist.

Bannor shot Willow a wary look before squatting down to his daughter’s eye level. “And just what would that be?”

“We wants you to pway wif us.”

Bannor rolled his eyes heavenward, then chuckled ruefully. “Very well, princess. I shall be honored to do your bidding.”

That familiar endearment on Bannor’s lips made Willow’s heart contract with a longing she’d hoped never to feel again. As he reached over to rumple his daughter’s ringlets, she had to turn away.

Desmond was watching her, his gaze as sharp and predatory as his crow’s. The sullen quirk had returned to his lips. “So tell me, Father,” he said, folding his wiry arms over his chest, “just what has Willow gained for her efforts? After all, she was the one who persuaded you to surrender.”

Bannor straightened. He gazed at Willow for a long moment before saying softly, “Willow has won her freedom, if she so desires it.”

Mary Margaret dropped the pitchfork and threw her arms around Willow’s leg. “You’re not going to leave us, are you? You promised to teach me how to braid ribbons in a horse’s tail and shoot a bow. Oh, Willow, say you won’t go!”

For a painful moment, Willow couldn’t say anything at all. Then she scooped the child into her arms. “The only place I’m going right now is to bed. Which is where you all belong, since ‘tis well after midnight.”

Ignoring Mary Margaret’s groan of protest, she thrust the child into her father’s arms. Bannor held the scowling moppet at arm’s length for a moment before heaving her over his shoulder. Mary Margaret’s groan turned into giggles. “Just what am I to do with the little imp?” he asked, glowering at Willow.

“Tuck her in.” Willow smiled sweetly and pointed toward the newly made door in his wall. “If you follow that passageway down to the next level, you’ll find it leads right to her chamber.”

Desmond waited until his father and Mary Margaret had squeezed through the jagged hole before drawing a wicked-looking dagger from his stocking. “You might be a traitor, Bea,” he said, slicing through the girl’s bonds, “but at least you’re not sleeping with the enemy.” He ducked into the passageway, giving Willow a bitter look over his shoulder.

Willow sighed, fearing that she had lost a cherished ally, perhaps for good.

As if sensing her melancholy, Hammish tucked his plump hand into hers. “Don’t pay Desmond any heed, my lady. I think you were ever so brave to beard Papa in his den. I’m sure it must have been quite terrible for you to end up in his clutches.”

“Simply horrid,” she murmured wistfully, remembering the gentle press of Bannor’s hands against her flesh, the delectable taste of his kiss, and the helpless hunger on his face when he had confessed to wanting her.