Hugging her cloak tight around her, Willow darted across the bailey, hoping she could make it to the drawbridge before the dozing guard awoke from his slumber. Even in her haste, she could not resist stealing a look at Bannor’s tower. A smile touched her lips as she imagined him sprawled across the feather mattress, his hair rumpled, and his skin smelling of sleep. She hoped the embers of the fire she had kindled would still be glowing when he awoke, a smoldering reminder of what had passed between them only a few short hours ago.

“M’lady! M’lady!”

Willow clapped a hand to her pounding heart as Fiona came lurching out of the dawn mist. “Good heavens, Fiona, I thought you were a haint.”

The old woman certainly looked the part. Despite the morning chill, she wore naught but a ragged shawl draped over her white gown. Her tidy bun had unraveled, leaving her hair to hang in lank wisps around her face. Willow had never seen the little woman look quite so frazzled.

“Forgive me, m’lady. I saw ye from the nursery window and knew I’d have to make haste if I was to catch ye. Mags has taken the colic and sweet Peg here has hardly got a wink o’ sleep all night. Every time the poor creature starts to drift off, Mags wakes up screamin’ and there they both go, howlin’ their wee heads off.” Fiona thrust the basket dangling from her wizened arm at Willow. “I was hopin’ ye wouldn’t mind lookin’ after the poor mite fer a spell?”

Willow took an involuntary step backward. “Oh, Fiona, I really don’t think—”

“I’d ask one o’ the maidservants to do it, but they just haven’t got yer tender touch with the wee ones.” The old woman’s bottom lip quivered so piteously Willow feared she might burst into tears herself.

Willow sighed. “Very well. Give her over.” She hooked the basket over her arm. “It’s certainly not as if I’ve never had a baby foisted off on me before.”

“May God bless ye, m’lady!” As a second baby’s strident shriek pierced the morning hush, Fiona’s toothless smile tightened to a wince. Muttering beneath her breath, she hastened back toward the castle, leaving Willow alone with her new charge.

Willow started to tighten the hood Fiona had fashioned, but some foreign impulse prompted her to peel back its folds and steal a look at the child’s face. She expected the baby to be sleeping, not gazing up at her with a wide-eyed curiosity no less keen than her own.

“Well, hello there,” she murmured, nonplussed by the babe’s unwavering stare.

Peg’s rosy cheeks had already began to ripen. She was becoming less puckered and more puckish, looking less like a wizened old man and more like a jolly elf. The head that had been bald only a fortnight ago was now covered with fuzzy blond down. Willow could not resist brushing her fingertips across it.

A bubble of laughter escaped the baby’s lips, so merry and engaging that Willow was startled to find herself laughing.

“Aren’t you a good-natured thing,” she said, gently tweaking the creature’s pug nose.

The baby wiggled her fist free of her blankets and grabbed Willow’s finger. As Willow gazed down into that happy little moon of a face, she was caught off guard by a bittersweet rush of tenderness. This wasn’t just any baby. This was Bannor’s baby. A baby he had created with some nameless and faceless woman—a woman who had known the full measure of his desire, not just a tantalizing taste of it.

Willow tucked the baby’s flailing arm back into the blanket and drew up the hood to shield her from the wind. Once Willow might have pitied the child’s mother, but as she trudged toward the drawbridge, the basket clutched to her chest, she feared she was coming to envy her.

———

When Netta yanked open her door to find Willow and wee Peg waiting on her doorstep, she paled as if she’d seen a ghost.

She stared at the basket for a long moment before jerking her gaze back to Willow. “If I didn’t want your jars of honey or your fancy candles, I don’t know why you’d think I’d want that.”

Willow braced herself, waiting for Netta to slam the door in her face, but instead the woman wheeled around and marched back into the cottage, leaving it agape.

‘Twasn’t quite an invitation, but Willow decided to pretend it was. She slipped her head into the cottage to find Netta standing in the middle of the room with her back to the door. She was hugging herself, as if simply appearing in the doorway had chilled her to the bone. Her hair was unbound and her feet bare, but her bed was empty.

“I hope you don’t mind me bringing the baby along,” Willow said cheerfully, lugging the basket through the door. “Fiona asked me to mind it while she tended to one of Bannor’s other babes.”

“Put her on the hearth,” Netta commanded without turning around. “So she won’t catch a chill.”

Willow gently rested the basket on the warm stones before shrugging off her cloak and settling down on the stool. “How did you guess she was a girl?”

Netta shrugged her wiry shoulders. “A girl? A lad? It makes no difference, does it? They’re all destined for the same life of toil and heartache.”

Willow chuckled. “Oh, Bannor would never stand for that. His children might sorely vex his patience, but I’d wager he would lay down his life to ensure their happiness.”

Netta turned around, her lips twisted in a bitter smile. “Then the child should count herself well blessed to have such a fine father.”

“Aye,” Willow said softly, thinking of her own papa. “Indeed she should.”

“Why is she making those noises?” Netta demanded, her expression curiously fierce. “Is she hurting? Or hungry?”

“Just bored, most likely.” Willow stretched out her leg and rocked the basket with her foot, a skill she’d perfected while learning to juggle Blanche’s brood. The baby’s fretful whimpers soon subsided into blissful chortles. She kicked away the blanket and began to play with her toes.

Netta’s tension also seemed to ease. She sank down on the foot of the bed, eyeing Willow with a mixture of wariness and curiosity. “To be honest, I never expected to find you on my doorstep again.”

“And why not? Your shilling trick was a most splendid success.”

Netta’s hazel eyes widened. “It was? Why, I thought Bannor would laugh you out of his chamber!”

Willow stiffened before saying softly, “And why would you think that?”

Netta bit her bottom lip as if realizing too late that she’d revealed too much. Her shrug seemed to lack its usual indifference. “ ‘Twas naught but a harmless bit of mischief, my lady. An innocent jest.”

“And I suppose ‘twas my innocence that was the jest. Or was it my ignorance? Did you spread word of my visit throughout the village so that Bannor’s villeins would know that their lord’s bride was as foolish as she was mad?”

Willow could hardly bear to think that Bannor might have been laughing at her as well. That their tender encounter might have been nothing more to him than a virgin’s folly. She rose from the stool, jerking up her cloak and wrapping it around her.

She fought to keep her voice cool and her hands steady as she drew a velvet purse from her sleeve and tossed it on the bed. “I hope that will be enough to compensate you for any coins you might have lost while you were tarrying with the village idiot.”

As she started for the door, Netta sprang up from the bed, dogging her steps. “So what’s to be my punishment for mocking the grand lady of Elsinore? Will you have me tarred and feathered? Driven out of the village? Stoned?” Although Netta hurled the words at her with brash bravado, Willow sensed the undercurrent of fear.

She hesitated, her hand on the door latch. She had been powerless for so long that it had never even occurred to her that she now had the authority to indulge in something as petty and rewarding as revenge. She remembered all the times Stefan and Reanna had so cruelly mocked her, all the times Blanche had punished her for some imagined offense, all the times her papa had turned his face away rather than meet her pleading gaze.

She cut Netta a cool, clear glance. “Twould hardly be fair to punish you for my folly, now would it?”

Willow slipped out of the cottage without bothering to draw up her hood. ‘Twas still early and there were only a handful of villagers scattered along her path. She answered their curious glances with a defiant stare. She was halfway up the hill that led to the castle when she realized with an icy start of horror that she’d forgotten Peg.

She spun around and sprinted through the winding streets, her cloak flapping behind her. As she turned down Netta’s lane, a baby’s shrill cry rent the air. Willow thought it might very well be the worst sound she’d ever heard, until it ceased as abruptly as it had began.

The cottage door was still standing open. Willow stumbled through it without bothering to knock. Her fright swelled to panic when she saw the empty basket on the hearth.

Had the thundering of her heart not completely ceased for a beat, she might have never heard the husky, off-key humming. She whirled around to find Netta perched on the end of the bed, gazing down at the blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms. A bundle that squirmed, cooed, then let out a resounding burp more suitable to a burly ale master.

Netta lifted her head, offering Willow a smile as winsome as Peg’s own. “I do believe she likes me. She quieted right down as soon as I started to sing.”

Willow staggered over and plopped down on the stool, wiping her brow with her sleeve. “I’m delighted to know the two of you are getting along so well. Perhaps we can all sing a round together as soon as I catch my breath.”

Netta dragged her gaze away from the baby’s face, her smile fading. She rose and thrust the baby at Willow. “Forgive me, my lady. I forgot myself. I should never have touched her with these hands.”

Willow studied the woman’s stricken face for a moment before waving her away. “And why not? They’re clean and sturdy, aren’t they? Just make sure you keep one of them under her head and one of them under her rump, or she’ll flop about like a beached pike.”

Netta hesitated for a moment, then drew the baby back to her chest. When she lifted her eyes this time, the wariness within them was tempered by reluctant admiration. “I’ve met many ladies in my life, but none who deserved the title. If you still want me to, I’ll teach you whatever you wish to know about pleasing your precious Lord Bannor.”

Willow’s lips curved in a thoughtful smile. “Everything. I wish to know everything.”

———

By noontime the morning mist had drifted down the river, leaving the inhabitants of Elsinore with the promise of a crisp, sunny afternoon. They came spilling out of the castle, eager to savor every moment of freedom they could steal before the coming snows imprisoned them behind the high stone walls until spring.

The bailey resounded with the shrill giggles and pelting footsteps of running children while the list rang with the clash and thunder of mock skirmishes. Even the washerwomen had dragged their tubs out of the dank laundry and into the sun, their massive forearms jiggling as they swapped jests and gossip.

Willow, Beatrix, and Mary Margaret trudged out to the meadow bordering the list, dragging a straw-stuffed dummy behind them. Willow knew that giving in to Mary Margaret’s persistent pleas to teach her to shoot a bow might not be the wisest decision she’d ever made, but at least it would help her pass the interminable hours until midnight. A sweet shiver of anticipation rippled through her. Thanks to Netta’s generous tutelage, tonight she would storm her husband’s tower armed with far more than just a smile and a shilling.

“You’re blushing.”

Willow jumped as her stepsister’s accusation shattered her reverie. “No, I’m not. I’m simply flushed from the heat.”

Beatrix’s skeptical snort made a cloud of fog in the chilly air. “From the heat of your daydreams perhaps.” She leaned over to whisper, “Or perhaps from the heat of dreams that have already come true, judging how late it was when you crawled into bed last night.”

Willow glared at her. There were certain disadvantages to sleeping with a meddlesome stepsister. Especially one who knew her so well.

While Beatrix lashed the dummy to a nearby tree, Willow ushered Mary Margaret to a small rise in the land. The child’s bow was even smaller than Desmond’s; its feathered arrows weren’t much larger than darts. As Willow knelt behind her, she prayed the only consequence of teaching her how to use it would be a row of headless and disemboweled dolls riddled with arrow holes.

“My mama got shooted by an arrow and went to heaven,” Mary Margaret announced as Willow slotted one of the shafts and sought to arrange her small fingers on the bowstring.

“My mama went to heaven, too,” Willow informed her.

“Did she get shooted by an arrow?”

“No, she got very sick when I was born.” Willow pressed her cheek to Mary Margaret’s, steadying the child’s hand with her own. “Perhaps both of our mamas are smiling down upon us right now.”

“Or cringing in horror,” Beatrix muttered, eyeing the deadly tip of the arrow.

Confident that the child had a firm grasp on the weapon, Willow withdrew a few steps and nodded toward the dummy. “See that red heart painted on his chest? I want you to aim straight for it. Can you do that?”

Mary Margaret nodded. Her eyes narrowed to a fierce squint as she drew the bowstring taut. Willow held her breath, waiting for the telltale ping.

“But what if I shoots him in the head?” Mary Margaret suddenly blurted out, swinging the bow around.

Beatrix ducked while Willow reached over and gently plucked the bow from the child’s grasp. “Rule number one, pixie. You must never take your eyes off your target.”

“Why, look,” Beatrix murmured, plucking a stray leaf from her hair as she gazed toward the list. “There’s Lord Bannor.”

“Where?” Willow whirled around, forgetting that she still held the bow.

At first she thought her stepsister was teasing her again, but there was no mistaking the noble bearing of the man strolling along the fence with Sir Hollis. He stood head and shoulders over his companion and most of the other men in the list. As he inclined his head toward Sir Hollis, the sun glinted off his hair, gilding it to a raven sheen. Kell and Edward dogged his every step, their own bright and dark heads bobbing in uncanny imitation of the two men. When Bannor paused to inspect a knight’s armor, Edward crashed into the back of his legs, earning an exasperated look.

Willow might have believed Bannor was too preoccupied to notice her, had it not been for the brief sideways flicker of his glance and the dazzling flash of his smile.

She heard the ping she had been waiting for. The arrow left the bow, sailing across the meadow and toward the fence in a neat arc.

She was still standing frozen in shock when Mary Margaret tugged at her sleeve. “Oh, Willow, you shooted my papa! Is he going to heaven, too?”