Bannor heaved his squirming son onto a bale of fresh hay. He feared the lad might cower and cry, but Desmond bounded to his feet to face him, the trembling of his jaw disguised by a mask of defiance.

Bannor could not have said how much this pleased him.

“Well, get on with it,” Desmond snarled. “Go on and thrash me. We both know I deserve it.”

“I have every intention of thrashing you. When I am ready.”

Desmond threw himself back down on the bale of hay, a sneer twisting his lips. “And when will that be? After you’ve finished training your men? Or stitching the head back on one of Mary Margaret’s dolls? Or slipping your hand beneath Willow’s—”

Bannor cocked one eyebrow, daring him to continue.

Desmond tucked a piece of hay between his pursed lips, staring straight ahead.

“I wasn’t aware you were so eager to be thrashed,” Bannor said, folding his arms over his chest.

Desmond shrugged. “I figured you were the one eager to get it over with. I’m sure you’ve got duties of more import to attend to.” He lowered his voice to a sullen mutter. “The king might need his pisspot emptied.”

Bannor’s temper flared. “While you’re making sport of my loyalty to our king, you might wish to remember that if it weren’t for him, I’d still be a penniless man-at-arms forced to sell my sword to the highest bidder. Everything I have, everything you have, has been a reward for serving him—my title, this castle, the food in your belly, the land beneath your feet. Why, your very mother was a gift from him! A bastard like myself would never have been allowed to so much as touch the hem of Mary’s cloak without Edward’s blessing. However much you resent it, I owe my allegiance to him. I had no choice but to take my place at his side during the war.”

“There’s no need to pretend it was such a great sacrifice! We all saw the fire in your eyes when the time came for you to return to battle. Both my mother and Lady Margaret would cry for days after you departed, but I doubt you ever gave them or us a second thought.”

Bannor was stricken by the truth in the lad’s accusation. It cut deeper than any lash wielded by an enemy’s hand, making him want to strike out in self-defense. He paced the length of the stalls before whirling around to face his son. “War was all I knew. ‘Twas the only thing I ever excelled at. I fought at the king’s side all those years for all of you—to bring honor and glory to the name of Elsinore, to make you proud.”

The boy gave him a wry look that aged his narrow face beyond its years. “Was it our pride that kept you on that battlefield, Father? Or your own?”

Bannor’s gut wrenched as he realized that all of his glorious feats and triumphs meant nothing to this boy who had grown up without a father. He would have fallen on his own sword before deserting any one of the men beneath his command, yet he’d unwittingly done just that. All of his notions of honor and duty and service to his king echoed through his mind, as hollow as the look in his son’s eyes.

He turned away from those eyes, understanding what it meant to be truly defeated for the first time in his life. “It appears I’ve done you a grave injustice. You wanted a father and I offered you naught but a hero. In the end, I was neither in your eyes.”

When Desmond spoke again, his voice was strangely distant. “I ran away once when I was very small. ‘Twas after Mama died. I took one of the swords you’d left behind on your last visit. ‘Twas nearly twice my size, but I still managed to drag it all the way to Elsinore’s border. It took me so long that I thought I must surely be in France. When one of your villeins found me, I struggled to lift the sword and told him he’d best make way, for I was the son of Lord Bannor the Bold and I was off to join my papa in battle.”

Bannor slowly turned to face his son. “What did he do?”

Desmond lifted his shoulders in a sheepish shrug. “He took the sword away, threw me over his shoulder, and carried me straight back to Fiona. I kicked and screamed the whole way.”

“I can’t say that surprises me.” Bannor’s rueful chuckle died in his throat when he saw the tears shining in his son’s eyes.

“You were my hero,” Desmond whispered. “I wanted nothing more than to be just like you.”

Bannor closed the distance between them in two strides, drawing the boy into his arms. “Someday you will be a fine warrior, and a much better father than I ever was. And you will be lord of this castle as well. But not today. Today you need only be my son.” He stroked the boy’s chestnut hair. “I still remember the day your mother laid you in my arms for the first time. She was so proud to have given me a son.”

“She wouldn’t be very proud now, would she?” Desmond mumbled, swiping at his nose.

Bannor tipped the boy’s face up so he could gaze sternly into his eyes. “On the contrary. You’ve been both mother and father to your brothers and sisters all the years I was gone. Your mother would be every bit as proud of you as I am.”

A tremulous grin curved the boy’s lips. “Do you really think so?”

“Aye,” Bannor said with all the conviction he could muster. “I’d wager my life upon it.”

“Wager,” Desmond repeated absently. He scratched his head as if trying to remember something, then snapped his fingers. Hastily disengaging himself from his father’s embrace, he sprinted for the barn door.

“Where do you think you’re going in such haste?” Bannor demanded, striding after him.

“I’m going to collect my hazard winnings before those cheating pages make off with them.”

“Not so fast, lad.” Bannor clapped a hand on his shoulder, freezing him in his tracks. When Desmond cast a timid glance over his shoulder, his father was wearing a devilish grin of his own. “We still have the small matter of your thrashing to attend to.”

———

As the morning wore on and snow began to tumble out of the darkening sky in fat, woolly flakes, Willow paced the length of the list, wondering if she’d done a terrible thing. She nibbled at her knuckle, tortured by visions of Bannor emerging from the barn with Desmond’s broken body draped over his arms, his hollow eyes burning with hatred for the woman who had coaxed him into murdering his son.

Bannor’s men-at-arms and knights slunk away one by one, mumbling this excuse or that. In truth, they were no longer able to bear the sight of Willow’s haunted face, or to endure a silence more ominous than screams of terror or pleas for mercy.

As both Willow’s apprehension and the snow deepened, the children crept out to join the grim vigil, their somber little faces silently reproaching her. Even Edward had nothing to say. Shortly after eleven, Beatrix deigned to grace them with her presence. “I heard what he said to his father,” she whispered to Willow. “If you ask me, whatever he gets is no more than he deserves.”

Willow might have reproached the girl for her spite, if she hadn’t noticed that several of the fingernails Beatrix took such pride in had been chewed to the quick.

When the chapel bells tolled noon, Willow sank down on a bale of hay and buried her face in her hands. She barely felt Hammish’s hand gently stroking her hair.

Her head flew up as the stable door; began to creak open. A hulking figure was silhouetted against the torchlit interior. Willow blinked the snow from her lashes, fearing the worst. But her eyes beheld not a snarling monster destroyed by the curse of his temper, but a smiling man with one brawny arm draped over his son’s shoulders.

Desmond looked taller—older somehow—as if the mantle of the man he would become rested on his shoulders along with his father’s arm. With his green eyes and chestnut coloring, Willow had always assumed he must be the very image of his mother, but for the first time, she saw the indelible stamp of his father in the proud tilt of his head, the stubborn jut of his jaw, the sulky-sweet cant of his grin.

The children sprang to their feet with Beatrix fast on their heels. As they ran to greet their conquering hero, yapping like a pack of eager pups, Willow gathered her skirts and followed. She had a hero of her own to salute.

“Dethmond!” squealed the twins in unison.

Meg threw her chubby little arms around her brother’s leg while Mary Margaret captured his free hand, swinging it like the end of a skip-rope. At the last second, Beatrix remembered to hang back.

“We was afraid Papa had kill’ded you,” Mary Margaret said.

“He thrashed me,” Desmond confessed, beaming up at his father. “Within an inch of my life.” Despite the boy’s cheerful claim, Willow couldn’t find a mark on him.

Bannor struggled to look stern. “And a long overdue thrashing it was.”

“Did it hurt?” Hammish asked, his brown eyes huge.

“Dreadfully,” Desmond assured him.

Beatrix eyed him down the length of her patrician nose. “I’m surprised you didn’t squeal like a girl.”

“I didn’t let out a squeak. Not even one.”

Bannor cocked an eyebrow.

Desmond ducked his head. “Well, maybe just one.”

Ten-year-old Mary surveyed him with newfound respect. “How very brave of you. I’m almost certain I would have cried.”

“Not me!” Edward claimed, hitching his hips in a clumsy swagger. “ ‘Cause I’m a man, and men don’t cry.”

Kell gave him a shove. “But you smell bad enough to make my eyes water.”

Before the fists could start to flail, Bannor stepped between the two boys and flattened a hand on each of their foreheads to hold them apart. “Your brother and I had a very long talk after his thrashing, and we’ve decided to negotiate some changes in the terms of our treaty.”

Desmond nodded, glowing with pride to be included in his father’s confidence. “That’s right. We’ll no longer eat honeyed pomegranates and fig pudding for every meal. We’ll eat good solid meat and fresh-baked bread.”

“And vegetables?” Hammish piped up hopefully. “Even the foul-tasting ones?”

“Aye,” Bannor said. “Three times a day.” He pointed a finger at Edward. “And you’ll take a bath every sennight, son. Whether you need it or not. And since everyone is exhausted from staying up until midnight the past few nights, we shall remedy that this very afternoon. With a nap.”

Edward and Kell exchanged a look of sheer horror. “A nap?”

“Now?”

“In the middle of the day?”

Bannor ruffled Kell’s sunny hair. “Don’t look so glum, son. Just think what a pleasure ‘twill be to curl up in a soft, toasty bed while a fire crackles on the hearth and the snow falls outside your window.” The sidelong glance he gave Willow promised her that a soft, toasty bed and a crackling fire were only the beginning of the pleasures he had planned for her.

“Make haste, children,” she blurted out, spreading her arms wide to herd them toward the castle. “The sooner you fall asleep, the sooner you can wake up and join your father and me in a hearty supper of meat and vegetables.”

They’d traveled several steps before she realized that one of her sheep had gone astray.

Mary Margaret had plopped down in the snow and folded her arms over her chest. The little girl stared straight ahead, her bottom lip protruding at a baleful angle. “Won’t take no nap. Don’t want to do it. Can’t make me.”

Desmond arched an eyebrow in Bannor’s direction. All the children were watching their father to determine if this overt act of rebellion would be tolerated beneath the terms of their new treaty.

Bannor blew out a long-suffering sigh, and gave Willow a look heavy with regret. “If she refuses her nap, I suppose I shall have to forgo mine as well.” Rolling his eyes heavenward, he scooped his daughter into his arms, tossed her over his shoulder, and strode back toward the barn.

Unlike her brother, Mary Margaret took no pride in suffering in silence. Long after Willow had the other children tucked snugly into their beds, the little girl’s outraged shrieks rang through the castle with a fiendish glee that made all who heard them cross themselves and clap their hands over their ears. It wasn’t until her shrill howls had ceased that a trembling Father Humphries dared to waddle out to the barn. He eased open the barn door, expecting the worst, only to discover the exhausted little demon napping in her father’s arms.

Bannor glanced up as the priest crept into the barn. “Shhhh,” he whispered, touching a finger to his lips. “I just got her to sleep.” He brushed a damp ringlet from his daughter’s tear-streaked cheek, the harsh planes of his face softened by tender pride. “Doesn’t she put you in mind of an angel?”

Father Humphries beamed down at the child, all the while fumbling to tuck his crucifix and flask of holy water back into the sleeve of his robe before her father saw it. “Aye, my lord. An angel indeed.”