It took three squires to wrestle the door closed against the hammering fists of the wind. After making sure that his son was suffering from nothing more serious than being knocked senseless, Bannor handed the boy over to Fiona’s care. While the old woman sat him down on a bench and used her own kerchief to dab the blood from the shallow gash on his brow, Bannor jerked a tapestry from the wall and wrapped it around Beatrix’s shoulders. The girl’s teeth were chattering so hard she could barely talk.

“What happened, Bea?” Bannor asked, striving to keep his tone gentle despite his growing panic. “Who took Willow?”

“S-S-S-Stefan. Desmond and I were in the barn, h-hiding in the hayloft, when he came looking for a horse. He held a d-d-dagger to Willow’s throat and forced her to climb astride. When Desmond realized what was happening, he jumped down out of the loft and demanded that Stefan surrender. Stefan nearly ran him down.”

Bannor shot his son a fierce look. “That was very foolish of you, lad. And very brave.”

Desmond gave him a woozy salute. The lad’s halfhearted attempts to duck Fiona’s crooning ministrations were thwarted when she seized him by the ear and held him fast.

Blanche wagged one long, patrician finger at Beatrix. “And just what were you doing alone in a hayloft with that... that... boy? I’ll have you know, my lord, that if your son has compromised my daughter in any way, her stepfather and I will settle for naught less than a betrothal contract.” Her lips curved in a pious smile. “Or at the very least, a generous purse to compensate us for her virtue.”

Forcing himself to ignore both the woman’s jabbering and her daughter’s painful blush, Bannor caught Bea gently by the shoulders. “Why, Bea? I don’t understand. Why would Stefan believe he had any right to Willow?”

Beatrix’s voice dropped to an agonized whisper. “ ‘Twas all my doing. Stefan sent me here to seduce you, so he could have Willow all to himself. Then when you and Willow were quarreling and she told me I was welcome to you, I sent him a letter telling him all was going according to plan and ‘twas only a matter of time before I’d be sending for him. In truth, I forgot all about the letter, but when Stefan received your summons, he must have assumed our scheme had been successful. He didn’t come to Elsinore to attend Willow’s wedding...”

“He came to claim her for his own,” Bannor finished grimly. He whirled on Blanche, who took a hasty step backward. “Did you know of your son’s plot to abduct my bride, my lady?”

One of Blanche’s pale hands fluttered around her throat. “I should say not. Stefan has always been a headstrong lad. He doesn’t take well to not getting his way.”

Bannor stalked the woman, backing her up with each step. “I should warn you that I don’t take well to not getting my way, either. If your son harms so much as one hair on my wife’s head, I’ll settle for naught less than your own head on a platter.”

Blanche trotted backward the last few steps, stumbling right into her husband’s lap. “Are you going to allow him to speak to me that way, Rufus?”

Willow’s father lurched to his feet, dumping his wife to the floor in a spill of skirts. Although he was none too steady on his feet, he managed to get the goblet in his hand to his lips without spilling a single drop of ale. “And why not? If I’d had the courage to speak to you that way a long time ago, that wretched brat of yours might not have made off with my little girl.”

Savagely thinking ‘twas a pity Willow had not been there to witness that, Bannor strode back to Beatrix and seized her by the shoulders, no longer striving to gentle his grip. “I need to know which way they headed. If they kept to the road, I should be able to overtake them within the hour.”

“North,” Desmond mumbled, lurching to his feet. “They headed north. Across the meadows.”

Bannor had been known to bear even the harshest blow without flinching, but his son’s words staggered him. He sank down on the bottom step of the stairs, raking both hands through his hair.

Willow was out there somewhere. In the cold. In the snow. Without her shoe. Without him. In the time it had taken Beatrix and Desmond to stumble across the bailey, the ruthless hand of the wind would have already swept clean any trail Stefan might have left.

Bannor could almost see her—her pearly white teeth beginning to chatter, her warm, pink skin growing stiff and blue. She would shiver so hard she would swear her very bones were knocking together. Icy blades of pain would stab her fingers and toes.

Then the shivering would stop. The pain would fade away. The blue tinge would creep into her eyelids, her fingertips, her lips. The pearls of frost clinging to her skin would crystallize into an icy shroud so hard that all the tears in the world wouldn’t melt it. Instead of dying with a child in her arms, as his mother had done, she would die with his child in her belly.

She would die without ever knowing how very much he loved both her and that child.

Bannor dropped his head into his hands. Somewhere in the darkest corner of his soul, he had believed that if he could somehow stop himself from loving Willow, he could keep her safe. If he never uttered the words, she would never leave him as his mother had done.

A gentle hand brushed his hair. For one crazy moment, Bannor thought it might be Willow’s, but he lifted his head to find Beatrix kneeling before him.

Tears spilled down her cheeks in a swelling torrent. “ ‘Tis all my fault, my lord. I would have never wished her harm, you know. Why, she’s the only real mother I’ve ever known.”

Ignoring Blanche’s outraged gasp, Bannor folded the girl into his arms, muffling her sobs against his chest. “Don’t cry, child,” he said fiercely. “I’ll find her. As God is my witness, I swear I shall find her and bring her back.”

As he pressed his eyes shut, Bannor could only pray that God wouldn’t have allowed him to swear such an oath if He wasn’t going to help him keep it.

“Listen!” Desmond cried, lunging to his feet.

Bannor cocked his head to the side, but all he could hear were Bea’s watery hiccups. He rose, gently guiding the girl into Fiona’s arms, but it still took him a bewildered moment to realize exactly what it was his son wanted him to hear.

Silence.

The wind had ceased its terrible wailing, leaving behind a hush as sweet and crystalline as the tolling of the chapel bells. Bannor rushed to the doors and flung them open. Feathers of snow no longer driven by the relentless lash of the wind brushed like angel wings against his face. A jolly pearl of a moon seemed to wink at him from amongst the scattering clouds, its luminous light drenching the snow in silver.

Bannor would have fallen to his knees right then and there, had he not been determined to make the most of the blessing God had given him.

———

Bannor the Bold strode through the great hall of Elsinore, girded for battle. Beneath the saffron tunic emblazoned with his coat of arms, he wore a hauberk woven of mail, and a steel breastplate. The scabbard sheathing his massive broadsword clanked against the plates armoring his calves and thighs, in a discordant counterpoint to his jingling spurs. From the other side of his belt hung a jeweled scabbard, outfitted with a short but deadly dagger.

His expression was grim, the glint in his eye lethal. He was not marching into battle to defend his country or his honor, but to seek a prize more precious than any the king could offer.

Hollis trotted along beside him, forced to take two steps for every one of his master’s long strides. “I wish you’d let me accompany you. It doesn’t feel right for you to go riding off without me by your side.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Bannor agreed. “But I need you here at Elsinore. If this break in the storm doesn’t last, you’ll have to look after the castle—” he hesitated for a painful moment, “—until I can find my way home.” His brow clouded. “And the children.”

“Fiona and Netta can look after the children. But I feel so damned helpless. Surely there must be something I can do to help bring Willow back.”

“There is,” Bannor said, pausing just long enough to clap a firm hand on his steward’s shoulder. “Go to the chapel, my friend, and pray.”

Bannor threw open the main doors, trusting that his squires would have his mount ready for him. They did not disappoint. The pale stallion seemed to rise out of the moonlit snow, puffing steam from his nostrils like some mythical dragon. Bannor accepted the horse’s reins from a somber-faced lad and swung himself astride. Giving Hollis one last salute, he guided the horse in a prancing half-circle, only to find his path to the drawbridge blocked.