Charming the Prince by Teresa Medeiros

been alone. Although she hadn't caught so much as a fleeting glimpse of Bannor's children since their disastrous meeting in the meadow, she had whirled around more than once during that interminable day, convinced she saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye or heard the ghostly echo of a giggle. 'Twas like being hunted through an enchanted castle by a band of invisible sprites.
    While Willow drew the fresh chemise over her head, Beatrix stood without a hint of shyness, streaming water from her skin like some pagan goddess rising from the sea. Unable to bear the sight of all that rosy perfection, Willow jerked a linen towel out of the cupboard and tossed it over her stepsister's head.
      Beatrix used it to blot her waterfall of flaxen hair. "I can assure you that supping alone in the great hall is better than having to choke down a cold bowl of broth and a stale oatcake while standing up in the kitchens. Although I must confess 'tis the best place to glean all the latest gossip." Wrapping the towel around her and stepping out of the tub, she slanted Willow a coy look. "Is what they say about Lord Bannor true? Has he really sired a dozen babes?"
      Willow frowned, tallying children on her hands until she ran out of fingers and had to begin again. "I suppose so."
      "Want to hear something truly delicious?" Beatrix asked. "Some of Lord Bannor's children are baseborn. It seems that shortly after Lady Margaret died, babies began to arrive at the castle gate in baskets. They're believed to be the result of Lord Bannor's dalliances with several of the village maids. He's taken in five of them so far."
      Willow kept her expression bland. "Lord Bannor doesn't seem to make any distinction between his children, no matter which side of the blanket they happened to be born on. 'Tis a most admirable quality. Most men don't even bother to claim their bastards, much less welcome them into their homes."
      "Perhaps he doesn't feel 'twould be fair to deny them, when he's naught but a bastard himself?" Beatrix clapped a hand over her mouth. "He did tell you, didn't he?"
      "Of course he told me." Willow snapped, unable to bear her stepsister's pity. "I simply thought he was referring to his temperament, not the circumstances of his birth." She padded toward the bed.
      Beatrix went around to the opposite side of the bed, preparing to shed the towel before she climbed into it. "They're already laying wagers, you know, on how soon you'll be breeding." Her stepsister stole a sly glance at Willow's stomach. "Since their lord paid a visit to your chambers last night, some of them are whispering that you already are."
      Willow might have indulged herself with a bitter laugh if she hadn't been distracted by the small, dark shapes clearly visible beneath the sheet.
      "Fiona," she murmured, shaking her head. "Perhaps the sentimental old fool will soon learn 'twill take more than a handful of rose petals to lure her lord into my bed."
      Weary of hiding her hurt, Willow yanked back the sheet. She was still trying to figure out why the rose petals had suddenly began to chirp when the first cricket took flight, striking Beatrix square in the nose.
    ******
      High above the castle in the refuge of the north tower, Sir Hollis was desperately seeking a maneuver that might save his queen from the ruthless clutches of Bannor's knight when a bloodcurdling scream shattered the cozy silence.
      "Good God!" Hollis shouted, bounding to his feet. "It sounds like someone's being murdered!"
      As the screams—shrill, feminine, and punctuated by hysterical shrieks and a peculiar stamping sound—welled in intensity, he fully expected his companion to snatch up his sword and race for the door.
      But Bannor acknowledged the interruption with nothing more than a wary flicker of his eyelids. " Tis your move."
      Hollis slowly sank into his chair, groping for his rook with a trembling hand. He slid the piece into the square next to it,