Read Online Charming the Prince by Teresa Medeiros - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Teresa Medeiros
Tags: Fiction, General, Romance, Historical, England, Man-Woman Relationships, Love Stories, Nobility - England
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If you don't want her, then I'll keep her for my own wife."
Bannor tried to imagine Hollis stroking his bride's creamy skin, Hollis sifting his fingers through her raven curls, Hollis tickling that delectable upper lip of hers with his mustache. He could not have said what his expression was in that moment, but his steward took a fearful step backward.
"I appreciate your noble offer, Hollis, but I could never ask you to make such a terrible sacrifice." The sarcasm drained from his voice, leaving it somber with regret. "If Lady Willow does not wish to return to her father's household after the annulment is granted, then I shall escort her to the sisters at Wayborne Abbey. 'Tis the only fit refuge for such a woman."
It pained Bannor to imagine a woman as desirable as Willow devoting herself to a life of pious virtue, but 'twas preferable to the thought of another man enjoying her.
As he turned to go, Hollis said softly, "Was it not you who claimed that when I returned to Elsinore with this woman, she would be your wife in the eyes of God?"
Bannor hesitated, his friend's rebuke piercing his armor of resolve like the tiny blade of a misericorde. "Then I can only pray that He will forgive me for what I am about to do."
******
Willow never would have thought that she would miss Harold's whining or Beatrix's imperious commands, but as she gazed around the bedchamber, the unfamiliar hush unnerved her. Once she had longed for silence and solitude—for a few precious moments to think and dream. Now that she was alone at last, she was afraid to do either.
A curious peek behind the bed curtains did nothing to ease her fears. The sable pelts had been folded back and the linen sheet sprinkled with velvety rose petals, confirming her dark suspicion that Lord Bannor intended to waste no time in getting his brat on her.
After shrugging out of her cloak, she lifted the linen napkin on the table. A mincemeat pie sat on a silver plate, still warm to the touch. Nibbling its flaky crust, she wandered into a curtained alcove to discover not a chamber pot, but the decadent luxury of an actual privy. The queenly throne was outfitted with a wooden seat and surrounded with fresh handfuls of straw. She barely resisted the childish urge to yell "Halloo" down its murky shaft.
An ornate cupboard had been set against the wall opposite the bed. Willow swallowed the last of the pie and approached it. The rearing stag carved into its door seemed to leer at her, his mighty antlers a threat to any maiden who dared to trespass upon the secrets he guarded.
" 'Tis a wonder Lord Bannor didn't choose a rutting stag for his coat of arms," she muttered darkly.
As the cupboard creaked open, she braced herself, half expecting to find the crumbling bones of Lord Bannor's most recent wife. But its silk-lined interior yielded only a silver comb and a chemise woven of a sendal so fine she could see her splayed fingers through two layers of the stuff.
Its very existence invited fondling. But as Willow held the garment up to her chest, testing its length against her own, 'twas not her hands she saw caressing the gossamer silk, but a man's hands—their backs dusted with crisp, dark hairs.
Cursing her vivid imagination, she dropped the chemise and scuttled backward. Her heel caught on an uneven board, sending her tumbling through the bed curtains. The feather mattress swallowed her up in one hungry gulp. The bedframe's leather springs creaked madly as she struggled to escape before Lord Bannor discovered that she'd stumbled right into his perfumed trap.
******
Bannor's determined strides did not slow until he reached the foot of the winding stone staircase that led up to the south tower. The dismay he'd felt at confronting his children was only a twinge compared to the panic roiling inside him now. He'd challenged the grim specter of death without flinching too many times to count, but the prospect of facing one willowy slip of a
Bannor tried to imagine Hollis stroking his bride's creamy skin, Hollis sifting his fingers through her raven curls, Hollis tickling that delectable upper lip of hers with his mustache. He could not have said what his expression was in that moment, but his steward took a fearful step backward.
"I appreciate your noble offer, Hollis, but I could never ask you to make such a terrible sacrifice." The sarcasm drained from his voice, leaving it somber with regret. "If Lady Willow does not wish to return to her father's household after the annulment is granted, then I shall escort her to the sisters at Wayborne Abbey. 'Tis the only fit refuge for such a woman."
It pained Bannor to imagine a woman as desirable as Willow devoting herself to a life of pious virtue, but 'twas preferable to the thought of another man enjoying her.
As he turned to go, Hollis said softly, "Was it not you who claimed that when I returned to Elsinore with this woman, she would be your wife in the eyes of God?"
Bannor hesitated, his friend's rebuke piercing his armor of resolve like the tiny blade of a misericorde. "Then I can only pray that He will forgive me for what I am about to do."
******
Willow never would have thought that she would miss Harold's whining or Beatrix's imperious commands, but as she gazed around the bedchamber, the unfamiliar hush unnerved her. Once she had longed for silence and solitude—for a few precious moments to think and dream. Now that she was alone at last, she was afraid to do either.
A curious peek behind the bed curtains did nothing to ease her fears. The sable pelts had been folded back and the linen sheet sprinkled with velvety rose petals, confirming her dark suspicion that Lord Bannor intended to waste no time in getting his brat on her.
After shrugging out of her cloak, she lifted the linen napkin on the table. A mincemeat pie sat on a silver plate, still warm to the touch. Nibbling its flaky crust, she wandered into a curtained alcove to discover not a chamber pot, but the decadent luxury of an actual privy. The queenly throne was outfitted with a wooden seat and surrounded with fresh handfuls of straw. She barely resisted the childish urge to yell "Halloo" down its murky shaft.
An ornate cupboard had been set against the wall opposite the bed. Willow swallowed the last of the pie and approached it. The rearing stag carved into its door seemed to leer at her, his mighty antlers a threat to any maiden who dared to trespass upon the secrets he guarded.
" 'Tis a wonder Lord Bannor didn't choose a rutting stag for his coat of arms," she muttered darkly.
As the cupboard creaked open, she braced herself, half expecting to find the crumbling bones of Lord Bannor's most recent wife. But its silk-lined interior yielded only a silver comb and a chemise woven of a sendal so fine she could see her splayed fingers through two layers of the stuff.
Its very existence invited fondling. But as Willow held the garment up to her chest, testing its length against her own, 'twas not her hands she saw caressing the gossamer silk, but a man's hands—their backs dusted with crisp, dark hairs.
Cursing her vivid imagination, she dropped the chemise and scuttled backward. Her heel caught on an uneven board, sending her tumbling through the bed curtains. The feather mattress swallowed her up in one hungry gulp. The bedframe's leather springs creaked madly as she struggled to escape before Lord Bannor discovered that she'd stumbled right into his perfumed trap.
******
Bannor's determined strides did not slow until he reached the foot of the winding stone staircase that led up to the south tower. The dismay he'd felt at confronting his children was only a twinge compared to the panic roiling inside him now. He'd challenged the grim specter of death without flinching too many times to count, but the prospect of facing one willowy slip of a
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