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306 pages, Paperback
First published April 6, 1999




e
, mas resolvi tentar e não me arrependi.
Any of the men who had fought by his side against the French for the past fourteen years had seen the shudder of dread that wracked his massive body in that moment, they would have surely doubted their own senses. They had seen him scale a castle wall with his bare hands, dodging the steaming gouts of boiling oil that rained down like hellfire from the heavens above. They had seen him leap off his warhorse and race through a deadly hail of arrows to heave a fallen man over his shoulder and carry him to safety. They’d seen him rip the blade of a French sword from his own thigh with nary a flinch of pain, then use it to dispose of the man who had stabbed him.
Much to King Edward’s delight, his enemies had been known to toss down their arms and surrender at the merest whisper of his name on the battlefield. But never before had he faced an adversary so formidable, so utterly lacking in mercy and Christian compassion. As they stampeded past his hiding place, he shrank against the wall, his lips moving soundlessly in a prayer for deliverance to the God who had always fought so valiantly by his side. But in the month since the treaty with the French had been signed, even God seemed to have abandoned him.
The triumphant howl that assaulted his ears might have come from Lucifer himself. They had spotted him! Too panicked to consider the consequences, he bolted, darting back the way he had come. The devils were almost on him now, so close on his heels he could feel their hot breath scorching the back of his doublet.
He scrambled up the winding stairs, hoping to reach the sanctuary of the north tower before they brought him down and began to tear him apart like a pack of snarling mongrels. The wooden door loomed before him. He lunged for its iron latch and shoved, praying his sweaty grip would hold. Something groped at his ankle. For one bone-chilling instant, he feared he was lost. Then the door swung open. He lurched across the threshold, shaking off the grip of the thing that had seized him, and slammed the door behind him. Only when the crossbar had thudded securely into its iron brackets did he dare to collapse against the door and suck in a great, shuddering breath. The enraged howls and demands...
Please, Lord, he muttered, not yet willing to give up on his old ally. Not that. Anything but that. He had once endured four months in a Calais dungeon, chained to a dank stone wall with only lice and rats for company. When his captors had fed him rancid gruel, he’d choked down every bite and asked for second helpings. After they had stretched him on the rack, he’d confounded them by enjoying a most satisfying nap. When they had branded his flesh with a glowing iron, he’d bit back his howls of pain and laughed in their faces.
But not even his most diabolical enemy had managed to devise a torture so cruel, so likely to break a man’s will and make him beg for mercy as, “Papa?”
Bannor groaned in mortal agony. It came again—the dulcet lisp of an angel. “Papa? Won’t you come out and pway wif us?” Bannor swore beneath his breath. ’Twas just like that shrewd imp Desmond to send his six-year-old sister to bargain for a truce. None of his children were as fair or as sweet…

But that was before someone had woven pink ribbons through [his horse's] silky tail and mane and draped a harness of silver bells over his neck. They jingled merrily with each plodding step he took until at last the stallion stood before Bannor. As he hung his mighty head in shame, a crown of chrysanthemums slid down over his brow, leaving him to eye Bannor with one soulful brown eye. ...
“I only left him alone in his stall for a moment, my lord, I swear it,” the squire said, beginning to babble in earnest. “I can’t imagine who would have done such a dreadful thing.”
“You’re angry at me right now, aren’t you?”
“Furious,” he admitted.
She continued to stroke his knuckles until his hand slowly unfolded. She inclined her head to press a kiss to his callused palm, casting him a glance from beneath her lashes. “And am I in danger at this moment?”
“More than you know,” he breathed, lifting his other hand to brush a snowflake from her hair.
“I’m not the least bit afraid,” she lied, hoping her tender smile would hide the true extent of her fear.
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 end
Bannor hadn’t earned his reputation as a master strategist on the battlefield and the chessboard for naught. Perhaps there was a way to make her believe she was still mistress of her own fate. If he could somehow goad her into spurning him, she could depart from Elsinore with both her pride and her innocence intact. ... A single fortnight in the company of his children should be enough to bring Willow marching up the stairs to his tower, demanding to be released from their vows. He would then play the part of wounded husband, flattering her with his passionate protests before reluctantly agreeing to petition Edward for an annulment.
“Which is why I was hoping you could teach me …” Willow faltered.
“To satisfy your man?” Netta ventured. “There’s no need to stammer and blush, you know. You’re certainly not the first bride to seek my counsel. Nor will you be the last.”
“Oh, I don’t think my man is going to be very difficult to satisfy,” Willow confided, blushing even more furiously than she had on the doorstep. “What I am seeking is some way to satisfy him without ending up with his babe in my belly.”

The enraged howls and demands for his surrender escaped, then subsided into ominous silence.LMAO This made me laugh so damn hard!
"Please, Lord," he muttered, not yet willing to give up on his old ally. "Not that . Anything but that ."
He had once endured four months in a Calais dungeon, chained to the dank stone wall with only lice and rats for company. When his captors had fed him rancid fuel, he'd choked down every bite and asked for second helpings. After they had stretched him on the rack, he'd confounded them by enjoying a most satisfying nap. When they had branded his flesh with a glowing iron, he'd bit back his howls of pain and laughed in their faces. But not even his most diabolical enemy had managed to devise a torture so cruel, so likely to break a man's will and make him beg for mercy as ...
"Papa?"
Bannor groaned in mortal agony.
It came again-the dulcet lisp of an angel. "Papa? Won't you come out and pway wif us?"
Bannor swore beneath his breath. 'Twist just like that shrewd imp Desmond to send his six-year-old sister to bargain for a truce. None of his children were as far or as sweet as wee Mary Margaret.
Or was it Margaret Mary?
"Your hair," he whispered, the spicy-sweet warmth of his breath caressing her ear, "is a cloud of the softest sable. Any man would long to bury his face in it. Your skin ..." he murmured, sliding his hand around to cup her cheek, "is as gold and sweet as nectar warmed by the sun. Your limbs ...: he stroked his hands down her arms until they were palm to palm, then laced his fingers through hers, holding her hostage to the gentle press of his body against hers, "are delicate, yet strong enough to blind me to your heart."
Her sigh was all the invitation he needed. He bent her back over his arm, taking her mouth with a kiss so deep and sweet it made her knees crumple with desire.
Willow knew from Bannor's agonized groan that he never intended to lower her to the straw mattress, never intended to come down on top of her, never intended to nestle the bulk of his weight between the cradle of her thighs.
So when he did just that, she could not bear to reproach him. She could only cling to his shoulders and arch against him, baring her throat to the moist searing caress of his lips.
Was it any wonder she mistook the rhythmic pounding she heard for the passion-thickened throb of her pulse? Or the trickle of sandstone for the sound of the wall around her heart crumbling to dust beneath Bannor's tender siege?
But there was no mistaking the deafening crash that followed, or Mary Margaret's shrill cry. "Oh, Desmond, he's biting her! Make him stop before he gobbles her all gone!"
He was still suffering fierce aftershocks when he dragged Willow into his lap and tangled his tongue with hers in a long, hot kiss.
They both started guiltily when an impatient knock sounded on the door, followed by Mary Margaret's imperious tones. "Willow, has Papa gone to heaven yet?"
Bannor buried a chuckle in Willow's hair. "Indeed he has," he whispered, "and you, angel, are the one who sent him there."
He smoothed Willow's sweat-tangled hair away from her face as they both gazed down into the angry, red face of their baby daughter with pure adoration. "Before you came into my life," he said, "I believed that God had abandoned me. Now I know that He has blessed me beyond measure."