n the seventh and final day of the siege, Willow was scrambling around on hands and knees in a shadowy tunnel on the second level of the castle, trying to gather up the arrows her stepsister had just dropped for the third time.

“What on earth is the matter with you tonight, Beatrix? You’re as nervous as a rabbit!”

Beatrix looked fearfully over her shoulder, her half-hearted fumbling scattering more arrows than she retrieved.

Willow thrust the last arrow into the quiver, then shoved the quiver back into her stepsister’s hands. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear we were the ones about to be ambushed.”

The quiver slipped from Beatrix’s hands; the arrows spilled over Willow’s feet. Willow took a deep breath before shooting her stepsister a look of pure exasperation.

“Sorry,” Beatrix whispered, looking uncharacteristically contrite.

As Willow groped once again for the stray arrows, her hands weren’t much steadier than Beatrix’s. When the quiver was full, she slung it over her own shoulder, where it joined Desmond’s small bow, and led the way down the tunnel. They’d gone on many such missions in the past sennight, but none so important as this one. Tonight they weren’t going to bombard the garrison with pitch and feathers or drop a stinkpot down the chimney of the great hall. Tonight they were going to strike at the very heart of Bannor’s defenses.

‘Twas the only heart the man possessed, Willow thought grimly as Beatrix took the lead.

Oddly enough, the inspiration for the attack had come from Beatrix. She had been the one to point out that although Bannor’s tower was even more impenetrable than theirs, since it contained no secret entrances, the path he must take to reach that tower was not. If they situated themselves somewhere along his nightly route, it might be possible to trap him. Once they had Bannor at their mercy, his men would have no choice but to lay down their own arms and surrender.

The prospect of having Bannor at her mercy made Willow’s skin prickle with a most unsettling mixture of dread and delight.

Beatrix had began to feel her way along the wall. “Here,” she pronounced, dipping her fingertips into a shallow groove. “This must be the one.”

“Are you certain?” Willow whispered.

Her stepsister proved she was by sliding aside the panel of wainscoting and poking her head into the torchlit passageway. Willow followed suit. They looked first one way, then the other. The narrow corridor appeared to be ideally suited for their purposes. Willow had only to seek shelter in one of its recessed windows, while Beatrix tucked herself behind the oak door at the far end of the corridor. When Bannor ambled through the door, Willow would leap out in front of him, brandishing a nocked arrow, and order him to stand and surrender.

Willow would have loved to have Desmond and Ennis handy to cast a giant net over his head in that moment, but she couldn’t risk one of them getting hurt in the fray that was sure to follow. She had no illusions that Bannor would surrender without a fight. Which was precisely why Beatrix was going to tiptoe up behind him while he was distracted and bash him over the head with the sack of sand she had tied in her skirt.

Before they could take up their positions, Beatrix grabbed her hand and squeezed it just like she used to do when she was a very small girl. “Do take care, Willow. Swear you will.”

Touched by her concern, Willow squeezed back and gave her a reassuring smile. “ Tis Lord Bannor who should take care on this night.”

While Beatrix huddled behind the door, Willow curled up on the broad stone windowsill. She slotted an arrow, praying she could manage not to shoot herself in the foot before Bannor appeared. Mist obscured the moon beyond the iron grate in the unshuttered window, veiling her in shadows. Soon there was nothing left to do but wait, while tension stretched her nerves as taut as the bowstring.

Footsteps approached. Heavy yet fleet footsteps that could belong to only one man. Willow held her breath, but was still terrified he would hear her heart throbbing in her ears. She forced herself to wait until he was past the door, past Beatrix, past any chance of escaping their trap, before she rolled to her feet, coming face to face with the enemy for the first time since she had learned of his treachery.

“Stand and yield,” she called out, her voice far steadier than her hands. “For I cannot allow you to pass.”

Bannor’s crooked grin was somehow more intimidating than a snarl. ‘Twould have been far easier to despise him if he’d been cursed with horns and a tail instead of twinkling blue eyes and a dimple in his jaw. “What would you have me yield, my lady? My sword or my heart?”

Willow gasped out a laugh, not sure whether to disdain or admire such unbridled arrogance. “Your heart, although no doubt prized by many a mewling female, is of little value to me. Tis your sword I demand.”

“Then ‘tis my sword you shall have.” He slid the weapon from its scabbard and tossed it to the floor between them, before nodding toward the bow. “You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man, would you?”

“Not unless he gave me good cause.” The ease of his surrender unnerved Willow,, but honor compelled her to shift the aim of the arrow from his chest to the floor.

“I must confess to being a bit curious,” Bannor said. “Now that you have me, just what do you intend to do with me? Will you ransom me to my men? Cast me into my own dungeon?” He arched one of those diabolical eyebrows, the wicked sparkle in his eyes deepening. “Or perhaps keep me for your own pleasure?”

Willow raised the bow again. The motion did not seem to deter him. He began to saunter toward her. Willow’s first instinct was to retreat, but the sight of Beatrix creeping out from behind the door emboldened her.

She tossed her head, a motion she was beginning to enjoy now that she’d become accustomed to her sprightly curls. “ ‘Twill be a pleasure indeed to accept your surrender.”

“Ah, but sometimes surrender can be as sweet for the vanquished as for the victor.”

He kept coming, his smile so tender that Willow took an involuntary step backward. If Beatrix didn’t act soon, she would be forced to either shoot him or yield.

He was nearly upon her when her stepsister drew back the sack of sand. Willow bit back an absurd urge to shout out a warning. She flinched as the sack struck Bannor’s head with a dull thud. He went down like a stone.

Beatrix faced Willow over his crumpled form, white with horror. “Oh, dear Lord, I think I’ve killed him!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Willow snapped, laying aside the bow and dropping to her knees beside him. “According to what Fiona told me, he’s nearly impervious to pain. I’m sure he’s just stunned.” She tangled her fists in his doublet and rolled him to his back, grunting with the effort it took.

Bannor’s open-mouthed vulnerability only emphasized the dark sweep of his lashes against his cheeks. A wistful pang seized Willow’s heart.

How often had she dreamed of her prince in just such sweet repose? How many times had she imagined smoothing a tumbled lock of hair from his brow before leaning over and gently pressing her mouth to...

She was already leaning forward, her lips parting instinctively, when Beatrix blurted out, “Is he dead?”

Willow started. “No,” she gritted out. “He’s not dead. He’s just... sleeping.”

Beatrix began to back toward the secret panel. “I’ll go fetch Desmond. He’ll know just what to do.”

Willow sank back on her heels, eyeing her stepsister askance. “Just this morning you said Desmond was a lackwit who couldn’t find the cheeks of his rump with both hands.”

Beatrix shrugged, her eyes darting between Bannor and the panel. “Perhaps he’s learned something since then.”

“Wait!” Willow cried as Beatrix slid aside the panel and ducked into the wall. “Don’t go! Don’t leave me—” the panel slammed shut; her voice died to a whisper, “—alone.”

The sigh of Bannor’s breath against her cheek reminded her that she wasn’t alone at all. She sank back on her heels. She had dreamed of having him at her mercy, but now that she did, she wasn’t sure she could bear to hurt him. Lying on his back like that with his lips parted and one arm outflung, he looked so utterly... noble.

Her breath quickened as she stole a guilty glance over her shoulder. What could be the harm in pretending, just for a moment, that he was the man she had dreamed he would be?

Her hand trembled as she smoothed the raw silk of his hair from his brow. Drawing in a ragged breath, she leaned forward and touched her lips to his, thinking only to steal a sweet, brief taste of what might have been.

A warm, rough hand clamped down on the back of her neck. With one breath she was kissing him; with the next he was kissing her. But this was not the chaste sip of pleasure she had anticipated. Bannor’s mouth opened beneath hers in hungry demand, forcing her to yield before each hot, silken thrust of his tongue. He did not waste his breath entreating her to surrender. He simply battered down her defenses, as if to claim the spoils that had belonged to him all along.

He kissed her until all the fight melted from her rigid limbs and clenched fists, until she could do nothing but sprawl across his chest, an eager and willing captive of everything she had sought to escape.

When Bannor finally took mercy on her, she barely had the strength to lift her head. His chest heaved beneath her throbbing breasts, warning her that his breathing was no steadier than her own.

She glared at him as outraged by her own shocking behavior as she was by his. A triumphant smile curved the lips that had just kissed her so thoroughly, as he stroked her tumbled curls away from her face and murmured, “Checkmate.”