Charming the Prince by Teresa Medeiros

Edward informed her cheerfully. "So is Peg and Mags."
      Kell glowered, his small hands clenched into fists. "Don't call our sister a bastard, you clod!"
      "There's no shame in being a bastard," Hammish said earnestly, tugging at Bannor's free hand. "You're a bastard, aren't you, my lord?"
      "Aye, son, that I am," Bannor murmured, watching his bride's expression shift from wonder to confusion to horror. As she slowly took in the row of squabbling children, she began to shake her head as if waking from a dream.
    Or tumbling into a nightmare.
      Despite Meg's attempts to console her, Mary Margaret's sniffles soon escalated into sobs. Four-year-old twins Margery and Colm burst into sympathetic tears, striking up a mournful chorus better suited to a Greek tragedy than the farce that Bannor's once well-ordered life was fast becoming.
    Kell broke ranks to give Edward a shove. "Now, see what you've done, you oaf! You made them all cry."
      "I didn't make them cry," Edward protested, shoving him back. "Mary Margaret made them cry."
      As lanky twelve-year-old Ennis dove between the two boys, the blows began to fall, punctuated by grunts and oaths. Desmond's crow took to the air, flapping its splinted wing and cawing madly. Something small and furry scuttled down the leg of his breeches and up Meg's kirtle, making her squeal. Hammish took one or two stray blows hard enough to make him stagger, but remained staring dutifully ahead, the only remaining link in their shattered chain. The boy's stoicism reminded Bannor eerily of himself. The baby in Fiona's arms soon took up the battle cry, squalling at the top of its lungs and shaking its little fists in the air.
      Only the babe Bannor was holding remained blissfully oblivious to the shouts and howls that threatened to deafen them all.
    "I will have silence!" Bannor roared.
      For the first time since his return from the war, the children obeyed him, lapsing into a hush so complete he could hear the flutter of the crow's wings as it settled back on Desmond's shoulder, and the shallow whisper of his bride's breath.
      He sensed that his bride was only a step away from bolting. Fiona's words came back to him— I've yet to meet a lass who could resist a strappin' fellow with a babe in his arms.
      In an effort to erase her stricken expression, he thrust his burden into her arms. "My children and I would like to welcome you to Elsinore, my lady."
      She eased back the blanket, then stood gazing down at the feathery perfection of the babe's head.
      Her eyes were as cool as the ash from yesterday's fire. "No, thank you," she finally said, handing it back to him. "I've already eaten."
      Sweeping the fur-trimmed train of her cloak behind her, she turned and climbed right back into the chariot, slamming the door in his face.
    Bannor stared, dumbfounded, at the stag carved into the chariot door. It wasn't until the children began snickering that he realized the warmth slowly spreading through his groin had nothing to do with the spark of lust his bride had kindled in his loins, and everything to do with the toothless babe grinning up at him from its nest of blankets.

Five  
      Willow sat stiffly on the chariot bench, her hands clenched in her lap, her eyes staring straight ahead. She had not stirred for a long time, not even when the door had flown open and a muscular arm dusted with dark hair had grabbed a handful of Sir Hollis's tunic and yanked the cowering knight out of the chariot. She had half expected to be removed with a similar lack of ceremony, but it seemed her new husband was content to leave her alone.
    Alone. 'Twas her destiny to be ever surrounded by others, yet ever alone. Her heart beat low and hollow in her ears, a mocking reminder of how freely and carelessly she would have offered it to a stranger. A stranger, it seemed, who had no more need of it than her stepmother had.
    Although the voices outside the chariot had subsided to hushed whispers, then silence,