Bride Of Trouville

If not for her all-consuming worry, she could turn all her energies toward making certain Trouville departed the day after the wedding a complacent man. Anne knew she must still give serious thought to how she might send him home satisfied, assured that she would see to his interests here without any further supervision.

The ceremony and small celebration would present no problems in and of themselves. Then she must endure the wedding night, of course.

MacBain had never required anything other than her submission whenever he had come to her. Anne needed no further lessons concerning the futility of resistance.

Mayhaps performing her marital duty would not prove so ghastly this time. No woman could call Trouville loathsome to look upon. And she could not envision him as rough-handed when it came to wooing. The comte did not seem inclined toward brutality unless provoked, and she certainly knew better than to incite a man’s anger.

Meg would assist her in avoiding another pregnancy just as the old herb woman, Agatha, had done in the years following Robert’s birth. Another child must be prevented at all costs. Trouville should not question her future barrenness, given her advanced age. He had his heir, so that should not present a problem.

Her main concern must be in seeing Rob through this day and the next without mishap. Anne simply had little time to dwell on the minor inconvenience of contenting her new husband’s carnal expectations. By the time she counted the twenty cherubs stitched on the bed’s canopy, it would all be over and done, anyway. She would yield the once, and right gladly, to get him out of their lives in short order.

A small shiver of apprehension tingled through her. Surely it was apprehension, was it not?

“Lord Edouard Gillet, comte de Trouville, may I present my son, Baron Robert Alexander MacBain, Lord of Baincroft,” Anne announced. She stepped forward and turned so that she stood to the side and slightly behind Trouville.

Anne had decided to introduce Rob to her betrothed just prior to the evening meal. Planning this night’s repast and the nuptial feast for the following day had provided her the excuse to avoid the comte all afternoon.

She had kept Robert in her chambers practicing his words and his bow, in hopes of keeping him clean and out of mischief. Thank goodness he had left Rufus above stairs as she ordered, for the sight of the faithful old hound might give the whole thing away.

Now had come the moment she dreaded.

Robert bowed perfectly and straightened, looked directly into the comte’s eyes and smiled winningly. He did that so well, she thought. Her son knew his assets and used them to full advantage. That smile ranked foremost among his talents. No one save his old father could ever resist it.

However, here might be another who could. She had the distinct feeling that the comte, at Robert’s age, probably exercised that very same guile in like fashion. He used a more worldly form of it even now.

“Lord Robert,” Trouville said formally. “I am pleased to meet you at last.” He spoke French.

With an economy of movement, Anne gave a quick twist of her fist and pointed at her chest.

“And I,” Rob said clearly.

Anne almost fainted, with relief that Rob had answered at all, and in dismay at his inadvertently poor manners. He had replied in English, because he knew no other way. Too loudly, as well, but that could be attributed to the tension of their first meeting. She hoped.

Even hereabouts, nobles always conversed in French with each other, using the English or Gaelic with lesser ranks. However, if Trouville took offense in this instance, he was too polite to say as much. In fact, he readily switched to English as he introduced his son to Rob. Neither boy said anything, merely bowed simultaneously and regarded each other with great interest.

Anne’s heart leapt when she realized she had completely forgotten Henri and what he might make of Rob. He would not be so distracted as his father tonight, and might even make an overture of friendship toward her son. If not that, at least he would attempt conversation.

She hurriedly gathered them all as if herding unruly sheep and directed them toward the dais. She indicated Henri should sit to his father’s left. She reminded Rob with a brief gesture that he was to stand behind and pour for their guests and herself.

Trouville insisted on holding her chair for her himself, and Anne thanked him for his courtesy. Then his long fingers subtly caressed her upper arms and shoulders over the fitted velvet that covered her. A chill rippled along her spine, though it did not seem an unpleasant sensation.

How forward he was, touching her so. Try as she might, however, Anne could find no will to reject the gesture. No good reason, either, since he would certainly dare far more than this in the very near future. Please him, she reminded herself.

Before they settled well enough to be served, her uncle arrived. Fortunately, his delight over acquiring several minstrels and a hogshead of French burgundy prevented his noticing Rob at all. Far be it from her to tempt fate with further introductions unless it became absolutely necessary.

With concentrated effort, Anne kept up a constant flow of conversation, encouraging her uncle’s suggestions for the morrow’s festivities. Trouville seemed mildly amused by her chatter and drolly added his own thoughts when asked.

She managed to turn more than once and reassure Rob with her smile that all had gone as planned, and that he had performed admirably. If only he would make himself scarce immediately after the meal as she had ordered him to do. But Anne could feel his fascination for these strange visitors, especially Henri.

What if his tremendous curiosity outweighed his fear? Come to think of it, she had not even noticed any fear in his expression. None at all.

At the thought, Anne looked over her shoulder and shot Rob a frown of warning. He rewarded her, not with his angelic smile, but with the devilish grin he saved especially for her. The one he employed whenever he decided to act on his own initiative.

He stepped forward and held the flagon over her wine cup. “Mo, Mama?”

“No more, Robert! Thank you, that will be all,” she replied, her brows lowered as if to threaten him. Do not go against me on this or we shall both regret it!

If the thought did not go directly into his head from hers, it was not for lack of effort on her part. If only she could explain the danger to him more clearly than she had done, her fear that he would lose everything, be cast out, lost to her and without her.

Rob chuckled low in his throat, a nearly inaudible sound, but meaningful enough to set Anne to gulping what was left of her wine. Now they were in for it.

Robert stepped to the far side of Trouville and held his flagon forward. “Mo, miyowd?”

Anne’s gaze rolled upward, seeking assistance from heaven.

“Yes, thank you,” the comte said, turning his head slightly to regard Rob as the lad poured his wine.

Anne could not see his expression, but she could imagine it well enough. He would wonder at Rob’s speech, which never included l or r unless he took great care. She did not sense any trepidation on Rob’s part, so his lack of attention to his words must be due to excitement. Think, my lad! Mind your tongue!

The comte was speaking. “You have mastered this task to perfection, young man. And your mother tells me that you also take it upon yourself to provide meat for your kitchens. A laudable enterprise for one of your years. Is this hare of your morning’s quarry?”

Rob’s eyes flew to her. Though the comte had spoken flawless English, her son had not understood one word. The accent had thrown him off as she knew it would. Even under the best of circumstances, Rob only gleaned about one word out of three, barely enough to gain the gist of one’s meaning.

She made a swift up and down motion with her fist, like a small head nodding.

“Aye, miyowd,” Rob answered with enthusiasm. “Aye.”

“A tender treat,” Trouville commented. “Why not hunt together one day, the three of us? Henri has not had much opportunity while we attended his majesty. King Philip mislikes the sport of it; and there are many others to provide for his board. Tell me, what sort of bow do you use?”

“No bow!” Anne interrupted, frantic to distract Trouville from his conversation with Rob. “He uses but a sling, with which he is very adept. And a tercel. He has a special affinity for birds. All animals, in fact. Do you keep hawks, my lord? I suppose not, since you say that you and Henri have small chance to hunt.”

She knew she babbled. Her son now regarded her with delight, as though they had made a game of this and it was her turn.

With a brazen wink behind the comte’s head, Rob moved down behind and to the other side of Henri’s chair. “Mo wine, you?”

Anne’s breath caught. Henri grinned up at Rob and nodded. Rob poured expertly and stepped back with a satisfied lift of his chin. He obviously believed he had spoken as well as they. She had been all too generous with her praise. He had not a whit of self-doubt.

Trouville looked at her, the question in his eyes, but he did not ask. Anne knew he expected some sort of explanation. She whispered under her breath in French, as though she feared Rob would overhear. “Forgive him, my lord. ’Tis just that his first tongue was Gaelic. I fear my lad has no gift for languages.”

The comte nodded and pursed his lips, apparently satisfied. “Nothing a proper tutor cannot repair. We shall see to it.”

She prayed with all her might that neither Trouville nor his son would ever ask Rob another direct question that required more than an aye, nay or thanks. Even then he only stood one chance in three of giving the correct response.

Praise God, her uncle remained altogether oblivious to Rob’s presence.

The rest of the meal progressed without incident. When the food had been cleared away, Anne’s uncle announced the minstrels who, for lack of a gallery, sat to one side, just beyond the dais. As they tuned their instruments, he left his chair and approached Anne for the first dance.

With no just cause to refuse, she allowed her uncle to lead her around the table to the circle that was forming.

Sir Guillaume had appropriated pretty Kate, one of the young weavers, as partner. Simm, the steward, led out his wife, and young Thomas escorted his mother, Meg. Four other couples formed another circle, and the musicians began to play a lively bransle.

Though unschooled in aught but reels and flings, her people watched her steps with Uncle Dairmid and followed with only a few stumbles. Ineptitude only added to their merriment as the dance progressed. Only Sir Guillaume remained serious, executing the dance as though he had been ordered to the dreadful chore.

Bracing her lips into a forced smile, Anne glanced toward the table. Her knees almost gave way. Trouville, his large hand encircling Robert’s elbow, frowned darkly as he spoke to her son. Her uncle whirled her again and she nearly fell.

As soon as she recovered, she looked back frantically at the two on the dais. Rob was nodding and smiling as sweetly as ever while the comte held his cup aloft for another refill.

Then Rob set the flagon on the table and scampered away with Henri. Jesu, they had been found out. Now all was lost.

The dance came to a rousing finish as her uncle lifted her by the waist and set her on her feet with a thump. Hearty applause mocked the futility of her evening’s plans. Anne abandoned both her smile and her hope. She stared down at the scattered rushes and heaved a huge sigh of defeat.

“Dance, my lady?”

She felt Trouville’s fingers capture hers, and slowly turned, expecting an angry denouncement of her duplicity, a promise of punishment for the truth she had sought to hide, and a threat to toss Robert to the four winds to fend for himself.

Instead, her betrothed smiled down on her. The lyre and gittern struck a soft, slow pavane and he lifted her hand, turning this way and that as they slowly circled the floor.

He did not know yet! He did not know. Anne swallowed a sob of relief and focused attention on her feet.

How she wished to lose herself in the music, to be fifteen again and all-trusting. Trouville looked divine in his dark velvet and silver. The softness and shine did nothing to mask his formidable strength and hardness. His exotic scent enveloped her, stirring fantasies of sumptuous spice-laden feasts and unknown pleasures.

“Grace needs a new name,” he said in a voice as velvety as the softness of his sleeve. “I shall call her Anne.”

She sighed deeply in spite of herself. Here was a man who might have stolen her heart as well as her hand. A maiden’s dream, a bride’s illusion. She wished she had been allowed that in her youth, even for a brief interval. A chimera to cherish.

Would that he had come here years ago, before MacBain. Everything would have turned out the same after the birth of a child, of course, but she might have at least enjoyed the pretense of happiness for a while.

Anne shook herself smartly. She dared not afford even a moment’s lapse in her guard tonight, certainly not to recapture her long-lost girlhood and entertain romantic dreams. Her wits must remain sharp.

The comte did not know yet, even after speaking directly to Robert. Or mayhaps he did. He might well know everything, and only played this courtly game of his to increase her dread. Did all men enjoy baiting women?

Chapter Four

The dance provided Anne more dread than pleasure. The comte smiled down at her as though all was right with the world. She braced herself for what would surely come.

How long must she endure this before he would announce plans to seize everything her son owned? Until the music stopped? Nay. She suddenly realized that he would have to postpone that until after he had her safely wed for fear she would cry off. Aye, that must be the way of it. If she refused to marry him, then her uncle, as Rob’s only male relative, would take Baincroft for his own. Dairmid Hume would have done so already if he had realized Rob’s impairment.

Anne dared to look Trouville directly in the eye then, searching for the streak of cunning. All she saw was benevolent concern.

It could be that he had not guessed after all. Had Rob managed to bluff his way through an entire conversation without revealing himself? Anne had to find out.

“My son angered you tonight, my lord?” she asked tentatively.

“Angered? No, not tonight. I am afraid I did admonish him once more for his acrobatics on the battlements this mom. However, he solemnly promised me never to repeat the feat again. You should have told me earlier that he was your son, though I do understand why you did not.”

“You do?” Anne held her breath. He had recognized Rob, after all, despite the changes she had wrought with the haircut and clothes.

His low laughter rippled along her jangled nerves. “Of course. You feared I would take him to task for it again, only the second time as a father might do a son. Forgive me, for I did that anyway. I thought we should begin as we mean to go, Robert and L”

She stopped dancing and stepped away from him. glaring. “You are not his father! You have no right—”

He clasped her hands firmly and squeezed. “Robert will be my son, Anne, as near to one as he will allow. Or as near as you will allow.” His dark eyes locked on hers, soft with a glow of patient good humor. “You know what you need, do you not?”

“Need?” she asked, suddenly lost in his all-encompassing gaze. She nearly forgot his question.

“You need more children! You coddle that boy.” He forced her to move again, resuming their dance. “Perhaps coddle is not the correct word, but you hold him too closely. He should be working, preparing to squire, not teetering on merlons, courting an early death. The rapscallion’s nimble, though. I will grant him that.”

She could not form words, her heart beat so frantically.

Trouville continued, “He attends well, that one. Never once did he let his attention wander as boys are like to do. I swear he hangs on every word. Can you not see he craves guidance?”

“I give him guidance!” she declared in defense. If he only knew the guidance required for a lad like Rob. Daunting.

“Of course you do,” he replied soothingly. “But all boys of that age seek adventure. I would put a small sword in his hand and teach him skills to defend what is his when he comes of age. He needs the discipline of serving a firm master so that he will learn to give orders of his own one day.”

All too true. Anne admitted that. But how? Trouville spoke as if he would teach Rob these things himself. How could she allow the man who might be his worst threat to apply that instruction? She could not.

“I would keep my son by me, my lord. I insist he remain here. At Baincroft.”

For a long moment, he said nothing, advancing elegantly to the music. “I agree. He should remain here. Do not worry more over it, my dear. It was simply a thought.” The music ended and he led her back to the dais.

Both his son and hers had joined the others around the musicians, waiting for the next dance. Rob tugged at Jehan’s braid and took her hand, while Henri edged his way between his father’s knight and young Kate. At least while they danced, she could breathe more easily.

There was nothing for it now but to wait and see what happened. Apparently, Trouville must have asked only questions which Robert had somehow answered appropriately.

Rob’s poor speech might have seemed only a matter of difficulty with a language other than Gaelic. A jest there, for he only had command of a half-dozen words in the old tongue. But Rob did have a gift for appearing to listen intently even if he did not understand a thing. Or even if he was not at all interested. That was another tool he wielded with efficiency, as he did that celestial smile of his.

Exhaustion threatened to overcome her as the night wore on in an endless progression of songs and poems by her uncle’s entertainers. She rested one elbow on the table and propped her chin on her hand. Not a dignified position for a lady, but it kept her from nodding off.

“Did you not sleep last night?” Trouville asked as he captured her other hand and teased her fingertips. “I admit that I lay awake for hours on end. How unfair of you to have had your lovely face engraved on the ceiling.”

Anne’s sudden laugh surprised her as much as it did him. “What foolishness is this? What can you mean?”

He leaned toward her and touched his nose to hers. “You were all I could see, lying there awake. And when at last I slept, you invaded my dreams. Mayhaps it is on my heart you have etched your sweet likeness.” His lips brushed across her own, a whispery touch that sent heat coursing through her like a sudden fever.

She drew back and stared at him. Never before Trouville had anyone other than her son teased her into laughter. And no one had ever paid her court in such a way. What point to all this? she wondered. Whatever did he hope to gain by this play?

The thought formed words and escaped her mouth, “What do you want, my lord?”

He nipped her bottom lip gently and then looked directly into her eyes. “You were to call me Edouard, my sweet. And for now, I want only to see you smile again.”

Her only option was to please him, to keep him content until he went away and left them alone. And so she smiled.

Lord, how he loved the taste of her. He loved the sight of her. And he loved her gentleness. Even the too gentle heart that allowed her son a child’s way when he was nearly ready to become a man.

Edouard vowed he would soon make her see how dangerous was this path she allowed the boy to travel. With no formal training at arms, little language other than the heathen tongue of MacBain’s ancestors, and a marked lack of discipline, the boy would turn out worse than useless as lord of his own keep. Robert badly needed the firm hand of a strong father figure. MacBain must have grown too old to care before his death, or perhaps too caring.

Not that Anne’s son had acquired no attributes in his ten short years. He possessed a sturdy body, even though small for his age. He was a strong and handsome boy. Agile as a tinker’s monkey, too. Robert loved his mother, politely respected his elders, and had grown adept at some duties required of a page.

Wonderful mother that she was, Anne had taught her son all that she possibly could within the realm of her experience. Now Robert’s education must fall to him, Edouard decided.

He marveled at the good fortune that had led him to this place. Who would have guessed he would find a woman so perfect, one who would give him her son to foster and, God willing, more children of his own in the near future?

Even more wondrous than that, he was gaining a beautiful, willing companion who seemed set on his every pleasure. He admired how her fiery spirit, banked beneath her gentleness, blazed high when anything threatened one she loved.

No woman had affected him this profoundly, but most of the time he rather welcomed these new and deeper feelings. His heart warmed at the very sight of her. Other parts of his body grew considerably heated, as well, he thought with a shake of his head.

Contentment of the soul mixed with the heady excitement of lust ought to make theirs an enviable union, indeed. She would provide the first, of course. And that second commodity, he could bestow full measure upon her. It would be almost akin to the love they had jested about last evening. Unique, and quite satisfying.

“I wonder, Anne. Do you also believe we shall suit?” he asked softly, almost unmindful that he had spoken his thoughts aloud.

She lifted her lashes and regarded him serenely. “I cannot think why we should not.”

Edouard thanked the saints he had found Anne. He had not wanted a young and frightened bride to initiate. Nor had he desired taking one of the women at court to wife, well versed as they were in pleasuring a man. He wanted a woman he could trust. And everyone who knew him would be shocked to learn that he would like to have a woman he could love.

As he had said to Anne, only half in jest, he did believe in love, though he had been offered precious little of it in his thirty-two years, certainly never by a woman. His mother had considered him a duty, presented him to his father at birth and promptly forgot his existence. His father, glad enough to have an heir, did not wish a child underfoot. Consequently, Edouard had been relegated to the servants until he reached seven years, and then sent to court as a page.

Fortunately, he had met Lord de Charnay there. Edouard had served him as squire, and eventually received his spurs from the man. During his time with de Charnay, Edouard also gained a glimpse of the happy home life and affection the man enjoyed with his lady wife. He held those memories dearer than any others.

That couple had not loved him, of course, but they had shown him by example that love could flourish between a man and woman. When his father arranged his marriage at seventeen, Edouard had been fully prepared to bestow all the love within him on his new bride. Only she had wished to be a bride of Christ.

Daunting competition, indeed, but Edouard had tried. He had his parents and hers as allies. Poor Isabeau. She had died blaming Edouard for taking her innocence and making her like it. He would always think of her kindly, however. She had given him Henri, ultimate proof that love existed and that he possessed it.

His second wife, another of his father’s choices, doused his hopes at the very beginning. Helvise had already loved another man, one unsuitable in her father’s estimation.

But this wife, his Anne, would not die and leave him with only guilt, regret and a motherless infant as Isabeau had done. Nor would she betray him the way Helvise had. This marriage could fulfill his secret dream if he nurtured it carefully.