Bride Of Trouville

It confounded Edouard a little, the way his hopes soared. Never before, with Isabeau, Helvise, or even when he had believed himself in love with the Lady Honor, had he let down his inner guard this way. Always, he had kept in mind the strong possibility of a marital disaster. But now, with Anne, there was this meeting of two minds, this mutual affection, this shared hope for happiness.

How perfect she was. Yes, he could love her well, and she would love him. He would see to that. In time, she would realize that he had couched his deepest wish within that repartee they had shared about a loving marriage.

People were taking their leave now and seeking their own homes, or retiring to the alcoves and buildings in which they slept.

“You should go above and rest now,” he said as he saw her eyelids drop. “Tomorrow will come soon and last long, I trow.”

“No doubt,” she agreed, rising to her feet with his assistance.

He delighted that she now seemed fairly comfortable with his touch. His plan to set her at ease, at least in that respect, seemed to be working. Though she had been wed before and knew what to expect, Edouard knew it could not be an easy thing to admit a veritable stranger into her bed.

“I trust you will sleep well tonight? Should the ceiling taunt you, then you must turn your face to the pillow,” she ventured shyly.

Edouard pressed his lips against her delicate ear to whisper, “Ah, but I will allow you in my dreams, my sweet one. How else shall I endure the wait for the morrow’s eve?”

With that he ushered his lady toward the stairs and wished her good-night. He decided he would return to the hall for a while and have another cup of wine. The bare walls and rough furnishings there challenged his imagination, a sorely needed distraction this night. Yes, he could turn this old fortress into a splendid setting for the jewel that was his Anne.

Living here appealed to him. Living here with her appealed to him. The gilded French court seemed a tawdry and dissolute place by comparison, and he missed it not at all. It was as though he had thrown off his heavy cloak of guile, woven of the pretense necessary to survive in a world of politics and intrigue. Here was a freshness, a new beginning, and simple contentment. Yes, he would stay and right gladly.

Anne collapsed on the chair before the brazier, infinitely relieved that she had found Rob already asleep on his pallet in the anteroom. Much as she wanted to find out what had passed between her son and Trouville’s Henri, she knew it would prove fruitless to try and waken him. Rob slept like the dead.

“My lady?”

“Meg! Where have you been? I asked Father Michael to send you to me this afternoon.”

“Tending young Dora. Her babe came tonight, a fine lad,” Meg said, smiling through her worry. “Are you not feeling well?”

“Aye, well enough, but I need some herbs and right soon. The wedding is tomorrow,” Anne reminded her. “Will they take effect this near the bedding?”

Meg cocked her fair head to one side, her green eyes glinting in the firelight. “Which herbs? You mean to render the Frenchman incapable?”

“Nay,” Anne admitted, feeling her face heat with embarrassment. “I doubt me he would believe it of any natural cause, virile as he appears. He will only be here for the wedding night and then he returns to his home in France. I dare not refuse him.”

Meg laughed and clapped her hands. “Dare not or do not wish to? A braw one, that count of yours. I’ve seen him myself, and he is one to stir the blood! Stirred mine, right enough, and me married with two bairns!”

“Meg, hush!” She could not meet the other woman’s eyes. In truth, she did find Edouard handsome. And charming. A part of her trembled with avid curiosity about what could take place between a woman and a man of young years and comely countenance. “I must not quicken with his child. You know well the reason.”

Meg sighed and fiddled with the bag she wore tied round her slender waist. “You fear bearing another such as the young lord?”

Anne stiffened. “Nay, I do not fear it! I could not ask a finer son!”

Then the anger drained away. Meg knew the problems involved as well as she. “Aye, that. I must admit it,” Anne said on a sigh. “Aside from that, a child would bind his lordship closer to this place and might cause frequent visits. I want him gone from here and content to live in France with the profits from my lands. You know what will surely happen if he learns of my Robert’s deafness. You heard of Lord Gile’s son, the one who was blinded and lost everything to his brother because of it?”

Meg nodded. “Such is the way of things. Might rules. But our Rob’s a mighty one, mind you, or he shall be once he’s grown.”

Anne grinned at her friend. “Aye, he will be that. Until then, we must hold what is his by any means we may. Now, have you a potion to aid me or not?”

“A pity our Old Agatha’s long gone, and I am so new to this. Birthing, tending the sick, cooling fevers and such, I have learned to do right well.” Meg shook her head. “We can but try the only thing I have heard of that works. Seeds of lettus did well for Angus’s Moraig. Only the one bairn in some twelve years. Agatha gave that to her to prevent her bearing again. “’Tis all I know that won’t poison you to the bargain.”

Anne frowned and rubbed at the pain spreading through her temples. “Nothing more certain than that?”

“Nay. Still, his having only one night’s chance at you is better than a constant planting, eh?” Meg asked, brightening.

“One time is all it takes, as I recall,” Anne retorted.

“We’ll try the seeds,” Meg declared as she headed for the door. “I’ll go and grind them now for the potion. You had best begin taking it tonight.”

Meg would do all she could to help. She and Father Michael had remained her truest friends these past years. A handsome couple they were and happily wed despite the circumstance that caused it. Their wonderful children provided hope for her Robert’s future success. Father Michael’s pragmatism and wealth of intellect combined well with Meg’s sunny disposition and loyal nature. They had produced two exceptional offspring whom Anne loved nearly as much as her own son. She felt herself blessed to have this family with her.

They had given her much needed support when she was wed to MacBain, and would again when she became wife to the comte. With their help, she would prevail in her plan to enforce Robert’s rights. And she would survive this marriage.

Anne undressed herself and crawled naked between the soft linens topped with her fur coverlet. She brushed the downy rabbit pelts, gifts from her son, which she had sewn together to form it.

Tomorrow night she would spend in the lord’s chamber and rest amidst silks and rich marten furs which had traveled with Trouville from France. If, indeed, he allowed her any rest. The thought made her shiver, and Anne almost wished it were due to dread. She felt a bit guilty over her curiosity and her lack of horror over bedding with Trouville. But he was far from a horrible man, so far as she could tell.

Longings buried since girlhood crept out of their hiding places and pricked at her like little demons. What would it be like to give herself up to these wicked feelings Edouard engendered? Dare she risk it for the space of a few short hours? Might it not be wise to do so, since her sole aim was to distract him fully until his departure?

Anne snuggled into her pillows. Of course, she should. Why not? He would be gone with the next sunrise.

The restless night Edouard had expected finally gave way to dawn. He rose the moment sunlight invaded the window.

No doubts troubled him on this day. He whistled softly while Henri prepared his bath. He endured a shave, always risky when Henri remained half asleep. An hour crawled by and then another as he and his son performed their morning rituals with exaggerated care and little exchange of words.

Damn, but he wished they could just go below and get on with it. He hoped Anne did not suffer similar anxiety or they would both appear forced to the match.

He sat by the window, dressed only in his smallclothes and hose, waiting while Henri dragged on his own clothing.

“It is near time,” Henri mumbled, flinging a hand out toward the candle marked to show the hour as it burned.

“As though I have not watched the damned thing like a hawk marking prey!” Edouard snapped.

He dressed so quickly, he hoped he had not forgotten anything important. Henri made only token attempts to help before Edouard shooed him away.

Once they reached the hall, further waiting commenced. An entire hour of it. Edouard readjusted his jewel-hilted sword, shifted his weight to his other foot and tugged the neckline of his finery with one finger. His black velvet jupon fitted uncomfortably and proved too warm for the day. He only wore the thing to please Henri. The boy assured him this was his most flattering and would please the bride. Edouard suspected it made him look as villainous as a tax collector.

How he loathed waiting. In most cases, he only tolerated doing so when a king was involved. Again, he figeted, rolling his shoulders forward and back. Then he forced himself to be still, clasping his hands behind him.

“She is late coming,” whispered Henri impatiently.

Edouard raised his chin a notch and shot the boy a warning look. “I believe we came early.”

“Everyone else is here,” Henri remarked as he eyed the crowd of castle folk gathered in the midst of the hall. “Mayhaps she changed her mind and ran away.”

“Not unless she climbed the wall,” Edouard replied dryly. “The portcullis is so old and rusted, its creak would have been heard all the way to the coast. Think you she’s a climber, then?” He smiled down at Henri’s attempt to squelch a giggle.

Even as he watched, the boy’s eyes widened with wonder and his mouth dropped open. Edouard glanced up to see what had elicited such awe.

The sight of the bride struck him so, he almost mirrored his son’s expression. The vision she made evoked a collective sigh from all assembled for the ceremony.

Her flowing hair surrounded her shoulders like a dark, silken cape. With her every movement, its rippling sheen reflected light from every taper in the hall. A narrow, chased-silver circlet crowned the glory of it.

Her overgown appeared woven of finely spun, silvered threads, regal in its simplicity. The snow-white sleeves and neckline of her samite chemise bore an elegant embroidered design of silver thistles. The silver and white of her garb and the fairness of her skin only served to emphasize the natural rose of her soft, expressive lips.

Edouard’s hands reached out for hers before he even thought what he was doing. He, who always maintained an attitude of polite disdain, knew he had revealed too much eagerness. For some reason, he did not care at the moment.

The slight tremble of her fingers against his own fostered a fierce longing in him, a compelling desire to comfort, protect and reassure.

Her priest spoke. As though in a dream, Edouard moved with Anne to a nearby table where the prepared contracts lay ready for signature. She might have offered him nothing more than her sweet person and he would have signed away every sou he owned and borrowed more to give her.

How humbling to lay himself open in such a way, Edouard thought. How foolish. However, for Anne, he seemed to have cast away all doubt and suspicion. She might prove him wrong to trust so, but today—and tonight—she would be his alone. An incomparable woman. An incomparable wife.

Reluctantly he released her hands. Edouard hardly heard the priest enumerate his properties and declare the dower portion. He barely glanced at the documents, and scratched his name with a hurried enthusiasm that, at any other time, would have appalled him.

When he turned, Hume had drawn Anne away. The two now stood near the priest beside the door to the small chapel that adjoined the hall. Flanking them were Henri, Robert, Sir Gui and a lovely maid in simple dress.

Edouard used the time required to cover the short distance regaining what he could of his decorum, but he knew Anne’s spell still held him in thrall. It likely would until they had passed a night together. Perhaps two nights. Or more.

The fact that he felt so besotted suddenly annoyed him. Certainly, he wished to love Anne, but he could not allow himself to lose all control. It was undignified to behave the way he was doing.

He frowned as he listened to the priest’s verification of nonconsanguinity and consent. He accepted Anne’s hand with alacrity when Hume offered it to him. At the proper time, Edouard stated his vows in a clear, brusque voice.

Only when Anne, in her soft and sincere tone, vowed to honor and obey him for the duration of her life, did he feel his poise return full measure.

He realized then that he had held some small fear she would change her mind. Now why would he have thought such a thing? Had she not agreed quite readily to the marriage? Edouard banished the foolish imaginings as common to bridegrooms, and beamed down at his new wife.

When Sir Gui prodded his elbow, Edouard removed the ring he always wore on his small finger. No one had ever worn it save his mother and, after her death, himself. He felt a small stab of sadness that he had never really known the woman who bore him.

The gold-set emerald felt warm in his hand. Following the priest’s incantations, he slipped it on the first joint of Anne’s forefinger, then her middle finger, and then finally settled it on the one with the vein leading straight to her heart. Anne belonged to him now. Forever.

Her upturned face invited kissing and he did so, trying to restrain his fervor. They did, after all, have the Mass to get through. And a celebratory meal likely to last the day. He almost groaned thinking of the long hours they must abide before the bedding. Even thinking the word stirred him nearly past endurance.

Edouard ushered Anne before him as they entered the chapel proper and took their places beside one another for the nuptial mass. The priest droned on and on, the liturgy endless, the Latin barely intelligible, while Edouard allowed his mind to dwell on the night to come. So there he stood, erect and shameless, ignoring mass and thinking lascivious thoughts.

He could almost laugh at the torture he worked upon himself. Not once did he seriously attempt to quell this unprecedented, public randiness of his. He desired Anne and he wanted her to know it. He wanted everyone to know. Therein lay the difference in this and his other marriages. This time he was more than willing. This time, he had chosen.

Yes, theirs would be a love match. Edouard had decided now, and no jest about it. He could think of absolutely nothing that would prevent their loving each other.

Chapter Five

Anne drew in an anticipatory breath as they exited the chapel and made for the dais where they were to break their fast in splendor. Meg said the cook and staff had outdone themselves, given the short time for preparation and supplies available.

Uncle Dairmid had helped them along by procuring various delicacies such as anise and almonds, along with the expensive wine. He had even purchased lampreys, which she could not abide despite their worth. But the French adored them, so said her uncle.

The trick here would be to avoid the disgrace of penury before her new husband, without impressing him enough to warrant frequent visits in future.

“What a pleasant ceremony,” she observed as the comte seated her and took his own chair. “Far preferable to my first, though I do recall little of that day. I was so young then.”

“As you are still,” Trouville said. Nay, Edouard now, she reminded herself. She must call him as he wished, even in her mind. Do everything as he wished.

“Ah, here are our sons, come to wish us happy!” he said, turning to greet the lads.

“Felicitations, Lady Anne, Father,” Henri offered with a formal bow.

“Many thanks, Henril” she exclaimed, smiling at her stepson.

“Appy Day, Mama,” Robert said, and with a hesitant look at the comte, added softly, “Fathah.”

Anne knew if she lived to be a hundred, she would never forget the look on her husband’s face. His usual savoir faire deserted him for a mere instant, and she could swear he looked humble. Either that, or Robert’s outrageous presumption had rendered him speechless.

She hurried to concoct some explanation. “Forgive us, my lord, but I am afraid Rob misunder—”

“I am honored,” Edouard interrupted, his eyes locked with her son’s. “Deeply honored. Son.”

Henri chuckled. “Then may I call you Mother, my lady?”

“No!” Rob interrupted, cuffing Henri on the shoulder.

Edouard frowned at Henri and looked about to chastise him when Rob interrupted.

“Say Mama!” her son explained with wide-eyed reproof and repeated, “Mama.”

“Mama!” Henri repeated, laughing and poking Rob playfully in the ribs.

Anne watched the boys scramble for the bench at the far end of the dais. Edouard ignored their unseemly behavior and faced her with hope in his eyes. “Do you mind?”

She placed her hand on his sleeve without any consideration for propriety and smiled. “Nay, I do not! Henri is a fine son.”

“Then you would not object if I should leave him here with you when I go?” he asked. “I vow I have never seen him so content. He has had few true friends near his age and no mother at all.”

Now what? Anne searched about in her mind for a reason to deny him this. She liked Henri, but it bode no good for Henri and Robert to become attached as friends and brothers. Henri would have no secrets from his own father, after all. He would tell Edouard all about Robert. ’Twas a wonder he had not already discovered the truth. The fact that lads of their age spent most of their time in physical pursuits and little conversing was probably the only thing that had prevented it thus far.

“Will he not miss you?” she asked.

“I think not.”

Edouard clutched her hand and raised it to his lips. “You do realize that a son’s disposition ought to be the farthest thing from our minds at the moment? By right, we should be dwelling on each other.”

The double entendre could hardly go unnoticed with that wicked light in his eyes. Anne found herself responding with a heated blush, amusement twitching her lips. “Indeed?”

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