Читать онлайн книгу "Bride Of Trouville"

Bride Of Trouville
Lyn Stone


SHE WAS ALL HE HAD EVER WANTED When Edouard Gillet, Comte de Trouville, wed the beauteous Lady Anne of Naincroft, he thought he had found his heart's desire. But was the passion he had willingly declared from the battlements shared by his newly pledged bride? Or would the unspoken secret still between them destroy their newfound happiness?Though it would break her heart, Anne prayed that Edouard would leave Scotland behind and return to the Court of France. For the longer he stayed, the greater the risk he would discover that her son was not all he seemed - and the mighty comte was surely not a man who could accept anything less than perfection.







Praise (#ud7f3419d-e0fc-5fab-bd67-d899c752a4e8)He smiled that wickedly intimate smile of his. (#u6071b4de-df6e-51cd-a46a-7e25aa2215ae)Letter to Reader (#u31293fbd-4521-5fd4-b39c-b96accb2f93d)Title Page (#u81088550-a749-5e7d-900d-c272c3ae1208)About the Author (#u5bf41e50-190f-5c8d-ad1b-29a2f444bdc9)Dedication (#u9e918381-097c-5df6-be76-7b2523311b28)Chapter One (#u12db5355-c4eb-5c50-adb0-c54ef817ef77)Chapter Two (#u3f708147-a081-54ef-8211-566c6466c711)Chapter Three (#u14878b73-79a2-5a8f-b2e6-383a4e41d034)Chapter Four (#u8761d980-8730-5b77-8b2b-e3a85e8d8f57)Chapter Five (#u6565c0e1-13f2-579e-8b16-0fea471f33b5)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Praise for Lyn Stone’s

previous titles

The Knight’s Bride

“Stone has done herself proud with this delightful story that incorporates a cast of endearing characters and a fresh, innovative plot.”

—Publishers Weekly

The Wilder Wedding

“...a wonderfully wild adventure...5


s.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“This romance hits all the right spots.”

—Romantic Times

Thar Arrangement

“The words are a symphony of notes that will be remembered long after the last note is performed. ”

—Rendezvous

The Wicked Truth

“Stone has an apt hand with dialogue and creates characters with a refreshing naturalness.”

—Publishers Weekly

“...Lyn Stone could well be a writter ahead of her time.”

—Affaire de Coeur


He smiled that wickedly intimate smile of his.

“I want you here, exactly as you are now.”

Anne gasped. “But—you are to sail! You told me you must meet your ship! Your home is in France!”

All the time she spoke, Edouard kept shaking his head slowly side to side. “My home is here, my love. Here with you and our sons. I meet the ship to collect all that my factor has sent from my estates. How could you believe that I would wed and then leave you?”

Anne gave no answer, for she was speechless. Speechless and terrified.

Even the concern evident in his words did nothing to reassure her. “It is small wonder you are surprised,” he said, “but I never realized you had so misunderstood me. Are you not happy that I am returning soon, my sweet?”

Returning? Ob, mercy. What now?


Dear Reader,

This month we’re giving you plenty of excuses to put your feet up and “get away from it all” with these four, fantasy-filled historical romances.

Let’s start with a spine-tingling arranged marriage in Bride of Trouville by rising talent Lyn Stone. It’s a spin-off of her terrific Medieval. The Knight’s Bride, but you needn’t have read that one to enjoy this breathtaking romance. Here, the Comte de Trouville flees France to marry a young Scottish widow. Lady Anne MacBain has no wish to wed again—especially since she must hide her son’s deafness. But she never counted on her husband falling in love with her—or she with him—which makes her secret harder and harder to contain....

USA Today bestselling author Ruth Langan is back with Conor, the second book in her miniseries, THE O’NEIL SAGA. The roguish rebel Conor is charmed by an Irish noblewoman who helps unravel a plot to murder Queen Elizabeth. And if you enjoy soul-searching Western romances with half-Apache heroes, don’t miss The Merry Widows—Sarah by the gifted Theresa Michaels. Here, a single father finds love—and a mother for his sons—with the self-reliant Sarah.

Finally, we have a pretend marriage between an abandoned wife and her widower neighbor when she moves in to help care for his daughter in The Rancher’s Wife by Lynda Trent.

Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historical


.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3


Bride of Trouville

Lyn Stone






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


LYN STONE

A painter of historical events, Lyn decided to write about them. A canvas, however detailed, limits characters to only one moment in time. “If a picture’s worth a thousand words, the other ninety thousand have to show up somewhere!”

An avid reader, she admits, “At thirteen, I fell in love with Brontë’s Heathcliff and became Catherine. Next year, I fell for Rhett and became Scarlett. Then I fell for the hero I’d known most of my life and finally became myself.”

After living four years in Europe, Lyn and her husband, Allen, settled into a north Alabama log house that is crammed to the rafters with antiques, artifacts and the stuff of future tales.


This book is dedicated to my son, Eric Stone, and

all the others who have conquered the silence

and made their way in the hearing world.

You are my heroes, every one.


Chapter One

France, Summer, 1318

“Another wife is what you need. And I have the perfect woman for you this time!”

Bdouard Gillet, comte de Trouville, shot the impertinent baron a weary look of forbearance. Here was all he needed to make a disastrous day complete. “I do believe we indulged in this conversation four years ago, Hume. To no good end, I might add.”

He spurred Bayard gently and rode on ahead. The killing heat had abated somewhat as they pushed farther north, but he itched from the collected sweat beneath his padded gambeson and chain mail. Thank God, he’d dispensed with the heavy helm. His troubling thoughts gave him headache enough. And now he must tolerate Hume’s noxious presence. A wife, indeed. The man must be mad to suggest it.

Dairmid Hume maneuvered his mount so that it drew abreast again, and continued, blithely undeterred by Edouard’s contempt. “Your fine lad there could use a mother to impart the ways of courtesy, could he not?” He nodded toward young Henri who traveled several lengths ahead of them. “And if I recall correctly from our former dealings, my lord, you are well past thirty now. Not getting any younger!”

Edouard grunted, a near laugh. “You are the soul of tact, Hume. I do wonder how you have kept your head attached.”

He could not abide this man. Wed to a French noblewoman, the Scots baron had long served as a go-between for the kings of France and Robert the Bruce of Scotland. Hume used any royal association he could foster to elevate his stature at court.

Just as he had four years earlier, the baron obviously had in mind Edouard’s kinship to King Philip and how it might prove useful to him. What would be the man’s reaction if he knew his current prey had just been banished from court by his royal cousin, Edouard wondered?

Philip’s order was not official, but when this particular king grew red in the face and shouted, “Get you from our sight!” he left little room for debate. Not that Edouard would have argued the matter. Though he had spent almost all his years in royal company, he welcomed the change if not the circumstances that caused it.

As comte de Trouville, he counseled the king and planned strategy. He fought and would die for France, but insinuating himself into the English court and gathering intelligence in the indecent manner suggested definitely was not his way. Philip was wrong to demand it of him, and Edouard had told him so.

The king would deal out some kind of punishment for Edouard’s rebellion, no doubt of that, and it would not be long in coming. A wise man prepared for the worst. He would not only leave court, he would leave France altogether.

Thus it was that Edouard, his son, and two knights found themselves upon the road headed north. That they had happened on Hume and his retainers along the way had done nothing to brighten Edouard’s mood. Even so, combining their small parties and riding seven together provided a safety from brigands that Edouard, in his haste to leave court, had found no time to arrange.

He was bound for the low countries. From there he would await word of the king’s plans for him. Possibly that would entail nothing more than forfeiting his role as counselor. Or he could lose his estates, certainly a more dire consequence. In the worst case, he might face a charge of treason.

Wouldn’t Hume fly into retreat on this offer if he knew that! Edouard was almost tempted to tell him, just to see his reaction. But, thus far, he had told no one, not even his son or the two knights who accompanied him. Their duty was to follow where he led and to do so without question.

Hume pushed on. “I’ve only your best interests in mind, my lord.” He held up a hand to halt Edouard’s objection. “You remain unwed, disgusted by my daughter’s foolery, no doubt. But all that’s over and done, and needs be forgotten, eh?”

“Believe me, I have no great desire to recall it,” Edouard said with a wry twist of his lips. “Nor should you if you are wise.”

The baron sighed. He clicked his tongue and shook his head as if sorely dismayed. “You know I would have preferred you as a son-by-marriage to that highland mercenary she chose. I truly do regret my daughter’s actions and her declination of your suit.”

Declination of his suit? Edouard almost laughed aloud at how prettily Hume phrased it. She had run for her life four years ago, or so she thought The poor woman had been terrified at the very idea of wedding him, the dreaded comte de Trouville, a man who had buried two wives and held a reputation worthy of the devil’s own get. Even when Edouard had traveled to Scotland to reclaim her, the little spitfire had defied them all. Declination of his suit, indeed. Small wonder Hume bore the title of diplomat.

Edouard had only himself to blame for his black reputation. He might have changed Lady Honor’s opinion of him, if he had bothered to explain away the rumors that made him so feared.

Since he had not, the woman took it upon herself to arrange her own destiny and fled to Scotland, altered her marriage documents and wed another. He secretly admired her spirit and courage even more than her incredible beauty. In an uncharacteristic fit of sentimentality, he had even fancied himself in love with her for a time.

He had gone after her to slay the Scot she’d wed, intending to make Lady Honor a widow. Perhaps he should have killed them both when he had the chance. Instead, he had given the Scot a sword and offered to fight for the woman.

Edouard’s sudden sneeze in the midst of that encounter had decided the matter. Lying flat with a blade at the throat tended to cool a man’s ardor considerably.

Now here he was, riding along the road beside the woman’s wretched father, with the idiot eager to propose yet another match. Risking an attack by brigands might have been preferable, after all.

He paused in his mental diatribe as a sudden idea occurred. Hume might be of some use yet. Edouard needed lands outside of France now. Living in the low countries, even though most of his shipping enterprises were based there, did not appeal to him in the least. But Scotland might. What he had seen of the wild, free country had impressed him.

Edouard turned in his saddle to speak directly. “How does that daughter of yours these days?”

Hume’s chest puffed out. “Ah! She gave me a grandson this year. That is where I am going now. Business and pleasure.”

“A portion of Lady Honor’s dower lands lie in Scotland, do they not?” Edouard asked the baron.

“Aye, a small keep to the north.” Hume assumed a penitent expression. “I still say you should have taken at least a part of her dowry as settlement for her treachery. Honor even suggested that as reparation, if you recall.”

“No. The lands are hers.” Edouard paused only a moment before adding, “However, I might be willing to purchase that particular property if she and that husband of hers are like to part with it. And if it suits my needs, of course.”

“I have a much better idea, my lord, if you would only consider. You may gain an estate, free and clear! And the income from another!” Hume straightened in his saddle, his calculating smile warning of the aforementioned proposal.

“I do hesitate to ask how,” Edouard muttered.

Hume ignored the sarcasm. “You see, I have a niece, my sister’s only get, who was recently widowed. A comely lass, Anne was when last I saw her, and now she is mother to a fatherless lad of ten. Both of you, as well as your sons, would benefit by an alliance. And it would soothe my conscience with regard to my daughter’s treachery,” Hume said. “I shall have to match my niece with someone while I am in Scotland, and who better than yourself? You see how fate has intervened here?”

Fate. As much as he disliked the man, Edouard wondered if Hume might not be right. Strange that providence had thrown the two of them together at such a time. A time when Edouard really did need a new home, a wife and a mother for his son.

If this niece of Hume’s was anything at all like the Lady Honor... Well, it would not hurt to listen to what the old devil had to say.

“You have disposition of her? What of her parents?”

“Dead for some years, my lord. Her son inherits the Baincroft holdings, but Anne owns those adjoining it. You should gain an adequate income from both. Also, you will have at least eight years to enhance her property while administering her young son’s estate for him. War never touched either place and profits from both are excellent. Trust me, these lands are better located than those you offer to purchase from my Honor and Alan of Strode.”

Edouard did not reject the notion out of hand. No woman since the Lady Honor had appealed to him as a candidate for wife. So unsuitable were those available, he had not even considered marriage for some time now. The French court tended to attract women like his mother, jaded, promiscuous and power hungry. Hume’s suggestion bore looking into.

“One lad of ten, you say, and none since? She must be past bearing,” Edouard said. No man wished a barren wife.

Hume appeared worried as he fingered his beard. “Anne’s twenty-seven, I believe. Aye, that would be right, for she wed at sixteen.” He brightened. “’Twas her husband’s fault she quickened no more. I’m certain of it. He was near sixty, after all.”

“Could be,” Edouard replied noncommitally, but Hume’s supposition made sense. She had already borne one child successfully, and would very likely have more with a younger husband. Being a father again appealed to Edouard.

Owning an estate outside of France appealed even more at the moment. Hume’s offer had merit if the woman did prove suitable.

And the baron was right about a mother for Henri. Living between their bachelor keep and the debauchery of the court had rendered the boy something of a hellion. Learning a few social graces from a feminine hand might soften his rough edges.

The more he thought on it, the greater Edouard’s interest grew. He disliked Hume personally, but the man had fathered that wondrous creature Edouard once despaired of losing. Might his sister have produced one as well?

“Describe her to me, warts and all,” he ordered.

Hume laughed. “No warts, my lord. Anne’s very like my Honor in appearance. Skin smooth as new cream. Her hair, a bounteous length of fine, dark waves. Eyes like the deep, mysterious waters of a highland loch.”

So Hume would wax poetic, Edouard mused. He listened tongue in cheek as the proud uncle continued, “I recall that shining mane rippling to her waist the day she wed. Exquisite eyes with a wee tilt to them. Both lasses carry the look of my mother, who remained lovely well past her prime. In temperament, Anne has proved far more tractable than my Honor, however. She did her duty as she was bidden, and will again.”

Edouard wondered what kind of persuasion had been required to compel a sixteen-year-old girl to wed a man more than thrice her age. But Hume seemed confident of the woman’s acceptance should Edouard choose to offer for her.

On the off chance that he might do so, Edouard decided to send Sir Armand with a letter to his factor in Paris. He would order the man to collect and forward all the portable goods from the French properties to Scotland.

The bulk of his ready coin and jewels, Edouard carried with him now, in the event his royal cousin leaned toward confiscation of the estates. The profits of his investments in the low countries could easily be directed to Scotland, as well.

Even if nothing came of the meeting with Hume’s niece, Edouard could build or purchase a place and live quite comfortably near Edinburgh.

The more he thought on it, the more he welcomed this necessary change from his former life. Yes, why not begin anew in Scotland, free of the intrigue and machinations necessary to retain his niche in the royal circles of France? That would suit him admirably, whether he wed this Scotswoman or not.

Until now, he had never seriously considered how weary he was of it all, or how detrimental life at court might be proving to Henri’s character.

Fate might very well be at work here.

Hume shifted impatiently in his saddle. “Well, what say you, my lord?”

“Very well. I will meet this niece of yours. Then we shall see. But I warn you now, I would have no unwilling woman to wife. Should I decide to offer for the Lady Anne, there will be no coercion on your part as there was with your daughter, Hume. Is that clear?” He pinned the man with a warning glare. “None at all.”

The baron answered with a beatific smile. “Oh, none will be necessary, my lord. My niece will delight in you, I am certain.”

Two weeks later, Lady Anne stood in the hall of Baincroft’s Keep, aghast at her uncle’s dreadful suggestion. Another marriage? She could not accept this, would not.

She cursed the wretch who notified him that her husband had died. Though she realized that news from Scotland must reach the French court with some regularity, Anne had hoped that the death of a minor Scots nobleman would prove too mundane to report. Apparently, it had not.

“The comte de Trouville delayed to inspect your dower lands and will be arriving directly. I came ahead to prepare you and to assure you that he is perfect! Just think, my dear, his title equals that of earl, and you shall be a cormtesse, a countess!”

He reached for her hands, but she jerked them away. Then, mindful of his absolute control over her, she softened the hasty act with a forced smile. Nothing would be achieved by rebellion.

True, she had met her uncle only twice before in her life including this visit, but clearly, he took their kinship quite seriously.

“I know what his tide equates to, Uncle. But I swear to you, Robert and I can manage Baincroft quite well on our own. He gained the age of reason three years ago. His people love him and are eager to serve him as lord, despite his youth. I truly have no wish to wed again. Kindly humor me in this, I beseech you.”

She saw at once how his choler rose, and that she could not reason with him, no matter how sweetly she spoke.

“Humor you?” He spat angrily into the rushes and then leveled her with a furious look. He shook a finger in her face. “You heed me, Anne, for I have no time to bring you round nicely or whip you into submission. Trouville is cousin to the French king. I need this connection and I’ll brook no reluctance on your part. You utter one word, offer a single look of denial to this man’s proposal, and that son of yours will be on his way to France with me on the next ship.”

Anne could not stifle her cry of protest.

He nodded and smiled evilly when he heard it. “Aye, you did strike me as a mother hen when you spoke of your one and only chick. You will not see your precious Robert again if you refuse me this. I have the right to his fostering, you know! Eight long years, Anne. Think on that.”

Anne closed her eyes and fought the fury exploding inside her. First, her father had forced her to marry MacBain, a man much older, wealthier, and more hateful than her sire had been. Eleven years, she had spent in hell here. Eleven years of enduring constant calumny, sometimes outright cruelty. And nearly nine years of hiding from his sight the son MacBain grew to hate.

Now her uncle would throw her right back into the pit of despair she had just escaped by the grace of MacBain’s death.

Though it galled her to submit to yet another marriage, keeping Robert by her must be her first concern. Even had he the ability to survive fostering with another, she could never allow him into her uncle’s keeping. He would not last the day.

She could tell her uncle the truth, of course, and he would not wish to foster Rob. But if Dairmid Hume ever discovered Robert’s one weakness, he would never allow her son to keep Baincroft. Her uncle would apply to the king to give the lands to him as next male kin to Rob.

He would demand to know how a lad who could not hear or properly speak could ever hope to rule or hold what he had inherited. All would be lost. No one in authority would uphold Rob’s rights or stand for him in the matter. The courts would agree with Lord Hume.

This she knew, because not one year past, Gile Mac-Guinn’s castle and his title had passed to his younger son when the elder, not yet eighteen years of age, had been blinded in an accident. The former heir now lived upon his brother’s charity. The precedent seemed all too clear to Anne.

She alone could save her son’s birthright.

Thank God, Robert’s problem proved invisible. Even so, deafness was not an easy thing to conceal. She had counted upon MacBain’s reluctance to admit publicly that he had fathered such a child, and on his hope for another son not so afflicted. Now that the old man was dead, she depended upon the love of those who served Rob to assist her in hiding his disability.

As it was, if their secret remained secret, she could hold Baincroft in her son’s name until he came of age. By that time, she would have surrounded him with so much support, no one could oust from him his rightful heritage. And she would have proved to his liege, Robert Bruce, that her son’s demesne had run smoothly and profitably for years under Rob’s care, despite his deafness.

Her marriage would remove the immediate threat of her uncle, right enough, but would only supplant it with another. This comte he had brought to wed her could just as well usurp Rob’s lands and, using his influence with the French king, attain King Robert Bruce’s blessing on the theft.

The best she could hope for was that this French noble only wanted her adjoining property and the income from it. She needed to find out how things stood now. “You mentioned his royal affiliation. Will the comte be returning to France soon, then?”

Hume spoke more calmly, obviously assured of her obedience. “Oh, definitely he will. Trouville’s a very important man and King Philip will have need of him. Aside from his role as advisor, Trouville always participates in the tournaments as the king’s champion. Aye, I’m certain he must return there soon.”

She nodded. “I see. I suppose he merely wishes to establish an estate here for the added income it will bring him. Is that not right?”

“Of course. What other reason would he have? It is not as though he desires your person 1” He smiled at her then, as if he had not just resorted to threats to gain his way. ”Though he will want you once he sees you, my dear. If you serve him well as wife, he might even ask you to accompany him to court. Every woman’s dearest dream, of course. You will love it there.”

Well, she would see to it he left her here. Here, so that she and her son might go on as they had since MacBain’s death. She would keep Rob’s secret from both of these men, at all costs, even though she would have to concede in the matter of this marriage.

This comte could hardly be worse than MacBain had been, and she could bear anything for the duration of his time here. Anything, to regain a measure of the peace and freedom she had found, and safety for her son. If she refused this man, her uncle would only find her another, one who might remain at Baincroft forever. And, in the meantime, he would take Rob away. God forbid that should happen.

Anne nodded once. “Very well, if you vow to leave my Robert to me, I will do this for you.”

“Gladly promised.” He nodded, all affability. “I knew you would see the wisdom of it.”

She quickly ordered one of the maids to go above and clear the master chamber for guests, and have an additional room readied for her uncle. There was no time to do more.

The door to the hall swung open. A stalwart young lad wearing rather costly-looking raiment marched through it as though he owned the keep.

Two knights entered behind him, their spurs scraping the floor beneath the thin layer of rushes. Shining basinet helms, jingling mail aventails still attached, rested in the crooks of their left arms. Massive swords hung in scabbards at their waists. A formidable sight, these two. Anne resisted the urge to step back.

The boy halted a short distance in front of them, bowed formally to her and her uncle and announced, “The comte de Trouville, my lady, Lord Hume.”

Anne had no trouble discerning which knight bore the tide. He would be the dark one. If his air of absolute supremacy had not proclaimed it, then his exemplary attire would have done. He wore a knee-length surcote of deep madder lake—near the color of ripened plums—emblazoned with a black-and-silver device. His sword bore several magnificent jewels in the hilt, and Anne marked not a dot of rust marring the links of his mail. Travel dust would never have dared settle on such a one.

His companion paled rather literally by comparison. Fair-haired, garbed in sky blue trimmed with white, the other stood a hand width shorter and not so broad. Even were he as richly turned out, Anne would never have mistaken him for his lord. He lacked the commanding presence and assuredness of the other.

Still, they both appeared so grandly dressed to impress, she felt like asking where the tournament was.

Her uncle gave her a little shove from behind. “My lord comte, may I present my niece, the Lady Anne.”

The comte extended his right gauntlet to the boy who promptly tugged it off. Then, gracefully, he bowed and Anne automatically extended her hand. He raised it to his lips and barely brushed the back of her knuckles. He would have missed the contact altogether had she not shuddered at his touch.

“Welcome to Baincroft, my lord,” she said, trying not to sound as breathless as she felt. Many men had visited her father and her husband, but never in all her days had she laid gaze upon one such as this.

Dark as sin, he was. Midnight hair hung to the edge of the curved steel gorget that protected his neck. Long-lashed eyes the color of polished walnut regarded her with frank curiosity and not a little admiration.

Anne felt her face redden under his scrutiny. She wore one of her older gowns, a russet linen, and no headrail at all. MacBain had required her to don those old-fashioned wimples, since discarded, and she owned no other head coverings. No matter. So much the better if Trouville thought her unfashionable. He would leave her in Scotland where she belonged.

For a man coming off a tedious journey, he arrived remarkably groomed, clean-shaven, combed and exuding no unpleasant odors. Did he never sweat?

His features, while refined, held none of the soft comeliness she would have expected on a courtier. Nor did his form. He appeared battle hardened and muscled by frequent exercise, judging by his carriage, the width of his shoulders and narrowness of his waist and hips. Devastatingly handsome and self-confident described him well. Frightening described him better. Dealing with this one would take some doing.

He straightened and finally released her hand. “My lady, may I make known to you Sir Guillaume Perrer, knight in service to me.” He waited until the man made his bow. “And our herald this day, my son and heir, Henri Charles Gillet, Esquire.”

Anne regarded the serious young face that mirrored the father’s. Young for a squire, she thought. He looked hardly more than thirteen. His manners seemed as impeccable as his sire’s.

“Henri? See that fellow there beside the stair? He will show you to the chamber where you and your father will bide.”

As an afterthought, knowing well the constant hunger of growing lads, she added with a smile, “We sup in one hour. I trust you like sweets?” He rewarded her with a sudden grin that changed his whole appearance.

When she returned her gaze to the father, she noted an expression of relief, almost as transforming as the grin on his son. “Will you sit and take wine, my lord? You and Sir Guillaume must be weary.” She gestured toward the dais.

“My thanks, but I would go above with my son and disarm.” He turned to his knight. “Find the barracks, Gui, and join us here for the evening meal.”

Anne hurriedly took herself to the kitchens to give orders for extra food. Then she sent Simm, her steward, to locate her son quickly and send him to her chambers.

During supper, the comte held the seat of honor, her uncle on his left and she, at his right. Young Henri served his father and stood behind his chair. His man and her uncle’s attendants sat at the lower tables with her priest, just above the steward, and others of the household.

Never once did the noble lord comment on the meager fare dished out to her unexpected guests. Neither did he remark upon the state of the keep itself. While scrupulously clean, Baincroft boasted none of the frivolous amenities he must be accustomed to in his own. Surely he would have no wish to remain here for long, she thought with satisfaction.

Best of all, he made no mention of her missing son. Robert, by all rights, should have joined them at table, or in lieu of that, served as page.

Anne noted that, unlike Sir Guillaume, Trouville did not cast disparaging looks toward either the hall itself or her people. If he thought himself consigned to a large hovel full of backward peasants, his lordship hid it well and appeared quite content to be exactly where he was. Quite polite of him, she decided.

She accepted the offerings the comte held out from their shared trencher. He spoke of the weather during the crossing and the vicissitudes of their travel overland with a touch of wry and unexpected humor. Anne made certain that her soft laugh greeted his words in all the correct places.

Everything considered—and despite his fearsome appearance—the comte seemed a pleasant enough man. But Anne dared not deceive herself. His wittiness surprised her, but deception she would expect. He did, after all, want her hand and her property. Why would he not act charming at the outset? MacBain had done the same at their first acquaintance. It had not lasted long.

After the meal concluded, the comte asked to speak with her privately. Girding herself for the imminent and unavoidable proposal, she calmly invited him to share a cup of wine in her private solar just off the hall.

“All will be quite proper, my lord, for it is not my bedchamber,” she assured him as they entered. “I find it convenient to conduct business in the solar during the day, due to the better lighting. We also sew and spin there, for it is warmer and better lighted than the hall itself. I have rooms on the floor above this for my private use.”

He offered his arm. “I would never question the seemliness of it, Lady Anne, for I see that you are a model of propriety.”

Her face warmed at his ready compliment. “You are very gallant, my lord, seeing as how you hardly know me.”

His free hand covered hers which rested on his sleeve. “A condition I hope to remedy in short order.”

The moment they settled in the high-backed chairs beside her fire, he said, “I know that your uncle spoke of me before I arrived. Are you agreeable to a match between us, my lady?”

Welladay, this one obviously did not believe in dallying about once he made his decision.

“Aye,” she said after only a moment’s hesitation. She met his gaze directly and, she hoped, without expression of any kind. “I am agreed.” Damned if she would thank him for the honor, however.

He downed the contents of his simple chalice and set it on the floor. Then he reached for her hands, set her own cup aside, and drew her up to stand before him.

Without warning, he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers, putting a seal to their understanding.

Anne remained motionless, shocked by the warmth of his mouth on her own and the tingling pleasure it evoked. He released her and stepped away. They touched no part of each other now, but she could feel him still.

His compelling gaze held a measure of such satisfaction, he must know how easily, and how deeply, he had stirred her feelings with what should have been a formal gesture.

This would not do. She blinked her eyes to break the trance and shook her head to clear it. If the man could disable her thoughts with but a clasp of hands and a kiss of peace, what mischief might he wreak when it came time for real intimacy?

Nay, this would not do at all. Now she must beware herself, as well as him.

Thank goodness he would not remain here long.


Chapter Two

“Your uncle has the contracts already prepared, I do not doubt,” Trouville said. He inclined his head and quirked his mouth to one side in a conspiratorial grin. “I’ve watched him scribbling away like a maddened clerk every night for the past week.”

“He does seem most anxious to promote this union,” Anne returned, wondering whether the comte knew why. If so, did he object to being used to advance her uncle’s ambitions? Trouville did not strike her as a man to be used unless he thought he would gain more than he gave. Well, he certainly would do that in the event of her marriage to him.

“Need we wait for banns?” the comte asked. “Have you a priest who will accept our word there is no impediment? Hume could vouch for us on that.”

Anne wished they could have done with it immediately, but she knew better. “My uncle will likely want as many to witness this as he can gather.”

The comte’s dark brows drew together in a frown. “I must return to the coast in three days to meet a ship, and I would have it done ere I leave. There is no need to make a May Day of this. It is, after all, your second marriage and my third.”

Then he seemed to think better of the abrupt announcement. “Unless, of course, you wish to make some great event of it.”

Anne quickly shook her head as she struggled to hide her relief that he would go so soon. “Oh, nay, I prefer not to do so.”

Her ready concession earned her a smile that made her heart skip. “Do you feel need of a longer time to prepare your son? I failed to consider that Did he avoid our presence apurpose this evening?”

“Oh, nay, my lord. He knows nothing of this as yet How could he, when nothing was settled between us until now? Robert will give you no problem. That I promise.”

“Fine. We need not wait longer, then,” he said firmly.

“As you wish,” she agreed. “I shall speak to Father Michael tomorrow morn. He can perform the ceremony the day after, if that suits you.”

He raised a brow and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning his weight on one foot. Anne thought the pose a practiced one, but she did not mind his preening. He was extremely good to look upon and seemed to know it. “You have no reservations, my lady, to wedding a stranger of unknown means? Would you not care to know what I bring to the bargain?”

Anne knew well the power of flattery, though she had found precious little chance to employ it these past years. With a shy duck of her head, she employed it now. Staying in his good graces could only benefit her cause. “You are extremely well-favored, my lord, and courageous. Obviously, you are not destitute, and you have traveled far to honor me with your suit. I married a stranger before for no cause other than to alter my single state and because my father arranged it. How could I do less now when I have more good reason than I ever dreamed?”

“How sweetly said!” he remarked as he raked her full-length with a warm and suggestive appraisal. “I begin to think this troth of ours heaven-sent.”

Or hell-bound, Anne thought. “Indeed,” she replied with a small tilt of her head.

Anne could swear the man’s chest expanded as she flattered him. Most likely his head did, as well, she thought wryly.

“Ah, lady, how you humble me,” he remarked. He sounded incredibly sincere, but Anne doubted anyone had ever humbled this fellow. He wore his arrogance well, however.

Even as he reveled in her compliments, he gave as good as he got. “I do pray your son proves as agreeable to the match as does his winsome dam. If so, I envision this event as a high point in my life with not a thing to detract from it.”

Anne cast about for a reason why Robert had not joined them at board. The comte must wonder at it since he men tioned him again. “Robert meant no disrespect to you this eve, my lord. ’Tis only that he is very shy of strangers. And not feeling well. I shall speak to him upon returning to my rooms.”

“He sleeps by you and your women, my lady? A lad of ten?”

Anne shook her head as though she shared his amusement. “Of course not! He did reside in the lord’s chamber, as was his right. But now that you have come, I ordered his things removed to my anteroom.” She lowered her voice as though to share a secret. “Robert believes he is to sleep there as guard to me while we house our unfamiliar guests.” She laughed lightly to insure that he appreciated the small jest and did not take offense.

“How thoughtful you are of a young man’s pride,” he said. His face softened and Anne had to stifle a sigh. The very looks of the man made a woman weak at the knees. And the cause of it had little to do with fear. She truly must be wary of her own reactions to him. This was her first dealing with a man who attracted her. She had never before met one.

Once they were wed, Anne knew she dared not refuse him his rights. At the back of her mind, she even wondered if it might not be quite tolerable. Tolerable or not, she must please him, of course, and send him away contented. The thought of that necessity did not trouble her nearly as much as it should.

She must see that no occasion arose while he was here to prick his temper. A joint of meat underdone, a cup of wine leaning to vinegar, a kitchen drab who screamed at his rough sporting. The comte would react no differently in those circumstances than had her father or MacBain. But the fact that she only had to keep this one happy for less than three days, comforted her immeasurably. She could do that.

Anne cleared her throat and raised her. chin. “Day after tomorrow, then, and we shall marry so that you may be off to the coast the next mom. But I would you told my uncle yourself, my lord. He may think I am behind this rushing to wed.”

The comte laughed aloud and Anne blushed. She realized he must think she had just admitted to eagerness.

“I shall assure him it is I who would put paid to the deal! And I do thank you for considering my need to leave you so suddenly after our wedding, Anne. I may use your familiar name, may I not?”

He smiled that charming smile of his again, and reached out to touch her face with one long finger. Anne stiffened at the impertinence, and then made herself relax. He was her betrothed now, after all. She must allow touching. And indeed, it did feel rather nice.

“You may call me as you wish, my lord.”

“A saint’s name seems appropriate for so kind a lady. My Christian name is Edouard, should you care to use it. I wish that you would.” He spoke very tenderly as he said the words. Oh, a practiced charmer, this one, but the sweetest fruit could hide the most rotten of cores. There was a known fact.

“Edouard.” She allowed a subtle promise of pleasure to enter her voice. “Yours is a strong name. It means protector , does it not?”

He nodded once. Then he crossed his arms over his wide chest and regarded her as though considering something further. “I have decided ours will be a love match,” he said in that determined way of his.

“Oh, have you now?” Anne replied, laughing merrily in spite of herself. This unexpected tease of his delighted her. The man seemed perpetually amused at life in general and she liked that. Though he wore a serious look at times, as he did now, Anne thought he used it only to enhance his dry witticisms.

“Yes, that would be best, I believe.”

She sobered a little, determined to match his worldly nonchalance. “Ah. Well, that would explain our day-long betrothal and hasty marriage, should anyone care to question it.”

He nodded and shook a forefinger at her. “That, too! Good thinking. But no, I mean that you should love me. Sincerely.”

Anne bit her lips together, trying to stifle any further laughter. She cleared her throat and took a deep breath before speaking. “Love you. I see. An unusual idea. Why on earth would you want me to do that, I wonder?”

The comte shrugged and held out his hands palms up. “I think it would bode well for our happiness. Would you rather hate me?”

She swept past him to pace the room, uncertain what to say next This sort of exchange was new to her. “Well, of course I would not hate you! But be reasonable, my lord—Edouard—I hardly know you yet! Are you so imminently lovable, that you assume I will—”

“Oh, I shall be quite lovable,” he interrupted with a sensuous half smile. “Though some might argue the fact, I do know how to be.”

She did laugh then. “I daresay you do! What of me, then? Shall you love me as well? How do you know that I haven’t the blackest heart in Christendom, hmm?”

He grinned full out and raised his brows. “Because I know the owner of that particular heart, my dearest, and she is not you! And to answer your question, yes, I shall love you.”

Anne shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Well, love or nay, we’ll not lack for laughter, will we! What a notion, to wed for love. You do not strike me as particularly sentimental. Tell me, when did you make this decision, to love and be loved? And by a wife, of all people?”

He walked to the solar window and looked out, his back to her. “I suppose I should say it was the moment I beheld your sweet person. But, in truth, I have thought on it for years. Would it not be unique?”

That it would, Anne admitted. But it would hardly matter one way or the other, if the two people concerned were living apart in different countries. Then again, that might be the only way such a love would survive. That must be his reasoning as well.

It did occur to her that he might have put forth this offer of love to keep her faithful to him while he lived away from her. On that count, he need not worry in the least. She had no intention of engaging the attentions of any other man.

“You are one who truly believes in love, then?” Though she asked the question playfully, Anne really wanted to know his thoughts on it, for she did not think the emotion existed between men and women, other than in songs and poems. It certainly had not existed within the realm of her experience.

“Absolutely, and without question,” he answered readily, as he turned from the window. “I do know that many caution against combining love with marriage, but I have endured two marriages without it, and—”

“And I have, one,” she added, interrupting him. “But if you never knew love, when did you decide yourself capable of loving?”

“When I looked upon the face of my son after his birth. Did you not love yours?”

“Aye, of course, above everything! But that is not the same thing, surely! Loving a child is not the same.”

“Not at all the same,” he agreed. “But it does prove that a deeper feeling, that a caring for someone else more than oneself is entirely possible. I would like to feel that for a woman. For you. If you could return the favor and love me, likewise.” He brushed a hand over her cheek and she could not resist leaning into the caress.

Then she looked up at him. “I think love is not given upon conditions such as that, my lord. One either loves, or one does not.”

He tapped her nose with one finger. “We will make our own rules, you and L No unrequited love for us. You will love me, and I shall love you, all unreserved. I have decided.”

The man was a little mad, or else he engaged in all of this foolery to make her laugh and lighten this cursory proposal of his.

That sparkle of amusement in his eyes at the moment told her which it was. He was showing her the way of things within his exalted circle of acquaintances, no doubt. Country-bred she might be, but she had heard tales aplenty of how the more worldly nobles behaved. Bantering about love and such was considered a right wondrous pastime at court, so the traveling bards proclaimed. It had been so since the time of Queen Eleanor.

What did it matter? He could prate on about it all he wanted. ’Twas pleasant enough debate, after all, and highly entertaining. Once he returned to France, he could regale all his friends at the court with tales of how smoothly he had wooed and won his Scottish wife, and then left her longing for him. What did she care, so long as he departed soon and let her be?

If he wanted games for the two days he abided here, she would play. “Love, it is, then!” she said with her most elegant curtsy.

“Shall we go and share our happy news with the others?” he asked.

“With all haste,” Anne agreed.

He placed her palm on his arm as they returned to the hall. And she smiled for all she was worth. Not for a sure place in paradise would she allow her Uncle Dairmid to think she had bowed to his threats out of fear, even though she had. Men pounced on fear, she knew that. “This is my choice,” her look told her uncle as clearly as words could have done.

The trouble was, that in Dairmid Hume’s sublime fit of joy and copious felicitations, he did not seem to care one way or the other whose choice it was.

Anne consoled herself that she had gained much more by this arrangement than her uncle. She would have a husband in absentia, no further dealings with Dairmid Hume as a guardian, and her son would remain with her. Aye, everything about the situation suited her at the moment. She could not have hoped for more.

Now all she had to do was to keep Rob away from her uncle and the comte until they quit Baincroft and returned to France. Assuming that Robert would cooperate.

That worry alone threatened her hard-won, and well-practiced composure. Her lad had a mind of his own and more pride than was practical.

The next morning, Edouard woke in a happier mood than his usual. Sun streamed in through the arched window, its warmth mellowing the breeze that accompanied it. Even the weather welcomed him to this place. If he were superstitious, he might consider it a good omen. But his cynical nature warned him that Scotland’s weather was notoriously fickle, and so might be the lady. For now, he would give her the benefit of the doubt. Once wed, he would give her good cause to remain sunny, Edouard thought with a wry smile.

Anne of Baincroft did not strike him as a guilt-riddled girl obsessed with the myth of original sin as Henri’s mother had been. Nor did she exhibit the hesitancy about marriage that his second wife had shown. If Anne loved another man as Helvise had done, she certainly concealed the fact well. Her words, expressions, and attitude indicated that she was exactly what she appeared to be, a bright and beautiful widow who welcomed a very advantageous match.

Such natural beauty and grace proved more than he had hoped for at the outset. Her laughter was like sweet music. And her enthusiasm for a short betrothal was definitely an added boon.

He had teased her to set her at ease last evening, and she had responded in kind. Though she could be coy, he had seen immediately that she possessed none of the traits of the sophisticated jades he was used to. He had found himself going half-serious with his talk of mutual love. Would it not be astounding if she really—

“The keep is a ruin, but this lady is not, eh?” Henri interrupted his thought with a sly grin. “She is right handsome for one so old.”

“Impertinent whelp,” Edouard admonished as he splashed his face with water from the basin. “Shake out my blue cote-hardie and find the belt, will you? No, the silver one.”

Baincroft must seem rather impoverished by Henri’s standards, Edouard thought. His son had never lived in so modest a place as this. Not that it was in ruin as the boy described, but it did lack the well-appointed comforts and rich trappings of their various estates in France.

And after many occasions of sharing palatial accommodations with the kings they had attended, Henri must believe he had fallen on mean times indeed. But Edouard knew this sound old castle, small though it was, possessed great possibilities.

Lady Anne kept a spartan household, though there were woolen blankets aplenty for warmth, and victuals plentiful enough so that no one suffered hunger. She prepared plain food, missing the customary spices save for salt, and served it up on humble trenchers and unembroidered linens. Economy was good in a wife, though it would no longer be necessary for Anne to employ it.

The old-fashioned square keep boasted only three stories above ground level, all its rooms accessed by a spiral stairway. Some wise ancestor had thrown up a high wall to add protection, creating the spacious ward where stood several outbuildings. All the stone, inside and out, remained undressed and not even whitewashed.

His wealth could change all of that. He would meet the ship this week and receive all the items his factor could gather and transport from the holdings in France. His belongings could make Baincroft a right habitable abode for the next few years, a place suitably grand for a lady such as Anne. By the time her son claimed it for his own, Edouard planned to have built her a home fit for royalty on her land adjacent to this.

Would she welcome grandeur, or would she remain the unpretentious, dignified soul that she seemed in spite of it? He secretly hoped that she would stay as she was. She wore a glow of serenity, a mantle more dear than any he had acquired thus far. Though even now, Edouard could feel a calmness seeping into his soul to replace the constant watchfulness and suspicion.

He straightened the hose points he had just tied to his belt and stood waiting for Henri to assemble the rest of his clothing. “You approve of the lady, then?” he asked his son.

“Dare I not?” the boy returned, holding the velvet garment out to be donned. “Would it matter? It did not the last time.”

“No,” Edouard admitted. He should have cuffed Henri for his sarcasm, but the lad did come by it honestly. Instead, he softened the truth with a smile of affection. “However, I would appreciate your support in this.”

Edouard sighed and laid his hands on Henri’s slender shoulders. “Son, you are nearly a man now. I have done you ill by remaining unattached so long. Who is to teach you manners and the way with proper ladies if I do not take a wife? True, I could foster you with another lord, one with a wife who would take on the task, but I trust no other to train you up as I will do.”

Henri nodded. “I would learn from the best there is, Father.”

“Not above boosting the old man’s pride, eh?” Edouard did feel immensely proud that Henri felt this way. He brushed nonexistent lint from the shoulders of his son’s finely stitched jack. “So! Shall we go below, break our fast, and charm my bride-to-be?”

“Why not?” Henri replied. “At least she does not serve up sheep guts as I have been told they do here. One must like her for that, I suppose.”

Edouard did cuff him then as they laughed together.

As they descended the stairs, he wondered whether Lady Anne had her own son convinced this marriage would be a good thing. A half-grown lad could harbor jealousy of a mother, hatred for a man who would replace his dead father, and resentment for anyone who had charge of his lands these next few years.

She greeted them, all gracious and soft-spoken, as they entered the hall. “My lord. Henri. Do come and eat. My uncle left Baincroft some two hours past.” She raised her brows and offered Edouard a conspiratorial half smile. “He wants musicians for the wedding feast. And better wine.”

“Now, why does that not surprise me?” Edouard laughed softly and placed her hand on his forearm. He pressed her fingers and felt her answering squeeze.

All the while, he congratulated himself again on his decision to wed this woman. Upon first glance at her the day before, he had known he would have her. She stirred his blood rightly enough, but her appeal extended beyond the obvious. He detected a remarkable strength, that inner calm, and a bold decisiveness surpassing any he had yet beheld in a woman. All that, without any evident aggressiveness. He wondered how she managed it.

She did resemble Hume’s daughter, Honor, somewhat. Only Lady Anne’s lovely gray eyes shot no sparks of hatred and fear when they met his own. Her inviting lips, which he had pressed for as long as he dared in their kiss of peace, offered only smiles and sweet words. Her musical voice did wondrous things to his senses, soothing and exciting at the same time. He could just imagine the gentle purr of it when he...

“When will we meet your son, my lady?” Henri dared ask. Edouard should have chastised him for speaking without leave, but he wanted the answer, as well. He added his questioning look to Henri’s.

She bit those rose-touched lips together for an instant before she answered. “Later today, I trow. Robert went a-hunting with my steward. I fear we did not expect your company yestereve and today found our meat in short supply. You will forgive him, won’t you? Rob does feel so responsible for Baincroft’s hospitality.”

“He has recovered from his illness then?”

“Illness?” The lady appeared confused for a moment and then fixed a bright smile. “Oh, aye, he is well enough to hunt! He seemed determined to go.”

“That is admirable of him.” Edouard assured her. He had noticed a small break in her poise and wished to restore it She must be concerned about her son’s reaction to the news that she would marry. “Lord Robert must provide you much comfort since you lost your husband. When he returns, I must commend your son for his thoughtfulness in seeing to our needs.”

The lady merely smiled, nodded and indicated they should sit down. This time he motioned for Henri to join them at board. There were hands enough to fill the cups and the food already lay on the table before them.

Edouard had hardly touched his ale cup when a heavyset man, one he’d seen in the stables, rushed in at a lumbering run, gasping, “Lady—come quick—our laddie—north wall!”

Lady Anne issued a sharp little cry and leapt up from her seat. Abandoning all grace for speed, she raced across the hall and out the door. Edouard followed at a run, as did Henri and the rest of the hall’s inhabitants.

When they rounded the keep itself, there were already a number of people staring up at the small figure atop the corner merlon, arms raised to the sky. A large hawk circled above him and the boy looked set to leap toward it.

“Mon Dieu!” Edouard whispered as he started for the steps to the wall-walk.

Lady Anne grabbed his arm and hung on as he rushed past her. “Wait! There’s no time!” Then she released him and put the fingers of one hand to her lips, emitting a sharp, earsplitting whistle. Then another.

The lad turned. For an instant, he wavered, arms wind-milling before he finally caught his balance. Edouard’s heart stopped. He envisioned the broken little body lying in a heap on the other side of the wall.

Anne beckoned frantically and the agile little fellow scrambled down. No one in the bailey moved as they watched the boy tear heedlessly along the open wall-walk, a narrow path of rough wooden planks protected on one side by the stone wall to which they were attached. On the other lay an unguarded drop of some sixty feet. A collective groan emerged from the crowd as he reached the steps and clambered down.

Lady Anne sank to her knees in the dirt. Edouard marched forward and grasped the boy by his shoulders. He could not stop the flow of harsh reprimands. “Do you see what you have done, you reckless lackwit? Look at your lady! She is nigh in a faint with worry you would break your foolish neck!”

He shook the little beggar sharply and then dragged him before Lady Anne by the scruff of his neck. An old hound rushed forward, growling, but the boy silenced him with an upraised palm. Ignoring the dog, Edouard forced the boy to his knees in front of her. “Apologize at once!”

Edouard could not bear the pale fright that stole Anne’s calm, the leftover terror in her soft gray eyes. Neither could the lad, apparently. With a look of absolute contrition and the most gentle of gestures, the grubby young hands cupped her face and patted. When he removed them, there were streaks of dirt along her cheeks, mingling with the wetness of her tears.

Her lips firmed and her eyes narrowed. “To my solar with you! Go!” she demanded. She did not shout, but clipped each word distinctly in a low tone that did not bode well for the little daredevil’s backside, Edouard thought. The boy and the old hound trudged off as ordered, heads down and contrite.

He took her arm and raised her up. “You are extremely overset, my lady. Shall I deal with him for you?”

“No!” she exclaimed with a lift of her head. “He would not comprehend you—your French.”

Edouard raised his brows at that. “I know my English. But I had no mind to do much speaking. The rascal is incredibly heedless and he needs be taught a lesson.”

She pierced him with a look of the purest hatred he had ever seen. “Beat anyone who belongs to me and I will kill you!”

Before her shocking words registered, she had whirled angrily away from him and followed the boy around the side of the keep.

“Father, did you hear? She threatened you!” Henri whispered in awe.

“Yes, I heard. Apparently Lady Anne is very protective of her people.” A good thing to be, Edouard supposed, but her vehemence seemed unwarranted. “Go along, Henri, and finish your meal. You have sword practice in half an hour.”

Sir Gui approached as Henri left. “My lord, I need a private word with you.”

“What’s amiss, Gui?”

The knight fell in step with Edouard as they walked slowly back to the keep. “I overheard the lady. You should take her threat seriously, you know.”

Edouard laughed. “And why is that? You think her able to follow through?”

Sir Gui hesitated only briefly before speaking. “Yes, my lord. The people here are different than we are used to. Rough, not quite civilized, I think, and more prone to violence. Her first husband died under very peculiar circumstances. By her own hand, they say.”

Edouard halted. “Who spouts such rumors? I would have his name. His tongue, too, if he cannot keep it still.”

“I cannot give his name, for I do not know it. Last eve I slept in the stables instead of the barracks. My mount seemed ill and off his feed, so I took the empty stall near his. I awoke late in the night when I heard two men speaking together in low voices, as though secrets passed between them. One laughed and asked the other if he thought the French count might also succumb to the old lord’s ague in due time.”

“And the answer?” Edouard demanded.

“Most likely, so the other man said, for the lady suffered too long before discovering the solution to her problem. Now she had found it, the man declared, and it would be no great trick for her to solve this one. If that means she killed her first lord, she might have the same plan for you!”

The silence drew out between them while Edouard considered the probability of truth in the exchange. He knew well the power of gossip. When anyone died in a manner that left doubt as to the reason, the remaining spouse always became suspect. Never mind that there was no motive, no proof, no shred of evidence.

Edouard himself had been a victim of that particular occurrence, not once but twice.

But the fact remained, Lady Anne had just warned him outright that she would kill him if he usurped her power to discipline her people. A strong reaction for the mere shaking of a stable lad.

The look she wore when she said it spoke of passion far more intense than he had suspected she possessed. He could direct that surprising fervor, however, and make it a positive thing between them. Despite that intensity, he could not believe Anne capable of murder.

“Speak to no one of what you heard, Gui. I doubt me there is reason to put any credence to it.”

“Doubt if you must, my lord, but do not discount it altogether, eh? She thinks this place and these people are still hers, not yours. Even the tamest bitch grows dangerous when you manhandle her pups.”

“You court death yourself with that comparison!” Edouard warned, his hand automatically gripping his sword.

Gui backed away, hands up. “No disrespect! I but meant to make a point. A poor choice of words. I apologize.”

Edouard knew he had overreacted. “Very well, then. Take charge of Henri when he comes out. He needs work on his parry.”

“Gladly, my lord.” Sir Gui paused and risked another warning. “You will have a care? Finding another such generous lord would not be an easy task.”

Generous? Edouard wondered what had fostered that compliment. Gui had not yet proved himself worthy enough to gather any special rewards. Nor was he likely to, given that loose tongue of his. “Of course, Gui. I am ever aware.”


Chapter Three

Edouard climbed the rough wooden steps and entered the hall. The reckless stable lad, the hound, a priest, and Lady Anne were just exiting the solar. She rushed forward to meet him as the others headed toward the kitchens. “My lord, I must apologize for my hasty words. There is no excuse—”

“Do not trouble yourself, Anne. I understand how worried you were about that boy.” He smiled down at her, feeling again that powerful need to restore her quiescence. “If you have the same concern for all your folk. I should imagine they adore you.”

For a brief instant, he could have sworn she wore a look of fear. Perhaps because he had just reminded her of the incident outside, he decided.

She made no answer to his comment, but changed the subject entirely. “I spoke with Father Michael. He agreed to perform our wedding on the morrow so that you need not delay your travel.”

Edouard reached for her hands and brought them to his lips, kissing each one in turn. “I applaud your efficiency, sweet lady. What a lucky man am I to find such a treasure.” He felt the stiffness of her reaction to his gesture melt slowly into acceptance. Taking advantage, he turned her hands and kissed the palms.

Then he released one and trailed his fingers over her cheeks. “The little ingrate made mud of the tears you wept for him,” he said softly. “For that alone, I could thrash him.”

She yanked her hand from his. The blast of sudden fury turned her eyes to molten silver. “Not whilst I live!” she snarled.

“No, no, my sweet! You mistake me!” he caught her arm as she spun to leave. “But a figure of speech! I only meant that I hate to see you weep for any cause. Come now.”

Edouard handled her heaving anger gently, determined to soothe her. “You have settled the matter and it is forgotten, eh? Over and done and we will think on it no more. Come, sit and have wine with me now, for we have much to learn of each other.”

Her shoulders squared defensively and she refused to look at him. “Forgive me, no. I must go and wash my face. Then I must see Father Michael’s wife and plan the—”

“Wife? Your priest has a wife?” Edouard demanded.

In her confusion, she seemed to forget the anger. That was something, anyway. “Aye, he does. What of it?”

“Priests should be celibate. ’Tis church law!”

“Bother!” she said with a wave of her hand. “Many priests are wed here in this country. Yours as well, I’d wager. ’Tis better than keeping, a woman and children hidden away, do you not agree?”

Edouard closed his mouth. He knew better than to argue anything further at this point. The wedding was tomorrow. Afterward would be time enough to establish his control over foolhardy villeins and wayward holy men. He was no stranger to discretion, and that was certainly called for at the moment.

“As you say,” he said mildly, adding a bow.

He watched as she took herself off in the same direction as the priest and the boy. Then he turned slowly and went out to observe Henri’s progress with the blade.

Sir Gui might not be far wrong about the primitive nature of these Scots. After encountering Anne’s startling bursts of rage, priests who took wives, young lords who shunned guests, and peasants who thought to fly, Edouard considered that his knight might have the right of it.

Despite all of that, mayhaps even because of it, Edouard liked this place. And he fully intended to stay.

Anne swept into the kitchens where she encountered Robert and Father Michael engaged in wolfing down bannocks. Rob’s old hound, Rufus, scratched behind one ear, whining for Rob to share the food.

“Father, tell Meg I need to see her in the solar immediately after the noon meal.”

Then she grabbed Robert’s chin between her thumb and fingers. “Go to my room. Do not let him see you.”

Robert nodded, grinning merrily around a mouthful of the doughy bread. He slid off the worktable where he perched and skipped off toward the hall, Rufus the hound in tow. Anne watched as Rob halted, peeked around the archway, and then dashed for the stairs.

Anne went to the solar for her sewing basket, found her sharpest scissors and followed him up.

“Sit here,” she ordered her son once she had arranged the stool in front of her chair beside the window. “And be still.”

She held a section of his shoulder-length hair between her fingers as she clipped it. Once she had shortened all of it considerably, she ordered him to undress and get into the tub. They laughed together when Rufus disappeared beneath the bed.

Rob screeched and shivered as he entered the water which had grown cold since her morning bath. “Mama,” he began a protest, which she quickly squelched with a meaningful look.

“Scrub!” she warned him, ruffling his newly shorn waves. “Or I shall do it for you.”

Anne watched sternly while he complied. She dipped and poured water over his head to rinse off the soap, laughing with him as he sputtered and giggled. It brought to mind his babyhood and the first bathing experience they shared. He was her very heart, this lad.

When he had finished, she held out a length of linen and wrapped it around him. Then she directed him to sit near the brazier where she rubbed dry his wheat-colored locks.

Though he had MacBain’s coloring there, his eyes were like her own. She thought he had the looks of her own father, rather than his. His disposition was his own, however.

Merry Rob, friend to all. Yet he was canny, too, not quite as all-trusting as he seemed. He must regret that he missed the sounds everyone else took so for granted, but he never seemed to brood over it. Even during those worst of times with MacBain, it had been Rob who boosted her flagging spirits, who reassured her all would be well. She envied his self-confidence and wondered where in this world he had acquired it. A compensation from God, no doubt.

How handsome he was, all clean and scrubbed. She pulled a long-sleeved tunic of saffron wool over his head and handed him smallclothes and brown chausses to don for himself. When he had done so, Anne offered a belt of burnished leather with a gold buckle, one she had mfashioned from his father’s things.

He grimaced as he took it, probably remembering its former owner. “Uggy bet,” he muttered, but obediently cinched it around his middle.

The way he looked now, Trouville would never realize Robert was the lad on the parapet this morning. She had transformed the long tangle of his dust-coated hair into a silken, sunlit cap. Gone were the threadbare, homespun clothes he always wore for his morning hunts. He looked a proper lordling now. Nay, the comte would not know him. She would barely recognize him herself did she not see him clean and dressed so at supper most nights.

Rob returned to his stool and sat. His expressive eyes, only a shade darker than her own, regarded her with questions. Why the bath before evening? Why must I dress so fine before midday? What is afoot here, Mama?

She knelt before him so that they were face-to-face. “You are to meet Lord Trouville today,” she explained.

Rob’s brows drew together in a scowl. He had not liked that shaking Trouville had given him. “Nay!”

“Aye!” she declared. “You will. Now you must heed me, Rob.”

Rebellion had him closing his eyes and turning away, but she firmly tapped his knee, her signal that she meant business and he must attend.

When he finally faced her, his resignation apparent in the sag of his shoulders, she continued. “I must marry this man,” she said, clasping her palms together.

He studied them for a moment, sighed loudly, and then gave one succinct nod.

“He wants to meet you. You must watch his words. Say only �aye, my lord’ or �nay, my lord.”’

Rob chewed his lip and lowered his brows. She knew he was considering whether he could do as she demanded with any success. The French accent would be a great obstacle. Rob must have noted the problem when Trouville threatened him earlier.

“I shall be there. Look to me,” she advised, touching her finger to his eye and then to her lips. “Now for speech practice.”

He clamped the back of one hand to his brow and rolled his eyes, groaning dramatically as he slid to the floor. Anne laughed at his foolery, for the moment forgetting her fears.

Later, as she left Rob in her rooms, perfecting his bow before old Rufus, Anne’s apprehension returned. He had to meet Trouville, there was no getting around that. Pray God the man would be too caught up in the excitement of his impending wedding to pay much mind to a mere stepson.

Her new husband would be gone very soon. Of necessity, Rob must appear at the ceremony, but there would be no time for discourse between them then, surely. If only they could get through this evening’s confrontation without detection, she would keep Rob out of sight until protocol demanded his presence.

If worse came to worst and the comte discovered the truth about Rob, she would have no recourse but to plead mercy. If she pled prettily and often enough, he might permit Rob and her to live on as supplicants. But Anne knew, as surely as she knew her own name, that Trouville would never grant her Robert all that was his by right of birth when he reached adulthood.

Many things could occur between now and that time, however. Her uncle would not be around to observe Rob in the years to come. He had a home and his duties in France. Trouville might make infrequent visits, but she could keep Rob away from him. If fortune smiled, neither of the men should guess until Robert was a man grown, if even then.

By that time, Anne hoped she would have taught her son enough to hold his own. By that time, she would have installed a wife for him with wits enough to supply what he lacked when he needed help. Meg and Michael’s daughter, Jehan, had a good head on her shoulders. Rob would have a young steward, as well. Thomas, his brother-by-marriage, would protect and serve out of love for his lord. Their training was already well underway. She had done all she could for the present.

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.

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?”




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/lyn-stone/bride-of-trouville/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.



Если текст книги отсутствует, перейдите по ссылке

Возможные причины отсутствия книги:
1. Книга снята с продаж по просьбе правообладателя
2. Книга ещё не поступила в продажу и пока недоступна для чтения