Bride Of Trouville

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.