Читать книгу Bride Of Trouville - Lyn Stone - Страница 11

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?