Bride Of Trouville. Lyn Stone

      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.