Bride Of Trouville. Lyn Stone
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,