Bride Of Trouville. Lyn Stone

      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,”