Bride Of Trouville. Lyn Stone

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