Bride Of Trouville. Lyn Stone

to foster Rob. But if Dairmid Hume ever discovered Robert’s one weakness, he would never allow her son to keep Baincroft. Her uncle would apply to the king to give the lands to him as next male kin to Rob.

      He would demand to know how a lad who could not hear or properly speak could ever hope to rule or hold what he had inherited. All would be lost. No one in authority would uphold Rob’s rights or stand for him in the matter. The courts would agree with Lord Hume.

      This she knew, because not one year past, Gile Mac-Guinn’s castle and his title had passed to his younger son when the elder, not yet eighteen years of age, had been blinded in an accident. The former heir now lived upon his brother’s charity. The precedent seemed all too clear to Anne.

      She alone could save her son’s birthright.

      Thank God, Robert’s problem proved invisible. Even so, deafness was not an easy thing to conceal. She had counted upon MacBain’s reluctance to admit publicly that he had fathered such a child, and on his hope for another son not so afflicted. Now that the old man was dead, she depended upon the love of those who served Rob to assist her in hiding his disability.

      As it was, if their secret remained secret, she could hold Baincroft in her son’s name until he came of age. By that time, she would have surrounded him with so much support, no one could oust from him his rightful heritage. And she would have proved to his liege, Robert Bruce, that her son’s demesne had run smoothly and profitably for years under Rob’s care, despite his deafness.

      Her marriage would remove the immediate threat of her uncle, right enough, but would only supplant it with another. This comte he had brought to wed her could just as well usurp Rob’s lands and, using his influence with the French king, attain King Robert Bruce’s blessing on the theft.

      The best she could hope for was that this French noble only wanted her adjoining property and the income from it. She needed to find out how things stood now. “You mentioned his royal affiliation. Will the comte be returning to France soon, then?”

      Hume spoke more calmly, obviously assured of her obedience. “Oh, definitely he will. Trouville’s a very important man and King Philip will have need of him. Aside from his role as advisor, Trouville always participates in the tournaments as the king’s champion. Aye, I’m certain he must return there soon.”

      She nodded. “I see. I suppose he merely wishes to establish an estate here for the added income it will bring him. Is that not right?”

      “Of course. What other reason would he have? It is not as though he desires your person 1” He smiled at her then, as if he had not just resorted to threats to gain his way. ”Though he will want you once he sees you, my dear. If you serve him well as wife, he might even ask you to accompany him to court. Every woman’s dearest dream, of course. You will love it there.”

      Well, she would see to it he left her here. Here, so that she and her son might go on as they had since MacBain’s death. She would keep Rob’s secret from both of these men, at all costs, even though she would have to concede in the matter of this marriage.

      This comte could hardly be worse than MacBain had been, and she could bear anything for the duration of his time here. Anything, to regain a measure of the peace and freedom she had found, and safety for her son. If she refused this man, her uncle would only find her another, one who might remain at Baincroft forever. And, in the meantime, he would take Rob away. God forbid that should happen.

      Anne nodded once. “Very well, if you vow to leave my Robert to me, I will do this for you.”

      “Gladly promised.” He nodded, all affability. “I knew you would see the wisdom of it.”

      She quickly ordered one of the maids to go above and clear the master chamber for guests, and have an additional room readied for her uncle. There was no time to do more.

      The door to the hall swung open. A stalwart young lad wearing rather costly-looking raiment marched through it as though he owned the keep.

      Two knights entered behind him, their spurs scraping the floor beneath the thin layer of rushes. Shining basinet helms, jingling mail aventails still attached, rested in the crooks of their left arms. Massive swords hung in scabbards at their waists. A formidable sight, these two. Anne resisted the urge to step back.

      The boy halted a short distance in front of them, bowed formally to her and her uncle and announced, “The comte de Trouville, my lady, Lord Hume.”

      Anne had no trouble discerning which knight bore the tide. He would be the dark one. If his air of absolute supremacy had not proclaimed it, then his exemplary attire would have done. He wore a knee-length surcote of deep madder lake—near the color of ripened plums—emblazoned with a black-and-silver device. His sword bore several magnificent jewels in the hilt, and Anne marked not a dot of rust marring the links of his mail. Travel dust would never have dared settle on such a one.

      His companion paled rather literally by comparison. Fair-haired, garbed in sky blue trimmed with white, the other stood a hand width shorter and not so broad. Even were he as richly turned out, Anne would never have mistaken him for his lord. He lacked the commanding presence and assuredness of the other.

      Still, they both appeared so grandly dressed to impress, she felt like asking where the tournament was.

      Her uncle gave her a little shove from behind. “My lord comte, may I present my niece, the Lady Anne.”

      The comte extended his right gauntlet to the boy who promptly tugged it off. Then, gracefully, he bowed and Anne automatically extended her hand. He raised it to his lips and barely brushed the back of her knuckles. He would have missed the contact altogether had she not shuddered at his touch.

      “Welcome to Baincroft, my lord,” she said, trying not to sound as breathless as she felt. Many men had visited her father and her husband, but never in all her days had she laid gaze upon one such as this.

      Dark as sin, he was. Midnight hair hung to the edge of the curved steel gorget that protected his neck. Long-lashed eyes the color of polished walnut regarded her with frank curiosity and not a little admiration.

      Anne felt her face redden under his scrutiny. She wore one of her older gowns, a russet linen, and no headrail at all. MacBain had required her to don those old-fashioned wimples, since discarded, and she owned no other head coverings. No matter. So much the better if Trouville thought her unfashionable. He would leave her in Scotland where she belonged.

      For a man coming off a tedious journey, he arrived remarkably groomed, clean-shaven, combed and exuding no unpleasant odors. Did he never sweat?

      His features, while refined, held none of the soft comeliness she would have expected on a courtier. Nor did his form. He appeared battle hardened and muscled by frequent exercise, judging by his carriage, the width of his shoulders and narrowness of his waist and hips. Devastatingly handsome and self-confident described him well. Frightening described him better. Dealing with this one would take some doing.

      He straightened and finally released her hand. “My lady, may I make known to you Sir Guillaume Perrer, knight in service to me.” He waited until the man made his bow. “And our herald this day, my son and heir, Henri Charles Gillet, Esquire.”

      Anne regarded the serious young face that mirrored the father’s. Young for a squire, she thought. He looked hardly more than thirteen. His manners seemed as impeccable as his sire’s.

      “Henri? See that fellow there beside the stair? He will show you to the chamber where you and your father will bide.”

      As an afterthought, knowing well the constant hunger of growing lads, she added with a smile, “We sup in one hour. I trust you like sweets?” He rewarded her with a sudden grin that changed his whole appearance.

      When she returned her gaze to the father, she noted an expression of relief, almost as transforming as the grin on his son. “Will you sit and take wine, my lord? You and Sir Guillaume must be weary.” She gestured toward the dais.

      “My thanks, but I would go above with my son and disarm.”