Lyn Stone - Bride Of Trouville

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,” she explained.

Rob’s brows drew together in a scowl. He had not liked that shaking Trouville had given him. “Nay!”

“Aye!” she declared. “You will. Now you must heed me, Rob.”

Rebellion had him closing his eyes and turning away, but she firmly tapped his knee, her signal that she meant business and he must attend.

When he finally faced her, his resignation apparent in the sag of his shoulders, she continued. “I must marry this man,” she said, clasping her palms together.

He studied them for a moment, sighed loudly, and then gave one succinct nod.

“He wants to meet you. You must watch his words. Say only ‘aye, my lord’ or ‘nay, my lord.”’

Rob chewed his lip and lowered his brows. She knew he was considering whether he could do as she demanded with any success. The French accent would be a great obstacle. Rob must have noted the problem when Trouville threatened him earlier.

“I shall be there. Look to me,” she advised, touching her finger to his eye and then to her lips. “Now for speech practice.”

He clamped the back of one hand to his brow and rolled his eyes, groaning dramatically as he slid to the floor. Anne laughed at his foolery, for the moment forgetting her fears.

Later, as she left Rob in her rooms, perfecting his bow before old Rufus, Anne’s apprehension returned. He had to meet Trouville, there was no getting around that. Pray God the man would be too caught up in the excitement of his impending wedding to pay much mind to a mere stepson.

Her new husband would be gone very soon. Of necessity, Rob must appear at the ceremony, but there would be no time for discourse between them then, surely. If only they could get through this evening’s confrontation without detection, she would keep Rob out of sight until protocol demanded his presence.

If worse came to worst and the comte discovered the truth about Rob, she would have no recourse but to plead mercy. If she pled prettily and often enough, he might permit Rob and her to live on as supplicants. But Anne knew, as surely as she knew her own name, that Trouville would never grant her Robert all that was his by right of birth when he reached adulthood.

Many things could occur between now and that time, however. Her uncle would not be around to observe Rob in the years to come. He had a home and his duties in France. Trouville might make infrequent visits, but she could keep Rob away from him. If fortune smiled, neither of the men should guess until Robert was a man grown, if even then.

By that time, Anne hoped she would have taught her son enough to hold his own. By that time, she would have installed a wife for him with wits enough to supply what he lacked when he needed help. Meg and Michael’s daughter, Jehan, had a good head on her shoulders. Rob would have a young steward, as well. Thomas, his brother-by-marriage, would protect and serve out of love for his lord. Their training was already well underway. She had done all she could for the present.

If not for her all-consuming worry, she could turn all her energies toward making certain Trouville departed the day after the wedding a complacent man. Anne knew she must still give serious thought to how she might send him home satisfied, assured that she would see to his interests here without any further supervision.

The ceremony and small celebration would present no problems in and of themselves. Then she must endure the wedding night, of course.

MacBain had never required anything other than her submission whenever he had come to her. Anne needed no further lessons concerning the futility of resistance.

Mayhaps performing her marital duty would not prove so ghastly this time. No woman could call Trouville loathsome to look upon. And she could not envision him as rough-handed when it came to wooing. The comte did not seem inclined toward brutality unless provoked, and she certainly knew better than to incite a man’s anger.

Meg would assist her in avoiding another pregnancy just as the old herb woman, Agatha, had done in the years following Robert’s birth. Another child must be prevented at all costs. Trouville should not question her future barrenness, given her advanced age. He had his heir, so that should not present a problem.

Her main concern must be in seeing Rob through this day and the next without mishap. Anne simply had little time to dwell on the minor inconvenience of contenting her new husband’s carnal expectations. By the time she counted the twenty cherubs stitched on the bed’s canopy, it would all be over and done, anyway. She would yield the once, and right gladly, to get him out of their lives in short order.

A small shiver of apprehension tingled through her. Surely it was apprehension, was it not?

“Lord Edouard Gillet, comte de Trouville, may I present my son, Baron Robert Alexander MacBain, Lord of Baincroft,” Anne announced. She stepped forward and turned so that she stood to the side and slightly behind Trouville.

Anne had decided to introduce Rob to her betrothed just prior to the evening meal. Planning this night’s repast and the nuptial feast for the following day had provided her the excuse to avoid the comte all afternoon.

She had kept Robert in her chambers practicing his words and his bow, in hopes of keeping him clean and out of mischief. Thank goodness he had left Rufus above stairs as she ordered, for the sight of the faithful old hound might give the whole thing away.