Lyn Stone - Bride Of Trouville

Now had come the moment she dreaded.

Robert bowed perfectly and straightened, looked directly into the comte’s eyes and smiled winningly. He did that so well, she thought. Her son knew his assets and used them to full advantage. That smile ranked foremost among his talents. No one save his old father could ever resist it.

However, here might be another who could. She had the distinct feeling that the comte, at Robert’s age, probably exercised that very same guile in like fashion. He used a more worldly form of it even now.

“Lord Robert,” Trouville said formally. “I am pleased to meet you at last.” He spoke French.

With an economy of movement, Anne gave a quick twist of her fist and pointed at her chest.

“And I,” Rob said clearly.

Anne almost fainted, with relief that Rob had answered at all, and in dismay at his inadvertently poor manners. He had replied in English, because he knew no other way. Too loudly, as well, but that could be attributed to the tension of their first meeting. She hoped.

Even hereabouts, nobles always conversed in French with each other, using the English or Gaelic with lesser ranks. However, if Trouville took offense in this instance, he was too polite to say as much. In fact, he readily switched to English as he introduced his son to Rob. Neither boy said anything, merely bowed simultaneously and regarded each other with great interest.

Anne’s heart leapt when she realized she had completely forgotten Henri and what he might make of Rob. He would not be so distracted as his father tonight, and might even make an overture of friendship toward her son. If not that, at least he would attempt conversation.

She hurriedly gathered them all as if herding unruly sheep and directed them toward the dais. She indicated Henri should sit to his father’s left. She reminded Rob with a brief gesture that he was to stand behind and pour for their guests and herself.

Trouville insisted on holding her chair for her himself, and Anne thanked him for his courtesy. Then his long fingers subtly caressed her upper arms and shoulders over the fitted velvet that covered her. A chill rippled along her spine, though it did not seem an unpleasant sensation.

How forward he was, touching her so. Try as she might, however, Anne could find no will to reject the gesture. No good reason, either, since he would certainly dare far more than this in the very near future. Please him, she reminded herself.

Before they settled well enough to be served, her uncle arrived. Fortunately, his delight over acquiring several minstrels and a hogshead of French burgundy prevented his noticing Rob at all. Far be it from her to tempt fate with further introductions unless it became absolutely necessary.

With concentrated effort, Anne kept up a constant flow 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.