Lyn Stone - Bride Of Trouville

“You are one who truly believes in love, then?” Though she asked the question playfully, Anne really wanted to know his thoughts on it, for she did not think the emotion existed between men and women, other than in songs and poems. It certainly had not existed within the realm of her experience.

“Absolutely, and without question,” he answered readily, as he turned from the window. “I do know that many caution against combining love with marriage, but I have endured two marriages without it, and—”

“And I have, one,” she added, interrupting him. “But if you never knew love, when did you decide yourself capable of loving?”

“When I looked upon the face of my son after his birth. Did you not love yours?”

“Aye, of course, above everything! But that is not the same thing, surely! Loving a child is not the same.”

“Not at all the same,” he agreed. “But it does prove that a deeper feeling, that a caring for someone else more than oneself is entirely possible. I would like to feel that for a woman. For you. If you could return the favor and love me, likewise.” He brushed a hand over her cheek and she could not resist leaning into the caress.

Then she looked up at him. “I think love is not given upon conditions such as that, my lord. One either loves, or one does not.”

He tapped her nose with one finger. “We will make our own rules, you and L No unrequited love for us. You will love me, and I shall love you, all unreserved. I have decided.”

The man was a little mad, or else he engaged in all of this foolery to make her laugh and lighten this cursory proposal of his.

That sparkle of amusement in his eyes at the moment told her which it was. He was showing her the way of things within his exalted circle of acquaintances, no doubt. Country-bred she might be, but she had heard tales aplenty of how the more worldly nobles behaved. Bantering about love and such was considered a right wondrous pastime at court, so the traveling bards proclaimed. It had been so since the time of Queen Eleanor.

What did it matter? He could prate on about it all he wanted. ’Twas pleasant enough debate, after all, and highly entertaining. Once he returned to France, he could regale all his friends at the court with tales of how smoothly he had wooed and won his Scottish wife, and then left her longing for him. What did she care, so long as he departed soon and let her be?

If he wanted games for the two days he abided here, she would play. “Love, it is, then!” she said with her most elegant curtsy.

“Shall we go and share our happy news with the others?” he asked.

“With all haste,” Anne agreed.

He placed her palm on his arm as they returned to the hall. And she smiled for all she was worth. Not for a sure place in paradise would she allow her Uncle Dairmid to think she had bowed to his threats out of fear, even though she had. Men pounced on fear, she knew that. “This is my choice,” her look told her uncle as clearly as words could have done.

The trouble was, that in Dairmid Hume’s sublime fit of joy and copious felicitations, he did not seem to care one way or the other whose choice it was.

Anne consoled herself that she had gained much more by this arrangement than her uncle. She would have a husband in absentia, no further dealings with Dairmid Hume as a guardian, and her son would remain with her. Aye, everything about the situation suited her at the moment. She could not have hoped for more.

Now all she had to do was to keep Rob away from her uncle and the comte until they quit Baincroft and returned to France. Assuming that Robert would cooperate.

That worry alone threatened her hard-won, and well-practiced composure. Her lad had a mind of his own and more pride than was practical.

The next morning, Edouard woke in a happier mood than his usual. Sun streamed in through the arched window, its warmth mellowing the breeze that accompanied it. Even the weather welcomed him to this place. If he were superstitious, he might consider it a good omen. But his cynical nature warned him that Scotland’s weather was notoriously fickle, and so might be the lady. For now, he would give her the benefit of the doubt. Once wed, he would give her good cause to remain sunny, Edouard thought with a wry smile.

Anne of Baincroft did not strike him as a guilt-riddled girl obsessed with the myth of original sin as Henri’s mother had been. Nor did she exhibit the hesitancy about marriage that his second wife had shown. If Anne loved another man as Helvise had done, she certainly concealed the fact well. Her words, expressions, and attitude indicated that she was exactly what she appeared to be, a bright and beautiful widow who welcomed a very advantageous match.

Such natural beauty and grace proved more than he had hoped for at the outset. Her laughter was like sweet music. And her enthusiasm for a short betrothal was definitely an added boon.

He had teased her to set her at ease last evening, and she had responded in kind. Though she could be coy, he had seen immediately that she possessed none of the traits of the sophisticated jades he was used to. He had found himself going half-serious with his talk of mutual love. Would it not be astounding if she really—

“The keep is a ruin, but this lady is not, eh?” Henri interrupted his thought with a sly grin. “She is right handsome for one so old.”

“Impertinent whelp,” Edouard admonished as he splashed his face with water from the basin. “Shake out my blue cote-hardie and find the belt, will you? No, the silver one.”

Baincroft must seem rather impoverished by Henri’s standards, Edouard thought. His son had never lived in so modest a place as this. Not that it was in ruin as the boy described, but it did lack the well-appointed comforts and rich trappings of their various estates in France.

And after many occasions of sharing palatial accommodations with the kings they had attended, Henri must believe he had fallen on mean times indeed. But Edouard knew this sound old castle, small though it was, possessed great possibilities.

Lady Anne kept a spartan household, though there were woolen blankets aplenty for warmth, and victuals plentiful enough so that no one suffered hunger. She prepared plain food, missing the customary spices save for salt, and served it up on humble trenchers and unembroidered linens. Economy was good in a wife, though it would no longer be necessary for Anne to employ it.

The old-fashioned square keep boasted only three stories above ground level, all its rooms accessed by a spiral stairway. Some wise ancestor had thrown up a high wall to add protection, creating the spacious ward where stood several outbuildings. All the stone, inside and out, remained undressed and not even whitewashed.

His wealth could change all of that. He would meet the ship this week and receive all the items his factor could gather and transport from the holdings in France. His belongings could make Baincroft a right habitable abode for the next few years, a place suitably grand for a lady such as Anne. By the time her son claimed it for his own, Edouard planned to have built her a home fit for royalty on her land adjacent to this.

Would she welcome grandeur, or would she remain the unpretentious, dignified soul that she seemed in spite of it? He secretly hoped that she would stay as she was. She wore a glow of serenity, a mantle more dear than any he had acquired thus far. Though even now, Edouard could feel a calmness seeping into his soul to replace the constant watchfulness and suspicion.

He straightened the hose points he had just tied to his belt and stood waiting for Henri to assemble the rest of his clothing. “You approve of the lady, then?” he asked his son.

“Dare I not?” the boy returned, holding the velvet garment out to be donned. “Would it matter? It did not the last time.”