Bride Of Trouville. Lyn Stone

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ too gentle heart that allowed her son a child’s way when he was nearly ready to become a man.

      Edouard vowed he would soon make her see how dangerous was this path she allowed the boy to travel. With no formal training at arms, little language other than the heathen tongue of MacBain’s ancestors, and a marked lack of discipline, the boy would turn out worse than useless as lord of his own keep. Robert badly needed the firm hand of a strong father figure. MacBain must have grown too old to care before his death, or perhaps too caring.

      Not that Anne’s son had acquired no attributes in his ten short years. He possessed a sturdy body, even though small for his age. He was a strong and handsome boy. Agile as a tinker’s monkey, too. Robert loved his mother, politely respected his elders, and had grown adept at some duties required of a page.

      Wonderful mother that she was, Anne had taught her son all that she possibly could within the realm of her experience. Now Robert’s education must fall to him, Edouard decided.

      He marveled at the good fortune that had led him to this place. Who would have guessed he would find a woman so perfect, one who would give him her son to foster and, God willing, more children of his own in the near future?

      Even more wondrous than that, he was gaining a beautiful, willing companion who seemed set on his every pleasure. He admired how her fiery spirit, banked beneath her gentleness, blazed high when anything threatened one she loved.

      No woman had affected him this profoundly, but most of the time he rather welcomed these new and deeper feelings. His heart warmed at the very sight of her. Other parts of his body grew considerably heated, as well, he thought with a shake of his head.

      Contentment of the soul mixed with the heady excitement of lust ought to make theirs an enviable union, indeed. She would provide the first, of course. And that second commodity, he could bestow full measure upon her. It would be almost akin to the love they had jested about last evening. Unique, and quite satisfying.

      “I wonder, Anne. Do you also believe we shall suit?” he asked softly, almost unmindful that he had spoken his thoughts aloud.

      She lifted her lashes and regarded him serenely. “I cannot think why we should not.”

      Edouard thanked the saints he had found Anne. He had not wanted a young and frightened bride to initiate. Nor had he desired taking one of the women at court to wife, well versed as they were in pleasuring a man. He wanted a woman he could trust. And everyone who knew him would be shocked to learn that he would like to have a woman he could love.

      As he had said to Anne, only half in jest, he did believe in love, though he had been offered precious little of it in his thirty-two years, certainly never by a woman. His mother had considered him a duty, presented him to his father at birth and promptly forgot his existence. His father, glad enough to have an heir, did not wish a child underfoot. Consequently, Edouard had been relegated to the servants until he reached seven years, and then sent to court as a page.

      Fortunately, he had met Lord de Charnay there. Edouard had served him as squire, and eventually received his spurs from the man. During his time with de Charnay, Edouard also gained a glimpse of the happy home life and affection the man enjoyed with his lady wife. He held those memories dearer than any others.

      That couple had not loved him, of course, but they had shown him by example that love could flourish between a man and woman. When his father arranged his marriage at seventeen, Edouard had been fully prepared to bestow all the love within him on his new bride. Only she had wished to be a bride of Christ.

      Daunting competition, indeed, but Edouard had tried. He had his parents and hers as allies. Poor Isabeau. She had died blaming Edouard for taking her innocence and making her like it. He would always think of her kindly, however. She had given him Henri, ultimate proof that love existed and that he possessed it.

      His second wife, another of his father’s choices, doused his hopes at the very beginning. Helvise had already loved another man, one unsuitable in her father’s estimation.

      But this wife, his Anne, would not die and leave him with only guilt, regret and a motherless infant as Isabeau had done. Nor would she betray him the way Helvise had. This marriage could fulfill his secret dream if he nurtured it carefully.

      It confounded Edouard a little, the way his hopes soared. Never before, with Isabeau, Helvise, or even when he had believed himself in love with the Lady Honor, had he let down his inner guard this way. Always, he had kept in mind the strong possibility of a marital disaster. But now, with Anne, there was this meeting of two minds, this mutual affection, this shared hope for happiness.

      How perfect she was. Yes, he could love her well, and she would love him. He would see to that. In time, she would realize that he had couched his deepest wish within that repartee they had shared about a loving marriage.

      People were taking their leave now and seeking their own homes, or retiring to the alcoves and buildings in which they slept.

      “You should go above and rest now,” he said as he saw her eyelids drop. “Tomorrow will come soon and last long, I trow.”

      “No doubt,” she agreed, rising to her feet with his assistance.

      He delighted that she now seemed fairly comfortable with his touch. His plan to set her at ease, at least in that respect, seemed to be working. Though she had been wed before and knew what to expect, Edouard knew it could not be an easy thing to admit a veritable stranger into her bed.

      “I trust you will sleep well tonight? Should the ceiling taunt you, then you must turn your face to the pillow,” she ventured shyly.

      Edouard pressed his lips against her delicate ear to whisper, “Ah, but I will allow you in my dreams, my sweet one. How else shall I endure the wait for the morrow’s eve?”

      With that he ushered his lady toward the stairs and wished her good-night. He decided he would return to the hall for a while and have another cup of wine. The bare walls and rough furnishings there challenged his imagination, a sorely needed distraction this night. Yes, he could turn this old fortress into a splendid setting for the jewel that was his Anne.

      Living here appealed to him. Living here with her appealed to him. The gilded French court seemed a tawdry and dissolute place by comparison, and he missed it not at all. It was as though he had thrown off his heavy cloak of guile, woven of the pretense necessary to survive in a world of politics and intrigue. Here was a freshness, a new beginning, and simple contentment. Yes, he would stay and right gladly.

      

      Anne collapsed on the chair before the brazier, infinitely relieved that she had found Rob already asleep on his pallet in the anteroom. Much as she wanted to find out what had passed between her son and Trouville’s Henri, she knew it would prove fruitless to try and waken him. Rob slept like the dead.

      “My lady?”

      “Meg! Where have you been? I asked Father Michael to send you to me this afternoon.”

      “Tending young Dora. Her babe came tonight, a fine lad,” Meg said, smiling through her worry. “Are you not feeling well?”

      “Aye, well enough, but I need some herbs and right soon. The wedding is tomorrow,” Anne reminded her. “Will they take effect this near the bedding?”

      Meg cocked her fair head to one side, her green eyes glinting in the firelight. “Which herbs? You mean to render СКАЧАТЬ