Fatal Truths (The Anarchy Medieval Romance) by Anna Markland Page A

question took him by surprise. “Red haired?”
    Romain coughed loudly.
    “Don’t pretend you didn’t notice. You barely took your eyes off her. Is she your latest mistress?”
    Laurent made a choking sound.
    Alex glared at his sister. “Contrary to what you believe, I am not in the habit of taking mistresses. The red haired woman is nursemaid to Henry and Claricia Dunkeld.”
    “Well, you can get rid of her now that we are here. My servants are more than capable of taking care of two additional children.”
    Alex’s heart lurched.
    Henry looked ready to launch himself at Marguerite.
    Claricia’s lower lip quivered.
    Alex came to his feet. His sister’s words bothered him for two reasons. Surely she didn’t intend to stay for a long period of time? The other emotion churning in his gut had more to do with the possibility of not seeing Elayne every day. He’d grown fond of her smile; she aroused his body, but calmed his mind. Life was more pleasant when she was present. “Elayne has been Henry and Claricia’s nursemaid since they were babes. They love her and she loves them. I don’t intend to deprive them of her care.”
    Marguerite stared at him through narrowed eyes. “You’re blushing, mon frère . All this talk of love. You’re sure she’s not your mistress?”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    THINGS CHANGED after Marguerite’s arrival. Though her children were well behaved, the castle filled with their chatter and noise of their play. Claricia and Rosetta quickly became fast friends, and it was rare to see one without the other.
    Henry , Fernand Bonhomme and Tyrel Venestre seemed to be everywhere at once, brandishing toy swords or playing soule with Tyrel’s brothers. Alex advised them to take the game out of sight of Marguerite who had always deemed it too dangerous, citing instances of broken limbs. Alex conceded this was true, but such injuries normally took place when hundreds played, not a handful of small boys.
    They took his advice and often played in the meadow near the apple orchards. When his duties and responsibilities had been taken care of for the day, Alex fell into the habit of wandering out to watch them, laughing at their attempts to kick or bat the ball. A good deal of time was spent chasing Faol when he made off with the ball or wrestled a stick from a player’s hands.
    Alex noticed the old wooden ball didn’t travel very far. It was cracked in several places, and splinters were inevitable. Sticks broke regularly.
    He spoke to Bonhomme who after a day or two produced a new ball, a pig’s bladder covered with leather and stuffed with horse-hair. Alex’s nervous anticipation at giving it to them surprised him. The lads almost drooled when he presented it.
    Fernand bent the knee , the new ball tucked under his arm. “ Milord , it would be an honor if you played with us.”
    Alex’s first reaction was to refuse. He’d never joined in games of soule as a boy. But a little voice inside his head admitted he’d always wanted to. A refusal would wipe the hopeful looks off the faces of these youngsters.
    As if sensing his hesitation, Henry Dunkeld touched his arm. “Please join us, milord .”
    Smiling, Alex unfastened his tunic, shrugged it off and threw it to the ground.
    The lads cheered. Tyrel handed him his stick. “Me, Henry and Fernand are trying to get the ball to the orchards, oncle . My brothers and their friends are trying to get it to the bailey.”
    Alex eyed both teams , then looked at Henry and Tyrel’s expectant faces. He’d been called uncle many times, but suddenly it meant something. “I’ll play with you.”
    At first he felt foolish kicking the ball that never seemed to go where he intended. However, he was soon caught up in the game, yelling, cheering, booing, elbowing, shoving, rolling in the dirt when someone pushed him.
    The noise , augmented by Faol’s enthusiastic barking, attracted Romain and Laurent who were quickly recruited.
    “I’m an expert at this game,