Mistaken for a Lady (21 page)

Tristan lifted her hand and kissed it. ‘Very well, no secrets.' Tugging on her arm, he manoeuvred her on to his lap and nuzzled her neck. ‘I expect that means I must tell you about the army of mistresses I have waiting for me in Rennes.'

She shot him a startled look, caught a glint in his blue eyes and knew he was teasing. Tristan had already told her that he had been faithful to her during their separation and she believed him. She also believed him when he said that he had considered telling her about Kristina when they'd arrived as des Iles. Tristan had a powerful sense of right and wrong, he didn't lie. His sin, as far as she was concerned, was that he hadn't been open with her. He'd kept things hidden. She understood it though, he'd been trained in tight-lipped self-reliance.

In one sense, she should be flattered he'd wanted to tell her about Kristina. It was a start.

Was it enough for her to risk the pain of losing him again?

It had to be. She loved him, and if there was the slightest chance of finding happiness with him, she must take that risk.

She gave him a warm smile. ‘Saints, an army of mistresses? You must have learned a lot about the arts of love, I expect a full confession.' Sliding her fingers along his cheek, she aligned his mouth for a kiss and prayed she wasn't deluding herself about the true nature of his feelings for her.

Tristan needed to love her. At some point she was going to have to tell him that she hated the idea of Tristan's former mistress remaining at des Iles. And what did he intend to do about Kristina? Now he had these outlaws locked up, was he going to make a public acknowledgement that Kristina was his daughter? There were many challenges ahead of them and the only certainty was that they were not going to be overcome in a day.

Francesca pressed her lips to his.

* * *

Relieved beyond measure that Francesca had taken back his ring, Tristan tried to ignore the disquiet that had sat like a lump of lead in his gut. Kerjean's accusation echoed in his head:
Count Bedwyr was one of us. He supported the cause.

Kerjean had to be lying, Tristan's father was no traitor. Tristan could hardly bear to think about it, yet he had done little else since leaving Hermit's Rock. Could he be wrong about his father? Had he joined the alliance?

His father had killed himself, there was no argument there. Tristan had thought about it for years, it had seemed so out of character. Was it possible that his father had done something on impulse he later regretted? Could he have joined the alliance? And had remorse then driven him to despair?

Francesca leaned against him and murmured against his mouth, ‘Kiss me, Tristan.' Her teeth nipped his upper lip, her breasts pressed against his chest. It was the most welcome of distractions. ‘I need to be held.'

Drawing back, Tristan looked deep into her grey eyes and his worries faded. He would think about his father's involvement with the alliance later. He had Francesca in his arms, his ring was back on her finger and all was going to be well between them. She had agreed to stay. And she wanted him to hold her. Well, that he could do.

The crackle of the fire faded as their lips met. She must be exhausted, after her ordeal she would need proper rest. When he pulled the hairpins out of her veil, the pounding of the waves below the castle seemed to fade. The fire was less bright. There was only Francesca. Her veil slid to the floor. Sight of that dark hair, falling in short, glossy waves about her face, gave him a jolt. Thank God, he hadn't wounded her.

Self-consciously, she touched her hair. ‘Mari says it is most unladylike. I must look like a page boy.'

‘Not at all, you are far too pretty and feminine to be mistaken for a page.' Catching her chin, he gently turned her head this way and that. ‘I am truly sorry, my heart.' His mouth curved. ‘Still, at least we can be sure that no one will be able to constrain you by your hair for some time.'

‘That's true. Mari tidied it up for me.'

‘So I see, she did a good job.' He felt a smile form and combed through it with his fingers, testing the texture. Her hair had the sheen of black silk. He leaned in and felt the tension ease away. It smelt of her—Francesca and that faint fragrance of jasmine, two scents that would be linked in his mind for ever. ‘It's got more curl than it had when it was long, I rather like it.'

Her eyes went wide. ‘You like it?'

‘Aye. Perhaps it will catch on.'

She laughed. ‘Flatterer.' She kissed his nose. ‘I am simply thankful that you are such a skilful swordsman, my lord.'

‘Part instinct, part training. I had to get you away from him.' He gripped her fiercely, saw her flinch and immediately slackened his hold. ‘What's the matter?'

‘My arm.' Extricating herself from his hold, she rubbed her upper arm. ‘It's a little tender.'

‘He bruised you?' Tristan swore softly. ‘Let me see.'

Pushing her from his lap, Tristan rose and reached for the clasp on her belt. She didn't argue as he carefully, methodically stripped her of her clothes—belt, gown, undershift. When he got down to bare skin, he swallowed hard. She was so lovely. Her skin was creamy and faintly perfumed. More jasmine. More Francesca. The dark shadow on her upper arm held his gaze.

‘The cur, his fingers left marks.' He kissed the bruise, looping his arm about her waist as she slid her arms about his neck. ‘One moment, little one.' He stood back and twirled her about, examining every breathtaking inch of her—the gentle curve of her buttock, that slight indentation at the base of her spine, the slender legs. ‘No more bruises.'

‘No.'

‘Dieu merci.'
Noticing her downcast eyes and her pink cheeks—
I am making her shy
—he led her to the bed. ‘I don't suppose you had much sleep last night.'

‘He drugged me, it took a while to wear off.'

Tristan set his jaw. Bruised. Drugged. He flung back the bedcovers. ‘In you get, you need proper rest.'

She arched an eyebrow at him. ‘Tristan, it's the middle of the day!'

‘You need rest.' Tristan spoke firmly, to hide his need. Truly, Francesca was his weakness. Despite the hour, he had to have her in his arms again. She needed rest and he needed to feel her body resting safely against his.

Much as he might want her, for today, he would simply hold her. He would watch over her until she fell asleep. It was strange how the need to keep her safe overrode other more basic needs.

She scrambled under the covers and he was struck with another thought. ‘Francesca?'

‘Aye?'

‘Kerjean has yet to explain how you fell into his hands. Roparz mentioned a consignment of wine.' Walking to the window, Tristan closed the shutters and the light dimmed. She would rest better in the half-light.

She yawned. ‘I was in the bailey waiting for Mari and the carter spoke to me. I got the impression he had been hoping to find me.'

He looked sharply across, all he could see was the top of her head peeping out from the nest of blankets. ‘The carter was looking for you personally?'

‘I think so.' Another yawn. The sheets rustled. ‘He told me they had Kristina. I couldn't bear the thought of her being frightened, so I went with him.'

‘You weren't forced?' Tristan stared at the bump under the blankets. So that was why the guards on the walkway hadn't noticed anything amiss, there hadn't been any struggle because she had gone willingly.

‘You would have done the same, I am sure.'

Shaking his head at her, Tristan came to lie on top of the bed. Shifting the bedcovers, he folded her in his arms. ‘That was very brave. And very foolish.' And very like Francesca. She'd not found it easy learning that Kristina was his child and yet she had voluntarily put herself in the hands of outlaws to save her. He frowned. No, that didn't do her justice. Francesca hadn't simply climbed into that cart because Kristina was his, she would have done the same for any child.

She gave a little sigh and Tristan kissed her forehead. It wasn't long before her body went lax in his arms. The wind rattled the shutters and the curtains shifted in a slight breeze. The fire was painting flickering patterns on the walls, Tristan watched them shift and sway. He wouldn't stay long, just long enough to ensure that she was deeply asleep.

He listened to the wind and the drumming of the waves. Francesca had been drugged and threatened for Kristina's sake. That didn't mean she was going to be happy living under the same roof as Kristina and Esmerée.

Yet what could he do? Roparz was his most trusted knight, his right-hand man. He was best qualified to be steward of des Iles and Tristan had had it drilled into him by both Lord Morgan and his father that the steward of your main holding was your right-hand man—your rock.

I can't lose Roparz.

Tristan pressed another kiss to Francesca's forehead.

It made no sense to dismiss Roparz. Militarily, it made no sense at all.

He sighed. Perhaps dismissing Roparz from des Iles might be avoided if he spoke to Esmerée. Yes, if Esmerée realised the full extent of Francesca's involvement in Kristina's rescue; if she understood that Francesca had deliberately put herself at risk for Kristina's sake, she would surely be grateful. Perhaps the two women might even become friends.

He would speak to Esmerée as soon as he could. And then he would interrogate Joakim Kerjean. Once Tristan had got Kerjean to admit that he had been lying about his father's involvement with the alliance, he would pack the man off to Baron Rolland in Rennes.

Count Bedwyr was no traitor.

* * *

Alone on the tower watch point above their bedchamber, Francesca leaned against the parapet wall and looked out to sea. The tide was at the ebb and the rocks in the bay looked larger than usual. Spiky and sharp. Dark seaweed drifted in the shallows like dirty washing. It had stopped raining hours before, though the sky remained overcast and a gloomy mass of clouds was piled in the western sky. The breeze was bracing, it tugged at her veil and sent shivers down her neck.

Behind her, the door creaked and Lady Esmerée stepped on to the parapet.

‘Excuse me, Lady Francesca, is it convenient for me to speak to you?'

‘Of course.'

Veil flying in the wind, Lady Esmerée came to her side. She glanced briefly at Hermit's Rock and touched Francesca's hand. ‘My lady, I have come to thank you. Lord Tristan tells me you put yourself in harm's way to ensure Kristina's safe return.'

Francesca smiled. ‘You are welcome, anyone would have done the same.'

Slowly, Lady Esmerée shook her head. ‘No, my lady, I don't think they would, particularly given the circumstances of Kristina's birth. You are Lord Tristan's wife—discovering we had a daughter must have been a shock.'

Francesca's face felt stiff. ‘I won't deny it, it did knock me back.'

‘None the less, you went with those outlaws for Kristina's sake.' Lady Esmerée's voice trembled with emotion and she dropped to her knees and bowed her head. ‘I am thankful beyond measure, my lady, Kristina means the world to me.'

‘Please, Lady Esmerée, there's no need to kneel.' Cheeks hot, Francesca urged Lady Esmerée back to her feet. ‘Lord Tristan tells me your daughter is recovering well. He mentioned something about spiced buns.'

Lady Esmerée's lips softened. ‘Kristina loves them, they make her very greedy.'

Francesca squeezed Lady Esmerée's hand and made her voice bright. ‘I am happy your daughter came to no harm and that is thanks enough. Please say no more about it.'

Lady Esmerée nodded and turned away. ‘Bless you, my lady, you are all grace.' At the door she hesitated and looked back. Her eyes were glassy with tears, she looked deeply uncomfortable.

Francesca felt a sinking feeling. ‘There's more, isn't there?'

Lady Esmerée stood in the doorway, wringing her hands, the very image of misery.

‘Lady Esmerée?'

‘I feel terrible, my lady. Your bravery puts me in the shade. You saved my child.' Her voice broke. ‘Whilst I have done you a great wrong.'

Francesca felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. ‘What? What have you done?'

Lady Esmerée hung her head. ‘I made full confession to Father Paol and he suggested that I tell you too. I am so ashamed.'

A flurry of rain dampened Francesca's veil. Calmly, she gestured at the door. ‘Come, my lady, it's raining again. We can continue this conversation in the solar.'

Chapter Fifteen

F
rancesca was bursting with questions and she felt oddly nervous. None the less, she held her tongue until she and Lady Esmerée were seated before the solar fire. What was Lady Esmerée talking about? What could she have done? And did Tristan know about it?

She leaned back against a cushion. ‘Your mention of making a confession is intriguing, Lady Esmerée. Please, continue.'

‘As you wish.' Lady Esmerée wiped away a tear and folded her hands in her lap. ‘My family lived in the village. My lady, I have known Count Tristan all my life.'

‘You became his
belle-amie
—his mistress.'

Cheeks bright, Lady Esmerée stared at the floor. ‘Yes, my lady. It was shortly after my father's death.' Her chin came up. ‘Sinful though it was, I wasn't ashamed, I was proud to be Lord Tristan's, as you say,
belle-amie
. He looked after me and he didn't shame me, he never took other lovers.'

‘You loved him?'

‘So I thought, though I never dared tell him, you know how aloof he can be.'

Francesca nodded and waited.

Lady Esmerée lifted her gaze, her eyes bleak. ‘All went well until Lord Tristan told me he was planning his wedding. A dynastic alliance, he said. My liaison with him was ended. I was devastated. Only after you had married him did I discover I was carrying his child.'

‘And then Sir Roparz married you.'

‘Aye.' Lady Esmerée's expression softened. ‘Roparz asked for my hand. My lady, please understand, it wasn't until long after Kristina was born that I came to appreciate my husband's qualities.' She grimaced. ‘Before that happened, I was bitterly jealous. I harboured much resentment against both you and Lord Tristan.'

‘You felt wronged.'

‘Aye.'

Francesca braced herself as it dawned on her that an unconventional woman like Lady Esmerée, a merchant's daughter who had openly taken a noble lover despite the difficulties that must have caused in a small village where everyone knew her, wasn't likely to sit idly by if she believed herself wronged.

‘What did you do?'

Lady Esmerée looked away. ‘When Lord Tristan was called to serve the duchy, he wrote to you. His letters came via des Iles.'

The realisation came in a flash. ‘You intercepted our letters! You destroyed them.'

White about the mouth, Lady Esmerée glanced covertly at the fire. ‘Yes, my lady, I am ashamed to say that I did.'

Francesca felt a wave of nausea sweep through her. She stumbled to her feet. All that pain, all those months of waiting in vain for Tristan to reply. All that time during which she had been made to question her place in the world. And she hadn't been the only one to suffer—Tristan had been made to think she had turned her back on him. He'd come to believe she didn't trust him enough to appeal to him for help.

‘How did you get them? What did you do with them?'

‘I persuaded Sergeant Jagu—he mans the gatehouse—to give them to me. My lady, you mustn't blame the sergeant, I told him I would pass them on to Roparz.'

‘And then?'

Swallowing, Lady Esmerée gave a guilt-laden nod towards the leaping flames in the hearth. ‘I burnt them.'

‘What, all of them?'

‘Aye, every one.' Lady Esmerée was chewing her lip, a tear tracked slowly down her cheek. ‘Can you forgive me, my lady?'

Francesca rubbed her brow. ‘I...I am not sure.' Her nails were digging into her palms, she actually wanted to hit the woman. She wouldn't, of course, but she wanted to. Badly. ‘Lady Esmerée, do you understand how much trouble you caused?'

‘I am truly sorry, my lady.'

‘This is very hard to accept.' Francesca set her hands on her hips as she thought it through. Something about Lady Esmerée's confession didn't fit and she was determined to puzzle it out. ‘You love Sir Roparz?'

‘Very much, my lady.'

‘You didn't love him at first,' Francesca said, thinking aloud. ‘How long have you loved him?'

‘It did take a while. Roparz was kind to Kristina. I kept thinking he would be bound to reject her, and he never did. He idolised her from the day she was born and she, in turn, idolises him. I was slower to love him back.' Lady Esmerée smiled sadly. ‘Roparz was very patient. It took a couple of years for me to learn to love him.'

Francesca did a swift calculation. She had last written to Tristan in the autumn of the previous year, he should have received that letter and he hadn't. ‘You could have stopped destroying our letters once you had found love. Yet you didn't, you continued to destroy them. Why?'

Worried eyes met hers. ‘Once I'd started burning them, I had to continue. My lady, many of the later letters referred to earlier ones. If the later letters had been delivered, either you or Count Tristan would have been sure to realise that something was amiss.'

‘So you not only destroyed them, but you read our private correspondence first! And, having done so, you couldn't stop because you were afraid of being found out.'

‘Exactly. My lady, I am truly sorry. Can you forgive me?'

Francesca gave a heavy sigh. ‘I shall try.'

‘Thank you. My lady, please do not chastise Sergeant Jagu, it was entirely my fault.'

‘Sergeant Jagu will not be blamed.'

‘Thank you.' Lady Esmerée rose. ‘I realise I am in no position to ask for favours, but I would beg you not to mention this to Lord Tristan. It might poison his relationship with Kristina.'

Francesca stiffened. ‘I can't think Lord Tristan would be so petty as to allow your sins to reflect badly on your daughter.'

‘Nevertheless, I would rather Lord Tristan did not know what I have done. He might mention it to my husband and that I could not bear. Against all expectation, I have found happiness with Sir Roparz. He may never forgive a wife who behaved in so dishonourable a fashion.'

‘You ask a great deal. Lady Esmerée, I am reluctant to tell tales, but the loss of those letters caused much misery, it almost destroyed my marriage. Lord Tristan must be told.'

Lady Esmerée groaned. ‘My lady, please—if Roparz learns what I have done, he will despise me.'

‘I doubt that.' Francesca held herself very straight. ‘Lady Esmerée, it is my firm belief that husbands and wives should not keep secrets from one another. I shall tell Count Tristan about the letters. However, you may be assured that I will ask my lord not to discuss the letters with Sir Roparz.'

Lady Esmerée clasped her hands together. ‘God bless you, my lady.'

‘Thank you for your confession, it can't have been easy.' Francesca held her gaze. ‘I feel confident Count Tristan will respect your wish for discretion. Lady Esmerée, I appreciate that what you tell your husband is your affair, however, I would strongly recommend that you confess all to him too.' She smiled. ‘I am sure it is a course Father Paol would endorse.'

* * *

Tristan was so involved with military matters that Francesca saw little of him that day. Private conversation had to wait until he joined her in their bedchamber that night and Francesca was already in bed when he came quietly in.

‘Tristan?'

He gave her a preoccupied smile and began to disrobe. ‘I am sorry if I woke you.'

‘I wasn't asleep.' Absently, Francesca twisted a lock of hair round her finger. It felt odd to have such short hair, it would take a while to get used to it. ‘Is your interrogation of Sir Joakim progressing? Will you be sending him to Baron Rolland in Rennes?'

Tristan drew off his tunic and shook his head. ‘Not yet, the man's as closed as a clam. On the island he claimed my father was supporting the rebel alliance. I'm reluctant to hand him over until he's told me all he knows.'

‘He could have been bluffing about your father.'

There were dark circles under Tristan's eyes. Clearly, Sir Joakim's remarks about Count Bedwyr had cut deep.

He sighed. ‘I pray so. I've had enough of Kerjean for one day.' Tristan pinched out the candles, leaving only the glow of the fire to light the chamber. The mattress dipped as he got into bed and warm arms reached for her. He gave a heavy yawn. ‘Was there something you wanted to tell me?'

She kissed his chest. ‘You're tired, it can wait.'

A large hand ruffled her hair, his lips curved into a weary smile. ‘I can tell by your tone it's important. Tell me.'

‘First, I should like you to promise that you will not breathe a word of what I am about to tell you to Sir Roparz.'

Catching her by the chin, he looked deep into her eyes. ‘What's happened? Francesca?'

‘Promise me.'

‘I promise. Whatever it is, I shall not mention it to Sir Roparz.'

‘It concerns our lost letters.'

His fingers stilled in her hair. ‘You've discovered what happened to them?'

‘Aye.' Resting her head against Tristan's chest, Francesca told him everything that Lady Esmerée had told her concerning the burning of their letters.

His eyes widened. ‘Esmerée? Esmerée destroyed our correspondence?'

‘Yes.'

Tristan rolled on to his back and stared at the curtains on the opposite wall. ‘The letters all came via des Iles, yet I find it hard to credit she would do such a thing.' His chest heaved. ‘
Mon Dieu
, Francesca, I admit you have surprised me. I never would have thought her capable of such deceit, but now you have told me I can see how she might have been angry.'

‘She loved you.' Francesca hugged him to her. ‘I think she hoped for marriage.'

A dark eyebrow lifted. ‘I couldn't have married Esmerée.'

Francesca's stomach tightened. ‘She wasn't noble. She brought no dowry.'

Turning towards her, Tristan framed her face with his hands. ‘Francesca, don't. Esmerée, charming though she is, is not you. There is no comparison.'

She looked at him and ached to be loved. Even exhausted, Tristan was impossibly handsome—the only man on earth to possess such long-lashed blue eyes, such jet-black hair. Sadly, she ran her fingertips across his chest. ‘Tristan, you married me because of my dowry, you would never have considered me otherwise.'

His fingers tightened on her scalp. ‘That might be true, but having wed you, I am loath to let you go. You are my wife and I need you and you alone. You have taught me that I do not need a noble wife with a fat dowry.'

Shifting her in his arms, Tristan rolled her on to her back. Warm lips met hers. ‘My heart, you must never doubt me,' he murmured. ‘Never.'

He kissed her mouth, lingering there for a while, touching his tongue to hers before moving on to kiss her cheeks and eyelids. He even kissed her cropped hair before angling her head to kiss her neck. Then he slowly began working his way down—neck, collarbone, breasts...

He lifted his head. ‘Don't doubt me, Francesca.'

‘I don't.' Francesca sighed as Tristan's lips moved inexorably over her skin. She was lying, she did doubt him. Even as her blood heated and her limbs moved restlessly against his, a cold hand had hold of her heart.
Don't doubt me.
If by that he meant that he loved her, why did he not tell her? If he loved her, he would surely tell her.

Strong legs nudged against hers, and she ran the sole of her foot up his muscled calves, relishing in the feel of his masculine strength. The contact, the rhythmic pushing of body against body, all this she loved. Saints, but her handsome husband was the best of lovers, he could push all thought from her head. All thought save one.

Tristan might tell her he wanted and needed her, but nothing had changed. He was keeping her as his wife because he was fiercely honourable and he didn't want to break his wedding vows. Not once had he said that he loved her. His feelings were not truly engaged.

* * *

Francesca passed the next few days in a state of limbo. Tristan seemed to go out of his way to avoid her and she couldn't understand it. It was extremely disheartening. He seemed to have reverted to his old ways—namely, no sooner had he allowed her close, than he retreated behind his duties. Somehow, she must find a way to break the pattern.

She set out to explore the castle with Mari while she tried to work out what sort of marriage Tristan expected. There was much that was unusual about Château des Iles and she and Mari got lost many times as they learned their way about the labyrinthine corridors.

They came across a small terrace set between the castle walls. It had been transformed into a garden and, apart from a solitary stone bench, was crammed with plants in pots. Arrow slits in the western wall looked out over the ocean. Francesca asked a maidservant about the garden and was told Tristan's mother had made it. Judging by the orderly lines of pots and the lack of weeds, it was still carefully tended. Cracks in the paving were filled with wild thyme, tiny pink flowers nodded in the breeze. There were pots of herbs—chives, rosemary and bay.

People's faces became familiar and the names soon followed. There was Paskella, who worked in the bakehouse—she was who was responsible for the currant buns so beloved of Kristina. Antoine and Guirec worked in the stables. Father Paol was usually in the chapel. There was Nazaire, the blacksmith—over the days, the list grew and grew.

Francesca and Mari discovered that the wine cellar beneath the great hall had been hollowed out of the rock. Francesca told herself it was important she learned the lie of the land, but in truth she would far rather be getting to know her husband. After he had rushed to her rescue at Hermit's Rock, everything had seemed so promising. She'd been certain that she and Tristan were about to develop that deep intimacy that went far beyond mere physical connection.

Sadly not. After pushing his ring back on to her finger; after promising there would be no secrets between them, Tristan had become his old self. He was cool and distant. Ever the efficient warrior; ever the loyal servant of the duchy. Was there really no room in his heart for him to become the loving husband she longed for?