Mistaken for a Lady (9 page)

He knocked on the bedchamber door and waited.

‘Tristan, is that you?'

‘Aye.'

‘Come in.'

She was sitting in bed with the bedcovers drawn up tightly under her chin. Her expression was wary and it seemed safe to assume she was wearing an undergown as she had on the previous night. Not that he should be thinking of that. Nothing was going to happen between them.

Calmly, he set the candle on a wall shelf. ‘There's no need to look at me like that,' he said softly. ‘I won't take advantage of you.' He placed his sword by the bed, knowing from experience it was best to have it to hand when sleeping in an unfamiliar place.

Under the bedcovers her breast heaved. ‘It doesn't seem right, our sleeping together, Mari agrees with me.'

Tristan had had nothing from her maid except scowls. He swallowed down the reply that Mari loathed his guts, so naturally she would disapprove of their sleeping together, and said, ‘We sleep together until I am sure of you.'

Her chin went up. ‘What exactly do you mean by that?'

With a shrug, he turned away and began to strip. He heeled off his boots and hung his clothes on a wall peg—leather gambeson, shirt, braies...

‘Tristan, if you are sharing this bed with me, you ought to put that shirt back on.'

There was an edge of panic to her voice. Tristan's lips curved, he knew she didn't fear him. ‘Afraid you won't be able to resist me, my heart?'

She made an exasperated sound. ‘It's not seemly when we don't intend to stay together.'

Fully naked, he turned to face her.

With a squeak, she dived beneath the bedcovers. ‘For heaven's sake! Tristan, blow out the light.'

Pinching out the candle, he felt his way to the bed, climbed in and gave a languorous sigh. ‘Goodnight, my heart.'

‘You shouldn't call me that,' she said, in a muffled voice. ‘It's not appropriate.'

‘Is it not?' Folding his arms behind his head, Tristan smiled into the dark. The mattress wasn't large and by rights he should feel her lying beside him. He couldn't, which had to mean that she was balanced on the edge of the mattress. He wondered how long she would be able to perch there without falling out of the bed. ‘Sleep well.'

Francesca huffed. She lay still for some time and then shifted. And shifted again. Each time she shifted, her body worked its way inexorably closer to his. It wasn't long before he could feel her body heat.

‘Relax, Francesca,' he murmured. ‘We slept in the same bed last night. What harm can another night together do?'

Finally, she lay still. When her breathing evened out, Tristan allowed himself to close his eyes. Really, he felt astonishingly content. The lamb had been tender and plentiful and his belly was full. He hadn't felt so at ease in years. He yawned, he was pleasantly tired—not exhausted as he had been the previous night. Tristan had enough self-awareness to know that his contentment had nothing to do with the exercise he had taken or the tenderness of the lamb. It was Francesca. Being in her company again was an unexpected blessing.

Realising that she had written to him during their separation changed everything.

Rolling on to his side, Tristan breathed in her scent. He was smiling when sleep claimed him.

Some while later, a loud thud woke him. He snatched at his sword. The door rattled, faint light was shining through a crack at the bottom—someone was stumbling about on the landing. A man gave a choked laugh and hiccoughed and the noise moved off.

Francesca sat up. ‘What's happening?'

‘Someone with a jar too many inside him is falling up the stairs, I imagine,' Tristan said, replacing his sword under the bed. ‘You are quite safe, such things are to be expected in a tavern like this.'

Francesca scooted back under the bedcovers.

Tristan was wide awake and so, it seemed, was she. The mattress rocked as she shuffled this way and that. The bed ropes groaned. She pushed the covers away. She dragged them up again.

It was full dark in the chamber. It made no difference, Tristan didn't need light to visualise her. Silken skeins of night-black hair would be working loose; her undergown would be slipping off one shoulder; her legs...

Mon Dieu.
Tristan gritted his teeth against the urge to draw her into his arms and stroke her hair. She used to like him holding her in that way.
Soon
, he told himself. Not tonight. He ought to tell her about Esmerée and Kristina first, and much as he longed to, it didn't seem right when she was worrying herself sick over Count Myrrdin.

Francesca had much to come to terms with. If he wanted to win her, he had some rough ground ahead of him.

‘Can't sleep?' he murmured.

The bedclothes rustled and he felt warm breath on his arm. ‘I am sorry, Tristan, I know I am disturbing you. I can't help wondering how Papa is.' Her voice cracked. ‘I should be with him. I love him so much, and if we arrive too late, I won't be able to tell him. I didn't thank him for looking after me so well and I should have done.'

‘You were planning to return?'

‘Yes.' She paused. ‘No.' Another pause. ‘Saints, Tristan, I don't know. I was confused when I left Brittany, the world had turned upside down and every instinct was screaming at me to get away.'

‘You wanted to discover who you were away from the trappings of Fontaine. It's understandable.'

‘Is it? It was a mistake to stay away so long. It was selfish. I know Papa loves me, whoever I am—' She broke off and a heavy sigh filled the air. ‘It was just— I didn't feel I belonged there any more. I wanted to know who I was, who I truly was.'

The words slipped out before Tristan realised. ‘My wife?'
My weakness.

‘We hardly knew each other. You told me you wanted an heir and we worked most diligently to that end, in truth we did little else.' She gave a soft sigh. ‘I failed you there too. I came to you empty-handed and I failed to give you an heir.'

Tristan grimaced. He never would have imagined that their sensual compatibility would come back to haunt him, yet that was what seemed to be happening. He wasn't about to deny the pleasure they took in each other though—not when they had scandalised half the Fontaine household with their reluctance to leave the bedchamber. ‘Francesca, don't speak of yourself as a brood mare.'

‘Well, that is what I was. A brood mare who failed to give you an heir.'

Tristan found her hand and gently linked his fingers with hers. ‘That never concerned me, you were young and I hoped we would have a lifetime together. You were far more to me than that.'

‘Was I?'

‘You know you were.' Not wanting to push the point, Tristan leaned thoughtfully against the pillows. Their relationship was changing fast. Discovering their letters had gone astray had begun the process and where it would end he couldn't say. What he did know was that as far as he was concerned, Francesca's lack of lineage was unimportant. Despite the inconvenience of the emotions she evoked, despite the way she clouded his judgement, he was coming to understand that he'd be happy with her at his side to the end of his days. His thumb caressed her palm.

It was too soon for him to declare his intentions. His belated confession concerning Kristina wasn't all that stood in his way. Francesca had kept her hurt inside her for two years, she needed time to adapt to their altered circumstances. The frost had to melt. Much as he wanted to, he couldn't rush her. Too much change, too soon, and she would be sure to baulk. He had to take this slowly. He would use logic, dismantling her objections one by one.

He would begin by accepting the blame for not taking her fully into his confidence before he left to serve the duchy. He would try to do what he'd spent his life avoiding. Even though it went against the grain of everything his father had taught him, he would attempt to be open about his feelings. His secretive nature had pushed her away.

‘I should not have left Fontaine without telling you how much you meant to me.' Tristan toyed with her fingers and, as he measured their length in the dark, he felt a ring. His thoughts scrambled. Surely this was the ring he had given her on their wedding day? Yes, she was definitely wearing his gold signet ring. ‘You're wearing my seal.'

She freed her hand and an instant later she pressed the ring into his palm. ‘I'm sorry, it slipped my mind. I knew I would have to return it.'

He flinched. ‘Good grief, Francesca, I'm not asking for it back. Wait until we are sure what we want.' He recaptured her hand and pushed the ring back where it belonged.

Somewhere in the inn, a door slammed.

‘Tristan, you need to make a proper alliance.'

‘Ours is a proper alliance.'

‘No, it isn't. You need a titled lady with a dowry, a lady with influential relatives who will become your allies. I am no one.'

‘You are my wife.' He nudged her shoulder with his and leaned towards her. The bed ropes creaked. He found her cheek and kissed it. Tension was coming off her in waves and he made himself pull back. ‘Francesca, I will have no more nonsense. We shall travel to Brittany and see if we might recapture some of the pleasure we found in each other after our wedding. If we do, it is my earnest wish that you should remain my wife.'

‘Pleasure,' she murmured in a sad voice. ‘Tristan, you don't need me, you need a high-born lady.'

‘You are all the lady I need.' He lowered his head and nuzzled her shoulder. Finding that her undergown had indeed slipped, he managed to kiss bare skin. The scent of jasmine wound through his brain—
Francesca
—and his pulse jumped. Lord, what was he doing? He had just told himself not to rush her, and here he was, pressing his attentions on her like a lovesick boy.

‘You mean this?'

‘Of course. You are my wife.' Before he could stop himself, he had wound his arm about her and brought her to his chest. ‘Relax, Francesca. I am simply holding you.' He put warmth in his voice. ‘I am planning to win you back.'

Her body stiffened. ‘No kisses. You mustn't kiss me.'

‘You see? You fear my kisses, and it isn't because you mislike them, it's because you like them too much.'

She shook her head and a strand of hair whispered across his shoulder. Tristan's skin tingled and he gritted his teeth against a rush of desire.
Mon Dieu
, lying with Francesca was proving to be a test of will that had to be of the devil's devising. He held in a groan and tried not to remember the times her limbs, long and lissom, had tangled with his.

‘You, my lord, are the most arrogant man I have ever met.'

Her tone wasn't angry, although Tristan couldn't quite read it. Doubtful? Hopeful?

‘On my honour, there will be no more kisses.' Tonight, at least.

Praise be, she took him at his word. Releasing a long sigh, she laid her head against him and slid her hand about his waist.

Progress. At least Tristan hoped it was progress. With Francesca, one could never be certain.

Chapter Six

T
he next day their party followed the road west. A light drizzle was falling and everyone, Francesca included, hunched under their hoods. Tristan had told her that with luck they would reach St Michael's Abbey at Melun in the evening. They would bed down at the abbey before setting out again the following dawn. As the morning progressed and the rain became a steady downpour, Francesca found herself praying that they would fare better on the morrow.

The road ahead was pockmarked with puddles, mud splattered and the wet seeped through her cloak and gown. Her thighs felt damp. Itchy. Large raindrops blew into her eyes; they hung like jewels on Princess's mane before being flicked away by the wind.

As the morning progressed, the idea of drying out before a large guest house fire became ever more alluring. Abbey guest houses were renowned for their hospitality towards noblemen, and even though they were travelling without fanfare, Francesca had no doubt that Tristan, Comte des Iles, would be warmly welcomed.

He was sitting easily in the saddle, his face obscured by the fall of his hood. He tipped back his head, studied the clouds and turned to her as she was surreptitiously easing her wet gown away from her thighs.

‘No need to look so glum, my heart. I doubt the rain will last, it's brightening in the west. We should be dry in a couple of hours.'

‘I hope so. Tristan, please don't call me my heart.'

‘Very well, if it makes you uncomfortable.'

‘It does.' Francesca lowered her eyes to her gloved hand, the hand that still wore his seal. What was he doing? Flirting? Toying with her to amuse himself on the ride to Fontaine?

In the bedchamber last night he'd said he was planning to win her back. He'd told her that she had once meant much to him. Yet if that were true, why had he never mentioned it before this? In the past, they'd made love countless times. She distinctly remembered telling him that she loved him and not once had she had an answering response. Reassured by his passionate nature—how young she had been, how naive—she'd been certain that he would tell her eventually. He never had.

And then last night he had announced he intended to win her back. He'd pushed his ring back on her finger. He'd cuddled her. Did he truly mean to keep her?

Half of her longed to believe him, whilst the other half, the half that had wept bitter tears at the drawn-out death of their marriage, was afraid. Loving Tristan had come so easily, and it had turned to ashes equally easily. Could they really start again?

Francesca believed him when he said he'd written to her—Tristan could not be a bare-faced liar. But they'd had two years to grow apart. Two years in which Tristan had followed his political heart and had done what he loved most—forging vital connections with a prince of England. The prince who would one day wed Duchess Constance. All Tristan ever thought about was politics and power. Love had no place in his life. He was toying with her feelings because he needed heirs, and he—being both honourable and sensual—wanted a woman in his bed whose company he relished.

She wasn't sure she could open her heart to so much pain. She'd done it once on his behalf, she didn't think she would survive a second round.

Tristan's saddle creaked as he twisted to look behind them, a frown between his brows. Francesca followed his gaze. Mari and Bastian were riding side by side, apparently deep in conversation. Behind Mari and Bastian, faintly visible through a shifting curtain of rain, another group of travellers was headed their way.

‘Tristan, if you are worried about Mari, you needn't be. I told you, she won't fall behind.'

He gave her an abstracted look. ‘Hmm?' His face cleared and his mouth went up at a corner. ‘Yes, I can see Mari is quite the horsewoman. But I like to check up on her every now and then.'

‘Oh?'

The smile turned into a full-blown grin. ‘Your maid looks on me with such adoration, I fear she would pine away if I didn't let her see how often I think of her.'

She laughed. ‘Really, Tristan, you are ridiculous.'

He sent another look over his shoulder. ‘Be honest, Mari loathes my guts.'

Francesca lifted an eyebrow. ‘She is very loyal.'

‘To you, perhaps. As far as I'm concerned, she's the grumpiest woman alive. For my sanity, you might tell her I wrote to you.' He peered over his shoulder. ‘I swear her eyes are burning holes in my hide.'

‘I told her about the letters.'

‘Don't tell me—she didn't believe it.'

Tristan wiped the rain from his face with the back of his hand. Francesca had to smile. Against the grey backdrop of the sky, his eyes seemed bluer than ever. And very warm.

‘You're right, she didn't.'

‘And you? Do you believe I wrote to you?'

She couldn't look away. ‘I believe you.'

His face lit up. ‘Thank God. I will win you yet, my heart.'

Francesca's heart missed a beat. Fear? Unfortunately for her sanity, she didn't think so. She rather suspected it was the old excitement—the excitement she used to feel when in Tristan's company. Telling herself she was older and wiser than she had been, far too old and wise to remain susceptible to a pair of shining blue eyes and a winning smile, she seized on the first topic that came to mind.

‘Tristan, you have never really talked about your father. I am sure he would have been proud of all you've done for Brittany.'

Tristan's face went cold. Francesca blinked, not quite believing how swiftly his smile had gone. Her stomach tightened, yet she persisted—she'd always wanted to see into his heart, where better than to start by talking about his father?

‘Tell me about Count Bedwyr, Tristan.'

‘There's not much to tell.' His tone was clipped. Dismissive.

She had heard him use that tone when chastising an undisciplined trooper. It came to her that he used it as armour, to keep people at bay. Well, he wasn't going to keep her at bay, not any longer. If he wanted to save their marriage, he needed to be more open.

‘How much did you see of Count Bedwyr after your mother's death?'

His blue eyes narrowed and at first she thought he wasn't going to answer. Then he glanced swiftly away, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

‘Not much. I remember Father scarcely better than my mother. As I've told you, he was a distant figure. At his last visit to Vannes his expression was as dour as your maid's.'

‘You exaggerate, I am sure.'

Tristan shook his head and a scatter of raindrops flew out from the edge of his hood. ‘I don't think so. It's hard to recall him exactly, the turning years have all but erased him from my mind.' His mouth tightened. He was focused on the rain-soaked highway ahead. ‘Ask me about Lord Morgan, if you wish. I have clearer memories of him.'

Francesca followed his lead and they continued on their way with her doing her best to learn more about the man she had married.
How old were you when you won your spurs? Did you form close friendships when you were fostered at Vannes?

Tristan answered those questions easily enough, but the warmth had gone from his eyes. He had withdrawn the moment she'd asked him about his father and there was more to it, she was sure, than the usual distance between a father and a young son who had been sent to live in another lord's household. That cold dismissive tone he used when he wanted to hold someone at arm's length—had he learned it from his father?

Certainly, something about Count Bedwyr made him deeply uncomfortable. Watching Tristan's set face as they rode through the wet towards St Michael's, Francesca feared he wasn't really going to open up to her any time soon. Perhaps he never would. Perhaps all they had was that dazzling flare of physical passion. If that were to die away, what would be left?

Francesca held down a sigh and tried to ignore the regret twisting her insides to knots. Deep down, it was beginning to look as though they were completely incompatible.

* * *

The rain had stopped and the bell for evensong was ringing when St Michael's Abbey hove into view. Tristan spurred towards the abbey walls with a sigh of relief.

All day Francesca had shown far too much interest in hearing about his father. She'd been extraordinarily inventive. Every blessed topic had deftly been linked back to Count Bedwyr. Tristan had no idea how she'd managed it.

They had talked about horses and Francesca got in a question about whether he had got his interest in building up his stables from his father. Tristan reminded her he didn't have much to say about his father and, thinking that would be the end of it, swiftly changed the subject. They'd talked about food and wine and before he knew it Francesca was asking if Count Bedwyr had kept a good cellar at des Iles. She could be a stubborn wench when she chose to be. Another change of subject—this time it had been his foray to England with Prince Geoffrey—and there she was enquiring if his father's interest in politics had matched his. Had his father visited England? Stubborn wench indeed.

There was a small, shuttered window in the abbey wall and a bell rope. Riding up to the window, Tristan kneed Flint closer and pulled the rope. As the bell rang, geese honked on the other side of the wall. After a brief pause, the shuttered window slid back to reveal a round face and a tonsured head.

Tristan smiled. ‘Brother Simon, I assume?'

‘Aye?'

‘Tristan des Iles at your service. You are expecting us, I believe.'

Brother Simon nodded. ‘Certainly, my lord. I shall open the main gate and let you into the lodge.' The monk looked past Tristan. ‘There are just four of you?'

‘Aye, this is my wife, Lady Francesca, and her maid.' He gestured at Bastian. ‘My squire will look after the horses. I have business in the village and will return later. Brother, we are all somewhat damp because of that rainstorm, I would be grateful if you could set a large fire.'

‘Very good, my lord.' The shutter closed with a clack.

Tristan waited, tapping the pommel of his saddle whilst the gate was unbolted. He made the mistake of looking at Francesca, who was studying him, a pleat in her brow.

She lifted her chin. ‘Business in the village, Tristan?'

‘Aye.' His voice emerged more curtly than he intended. ‘I shouldn't be long. However, don't hold supper on my account.'

Francesca nodded, mouth tight. Tristan wheeled Flint about, turned his head towards the village and trotted away.

Tristan had noticed the party of riders behind them.

Under the guise of watching Mari, he'd kept looking back and through the rain he'd imagined he'd seen a shock of fair hair. Of course, he could be mistaken, the visibility had been appalling. None the less, those riders made him uneasy. Particularly if one of them turned out to be Sir Joakim Kerjean. Surely it was too much of a coincidence that Kerjean should be returning to Brittany at precisely the same time that they were? Several possibilities presented themselves, none of them palatable. The most obvious one was that Kerjean might be foolish enough to consider that Francesca remained easy prey. If so, he was about to learn otherwise.

Tristan had lost sight of the other travellers just before the village. He was retracing his steps, praying that he was wrong about the identity of the man with the yellow hair. Sir Joakim Kerjean was not the only man in the world with hair that colour, it might not be him. However, if it was Kerjean, he was about to receive a warning. Francesca was out of his reach.

And if it wasn't Kerjean—well, no harm done. Tristan jabbed Flint with his heels. At least he would have a breathing space from Francesca's gentle and insistent probing about his father.

Tristan loathed talking about his father, he was too ashamed. His father had committed a great sin, a mortal sin that would shock good Brother Simon and the other monks. Indeed, Count Bedwyr's sin was so terrible that if the Church knew what he had done, it would not have allowed his body to be buried in hallowed ground.

Count Bedwyr of the Isles had committed suicide.

There was no proof, or none that had survived. Lord Morgan had made sure of that. And only a handful of people knew the shocking truth—Lord Morgan, Tristan and Roparz. Roparz had been a squire at des Iles, indeed poor Roparz had had the misfortune to find Count Bedwyr's body.

My father hanged himself from a hook in the stables and Roparz found him.

Roparz had had the sense to run straight to the castle steward, Sir Izidor. Sir Izidor had acted swiftly, removing Count Bedwyr's body to his bedchamber. He had summoned Lord Morgan and the two of them had made sure that word of Tristan's father's mortal sin never got out. Tristan prayed it never would. Sir Izidor had died some years since; Lord Morgan wouldn't dream of saying anything; and Tristan would trust Roparz with his life.

Even though not a whisper had escaped, Tristan discouraged all mention of his father. It was too painful. How could he have done such a thing? To be sure, he must have been wretched after the untimely death of his lady. But suicide? To deny life in that way, to have turned his back on his many heavy responsibilities? How could he have done it? Why? His father must have had reasons, but whatever they had been, suicide was surely a cowardly solution.

The trouble was that Tristan recognised that if he was going to save his marriage, he must be more open with Francesca. And he was being open, at least about their relationship. He had told her that he wanted their marriage to stand and he meant it. He just wasn't prepared to talk about his father.

It occurred to him that as far as Francesca was concerned, not talking about his father had become a real struggle. Part of him longed to tell her. Something about her made him want to bare his soul to her. Which was impossible. If she found out his father had killed himself, she was sure to be appalled. And if anyone else were to find out...

A shudder went through him. No one must know. He couldn't afford to make a slip, his father's bones had been resting next to his mother's in the family grave for over a decade and there they must stay.