Mistaken for a Lady (12 page)

Messengers came and went. Candles were lit. Logs were thrown on to the fire and more knights gathered by the hearth, muttering to each other. Muted conversations were taking place all over the castle. Servants with long faces flitted back and forth with food for the grieving household. Every last soul in the household was grieving, there was no doubt of that. Tristan had always known that Count Myrrdin had been liked by his people, but watching the downcast faces, he realised he'd not known the half of it. The people of Fontaine had loved their eccentric lord. It was something of an accolade. Tristan doubted his own father had been held in such high esteem. He caught himself wondering what the retainers at des Iles thought of their present lord and shook his head in impatience. What did it matter? His role was to do his duty and do it well. His heart ached.

A maidservant approached, a jug in hand. Her cheeks were red and splotched with tears. ‘More ale, Lord Tristan?'

‘Thank you, but no.'

The girl took the jug to the knight sitting next to him on the next bench. ‘Ale, Sir Brian?' Her voice cracked.

Count Myrrdin's death was hardly unexpected, yet it was clear that everyone here was grieving.

Tristan was on the point of returning to the chapel to insist Francesca took herself to bed when the door to one of the stairwells opened and Mari came in. To his surprise, she hurried over and bobbed him a curtsy.

‘Lady Francesca has finished her vigil,
mon seigneur
. I took the liberty of ordering supper to be taken to your bedchamber. She won't eat. I thought you might like to know.' Mari drew closer and lowered her voice. ‘Lady Francesca hasn't cried either. I doubt she will sleep. If you could get her to eat, then she might sleep. She needs sleep more than anything.'

‘Thank you, Mari, I shall do my best.'

* * *

They'd been allocated a bedchamber just off the solar. It wasn't large, yet it was luxury compared to the chambers they'd slept in on their journey from Provins. The mattress was filled with feathers; two candles stood on a side-table which had been polished to a high sheen; and the walls and ceilings were covered with a repeating pattern of blue flowers.

Francesca must have been washing her face, for she had taken off her veil and was sitting on the edge of the mattress when he entered, folding a drying cloth over and over. Tristan drew her to her feet and wrapped his arms about her.

With a sigh, she leaned against him. He rubbed her back and said, ‘My heart, I am so sorry.'

She nodded and they stood there silently until at length Tristan recalled what Mari had said about Francesca needing to eat. He drew back and eyed the tray on the table. ‘Someone has brought supper.'

‘I am not hungry.'

‘It looks like duck—your favourite. You should eat something.'

‘Tristan, I couldn't.'

Mari's words echoed in his mind.
She needs sleep more than anything.

Francesca remained by the bed—her face was bone white and her mouth pinched, she was in the grip of deepest misery. Sensing that she was hardly able to keep to her feet, Tristan removed the drying cloth from her grasp and made her sit with him on the bed.

‘Try a little food,' he murmured, sliding an arm about her waist. ‘It smells tempting to me.'

‘Tristan, I couldn't.'

He touched her cheek. ‘Something to drink?'

Francesca stared at him, her beautiful grey eyes so blank with grief that it tore his heart. ‘I should have been here. Tristan, all these months—'

‘You can't blame yourself, you didn't know he was ill. In any case, guilt is pointless, you can't alter the past.' His thumb shifted, a small caress that brought the tiniest softening to the muscles about her mouth. And was he imagining it, or was she leaning into his caress? Heartened, he stood. ‘I'll pour some wine, I believe Mari has had it spiced for you.'

She needs sleep more than anything.
Tristan found himself hoping that Mari had included plenty of soothing herbs in the mix. If anyone needed soothing tonight, it was Francesca. Even if there were no soporifics in it, wine would surely help her relax. ‘Take it from me, my heart, it will dull the edge of your pain. In any case, you have to drink it.'

She stiffened. ‘Have to?'

Tristan smiled. ‘I have strict instructions from Mari, who tells me you must be made to eat and drink. If I fail, she'll have my head on a platter.' Some of the bleakness left her eyes and he went to the side-table to pour the wine. When he held out the goblet, she took it from him. Hiding a sigh of relief, he resumed his place next to her on the bed and waited until she had taken a small sip.

‘Good?'

‘Aye.' She looked at him over the rim of her goblet. ‘You are winning her over, you know.'

‘Mari?' He snorted. ‘I wouldn't be too certain.'

‘Oh, I think you are, she wouldn't be bossing you otherwise.'

Some colour was returning to Francesca's cheeks and her mouth was more relaxed.
She needs sleep more than anything.
At least he was distracting her, already she looked a thousand times better than she had when he'd crossed the threshold.

With a sigh, she set the goblet aside. ‘Thank you, Tristan.' She gave a weak smile. ‘I should like to retire now.'

‘Very well. Here, I shall see to your lacings.'

The tiniest of frowns creased her forehead and he couldn't help but notice how her gaze flickered briefly to his mouth. Gently, he turned her so he could reach her lacings. For some reason his fingers turned into thumbs. He untied the bow.

She needs sleep more than anything.
Sleep? Tristan hid a smile, remembering the first time he had unlaced her. They'd become lovers, the best of lovers. Francesca had slept well back then, there had been no tossing and turning, no lying in bed staring wide-eyed into the dark for hour upon hour.

Seduce her.
The words popped unbidden into his head and he froze.

Hmm... Could he? His heart thumped. His mouth dried.

Carefully, gripping her by the waist with one hand, Tristan continued unlacing her gown. He didn't hurry, he was too busy thinking. Wondering. She was his wife and he didn't want that to change. Yet to seduce her whilst she was grieving?

It wouldn't be ethical. It would be wrong.

Yet the thought wouldn't leave him. And to make matters worse, the nape of her neck looked exactly as it had always done, eminently kissable. Swallowing hard, he held himself in check. He wouldn't kiss her, not unless he was certain that she wanted him to.

It would help her sleep though, he was sure of that. A pulse throbbed, his blood began to heat.

She looked over her shoulder at him. Her eyes were dark. Impossibly seductive. He held in a groan. That look, if she did but know it, was pure invitation.

She turned away again and slowly, methodically, he worked down the lacing. She was grieving. It would be wrong.

Fabric sighed as the back of her gown slowly fell open to reveal her linen undergown. Tristan allowed his fingers to slide up to the warm, creamy skin at the nape of her neck. He skimmed his fingertips along the sweet curve, searching for the small black curl of hair that had always lain just beneath her braid. Ah, there it was.

His gut ached. That creamy skin was calling to him. He burned to kiss her. He wanted to lie with her flesh to flesh, he wanted...

She twisted around. ‘Tristan, what are you doing?'

He swallowed hard and his thoughts blurred into one another. He had never felt so confused in his life; he had never felt so much heat, so much wanting. He would die if he didn't have her. They would die. ‘It would be wrong,' he managed. ‘It used to help you sleep, but it would be very wrong tonight.'

‘Tristan, what are you talking about?'

Chapter Nine

T
ristan was unlacing her gown so sensuously Francesca's pulse quickened. Her skin tingled where he touched it, exactly as though they'd stepped into the past. What was he doing? When she turned to give him a searching glance, she learned nothing—with the candles on the side-table behind him, his face was in shadow.

‘Tristan?'

He pushed up from the bed and scrubbed his face with his hand. ‘Forget it.' He cleared his throat and lifted his shoulders. ‘Your beauty hasn't faded and my mind ran away with me. Let us simply say it has been a long time.'

Once, Francesca would have basked in the blatant flattery. However, something far more interesting than flattery caught her attention. ‘It has been a long time?'

Her gaze followed him as he went to the side-table and pinched out a candle. His hand was shaking. Shaking. And his voice—husky with desire—betrayed him.
He wants me. And I want him.

She tipped her head to one side. They desired each other just as they had always done, that wasn't news. Yet Tristan seemed to be implying there was more to it than that. He was saying he had been faithful to her. Could it be true? In Provins, she'd waited and waited for letters that had never arrived. Convinced he would like nothing more than to forget his low-born wife, she had lived in dread of his dismissal. She had assumed he would take lovers.

It had been horrible imagining Tristan with another woman and she'd tried not to dwell on it. It had been hard though. Tristan wasn't a monk, she knew he'd had lovers before their wedding and, whilst Francesca had not heard of him having any once they were married, he had proved himself the most eager of bedfellows. A vigorous, physical man like Tristan would be certain to find chastity a challenge. In truth, she would have thought he'd find it impossible.

She bit her lip. They'd been swept back into each other's lives so quickly and in the past few days much had happened to change her opinion of him. She now knew she'd judged him too harshly over the letters. Her assumption that there had been other women during their separation might also be wrong.

She twisted her fingers together. ‘Tristan, are you saying that you have kept our wedding vows?'

Francesca had been faithful to Tristan, of course. It had been easy. She'd loathed being separated from him and her skin crawled if she so much as thought of sharing her body with anyone else. She'd thought herself in love with him. He, however, had made no such confession, there had been no answering love binding him to her. She had been certain he would have found other willing bedfellows. Had she been wrong? She held her breath as he stepped in front of her. His tall, broad-shouldered form blocked out the light of the remaining candle. His gaze drifted down, and she realised that with the lacings loosed, the front of her gown was gaping. Catching the fabric, she held it to her chest.

‘You and no other,' he muttered. ‘Since our marriage so it has been. Francesca, I have not broken our wedding vows.'

Her mouth went dry.

Tristan had been faithful to her. She felt herself smile—praise the Lord, he'd been faithful. Recognising he was waiting for her response, she held out her hand.

‘I too.' She swallowed. ‘I have been faithful to you.'

Warm fingers closed on hers and her heart thumped. He turned her hand over and placed a soft kiss in her palm. As he slowly drew her to her feet, the light fell full on his face—the heat in his eyes was plain to see.

He gave her a careful smile, set his hands on her shoulders and turned her about. ‘Come, my heart, you need to sleep. I have my orders.' He tugged at her gown and peeled it from her shoulders, easing it over her hips so it dropped to the floor. ‘Bed.'

Leaving her gown where it had fallen, Francesca clambered into bed. She was conscious that before Tristan had entered the bedchamber, she'd been drowning in misery. His presence—overpoweringly male, overpoweringly attractive—was just the distraction she'd needed.

I want him. He wants me. Perhaps, for a time, he can help me forget.

Pensively, she watched him undress, allowing her gaze to slide over his perfect male shape. There was a small scar on his left hip, she remembered that scar and it appeared he had collected a few more. There was a new one on his left forearm and another on his ribs. She studied his strong warrior's shoulders. Tristan was all lean, toned muscle. A glance had her yearning to recapture all they had lost. Shamelessly, she let her gaze follow the way that dark hair on his chest arrowed down. Her cheeks burned, he couldn't deny that he wanted her.

He looked her way. There was a hint of colour on his cheekbones that might be desire. Or it might be embarrassment, though why he should feel embarrassed at confessing fidelity, she couldn't fathom. There was a wistfulness in his eyes that she'd not seen before. He cleared his throat. ‘You prefer that I leave the candle lit?'

Francesca shifted, she was absurdly conscious of how much she wanted him. Would it be as good as ever, or might their separation have killed the passion? ‘I don't mind.'

‘I'll leave it alight, then. It looks safe enough.'

He joined her in bed and she waited for his arms to wind about her.

Nothing. Tristan lay on his back, apparently staring at the blue flowers painted on the ceiling.

She frowned. ‘Aren't you going to hold me?'

An arm came out. ‘If you wish.'

She rolled closer and nestled against him. ‘I want more than that.' She kissed his chest. ‘And so do you.'

‘I won't deny it.' His mouth twisted as he stroked the top of her head. ‘Francesca, you're grieving, it wouldn't be right.'

‘Not even if I want to?'

‘I won't take advantage of you.'

She kissed his chest and allowed her hand to drift across his waist. Her fingertips eased towards his abdomen. She heard his sharp intake of breath and smiled. ‘You are too chivalrous. Consider this—what if I want to take advantage of you?'

She slid her hand down a little further and closed firmly over him.
Tristan has said he wants to keep me as his wife, even though I bring him so little. If I bore his child, his heir, I would be giving him something of real worth. Saints, I was mad to think I could marry someone else, there is only one man for me.

‘Tristan?'

‘Mon Dieu.'
A strong hand clamped on hers. His voice was strained. ‘Francesca, you test me beyond endurance.'

‘I need you, Tristan.'

He shook his head, breath ragged. ‘It would be wrong, too much is unresolved between us.'

Francesca squeezed gently, sensuously. ‘It doesn't feel wrong to me.' Slowly, she ran her foot down his shin and a sigh of pure want escaped her. ‘It feels—you feel—perfect.'

He tipped her head up, the blue of his eyes burned bright. ‘Francesca, you're not thinking straight, you're grieving. You—'

‘I know I want you, I always have.' She moved her hand on him, a subtle, teasing, intimate caress. He jumped in her palm, and when his body angled towards her, she knew she almost had him. She smiled. ‘Mari would recommend it, I am sure.'

‘Like hell she would, that woman loathes me.'

‘I am not so sure,' she murmured. She kissed his chest. ‘It would help me sleep. Tristan?'

A large hand cupped her face. He toyed with her earlobe and sparks of excitement raced all over her body—breasts, belly, toes. Her limbs went lax, and she melted against him. She could tell he was weakening. His darkening eyes betrayed him, as did the heightened colour on his cheekbones. His breathing was flurried.

With a groan, he pushed her back into the pillows and slid his leg between hers. Gently, he lifted her hand from between them, pressing his entire length against her as he kissed her fingers and meshed them with his.

‘Not yet, my heart, or it will be over before it begins.' He held her gaze. ‘You had better not regret this.'

As if I would.

His smile was crooked. ‘The things I do to get you to sleep.'

He lowered his head. Francesca strained to reach him even though there was no need and his lips covered hers. He kissed her slowly, teasingly, as though he had all the time in the world. It was far too slowly for her. Hungry for more, she opened her mouth to invite him in. Their tongues met and her senses narrowed, and then it was as it had always been between them.

He turned her into a wanton, a wanton with no thought in her head but bedding with Tristan le Beau. There was no bedchamber painted with blue flowers, there was no bed. There was only Tristan, the most desirable man in the world.

He drew up the hem of her undershift, removed it completely and dropped it over the side of the bed. He sighed as his palms closed on her breasts. His mouth was firm, tempting her in the old way, making her ache with want, making her writhe against him.

His scent, musky, masculine and heart-rendingly familiar, twisted through her consciousness. All she wanted was the feel of skin against skin. His skin against hers. The palms of her hands stroked up and down his flanks, seeming to drink him in. Emboldened by his groan, she wound her arms about his neck and kissed his chin, his cheek, his mouth. She kissed him everywhere she could reach. She had a lot of kissing to make up for, and for this night at least, she knew Tristan felt the same.

She gripped his buttocks. Her hands roamed hungrily over every inch of him. She sucked at his neck and won another sensuous groan.

He nudged her legs apart. His hands, it would seem, were as hungry to touch her as she was to touch him.

The bedchamber was lost. There was just Tristan and Francesca and a world of hot sighs and disjointed phrases.

‘Do you still like this?'

‘Oh, yes.'

‘And this?'

‘Please. More, yes, more.'

Finally, when she was in a frenzy of want that had wound so tight she was sure she would explode, he pushed into her.

A moment of stillness fell upon them. Warm hands cupped her face. ‘Francesca.' His voice went deep, to the core of her being. ‘I have missed this with you. Lord, how I've missed it.'

Heart too full for words, Francesca let her hands and body speak for her. She caressed his broad shoulders and kissed his neck. She slid her hand about his waist and hugged him to her. She gripped his buttocks and tilted her pelvis and the world exploded into movement again.

The rhythm hadn't changed, they found it on an instant. It made her whole, it turned two into one.

It was over far too quickly. Tristan reached between them—one careful, knowing stroke, two—and a blinding flash of bliss sent her to heaven. An instant later, he was with her.

* * *

The mood in Fontaine Castle was understandably subdued. Francesca had agreed to spend the morning in the solar with Lady Clare, helping with the arrangements for Count Myrrdin's funeral. Tristan didn't expect her to find it easy. Lady Clare was a nice enough woman, but there was no denying that she was, in effect, standing in Francesca's shoes. Whichever way you looked at it, it was an impossible situation.

Aware of the difficulties Francesca would face, Tristan had arranged for her to meet him by the stables at noon. When the hall door opened and she stepped out into the bailey, he breathed a sigh of relief. He was desperate to escape the confines of the castle and Francesca must surely feel the same.

She needed respite from the gloom and complexity. Had Château des Iles been reduced to this state of abject misery after his father's death? Tristan grimaced, it was odd how he couldn't remember. He pushed the thought away—what had happened after his father's death had no bearing here.

Francesca's face was strained as she walked towards him, though it was pleasing to see her eyes soften when she saw him. Tristan felt himself relax. The barriers between them were breaking down. All morning he had been reliving their love play, praying that she would not regret it. He could see no trace of regret, thank God.

Smiling, Tristan met her halfway across the yard as the portcullis lifted and a patrol clattered in. He was further heartened when she held her hand out to him. He bowed over it and kissed it. ‘All is well?'

‘As well as can be expected.'

‘The funeral arrangements?'

‘Papa's funeral will be held in three days' time.' Francesca sighed and twined her fingers with his. ‘I probably shouldn't say this—in some ways it is worse than I expected being here again. I...I hardly know how to behave and my presence confuses the servants—they don't know who to defer to, me or Lady Clare. It's very awkward.'

This was exactly what Tristan had feared might happen. ‘You need fresh air,' he said. ‘Bastian is saddling the horses. I thought you'd like to ride out to St Méen, we might inspect your manor. If all is in order, we could stay there until after the funeral. It might make things easier.'

Her fingers squeezed his. ‘Thank you, that sounds like an excellent idea.'

They had mounted up and were clattering towards the gate with Bastian when a groom ran up, a bundle under his arm. ‘Lord Tristan?'

Tristan drew rein. ‘Good day. Conan, isn't it?'

‘Yes, my lord.' The incoming patrol were milling about near a water trough, Conan jerked his head towards it. ‘I was in that patrol, my lord. I think you should know I found this in a ditch by the gatehouse.'

He passed the bundle up to Tristan. Fabric of some kind, it was heavy with damp, as though it had been gathering dew all night. Mindful not to startle Flint, Tristan opened it out and his eyes widened. He was staring at his coat of arms, carefully embroidered on what had once been a wall-hanging. Several slashes cut right across his shield. His gut tightened and swiftly he rolled it up again. He wasn't swift enough.

With a gasp, Francesca reached across. ‘That is my work! Let me see.'