Mistaken for a Lady (7 page)

‘Four, I think. Yes, four.' He paused. ‘I would have written more, except your lack of response made me think I was wasting my time.'

‘Tristan, what could have happened?'

He searched her face. ‘Let me get this straight. You wrote to me. I wrote to you. We both wrote several times and none of our letters was delivered.' Blue eyes bored into her. ‘You swear you wrote?'

‘Many times.'

Tristan swore. ‘What the hell has been going on? In the past two years I received several reports from Sir Ernis. Not a word from you.'

Francesca twisted the reins round her forefinger. ‘I can't understand it.'

‘Nor can I. You sent all your letters to Château des Iles?'

‘Yes, Ned took them. He told me he delivered them safely.'

‘Ned is a good lad, I can't imagine what has gone wrong.' Tristan stared thoughtfully at the road ahead. ‘Francesca, Roparz is my steward at des Iles and he told me— Well, never mind. That is in the past. Francesca, I swear not one of your letters reached me.'

* * *

As their journey along the Paris road continued, Tristan felt Francesca's gaze rest thoughtfully on him, although whenever he looked her way, she was frowning at Princess's glossy black mane. When Francesca's frown deepened, Tristan decided it could do no harm to repeat what he had told her earlier. ‘Francesca, I did not receive your letters.'

Silence.

Tristan couldn't be certain Francesca believed him and it irked him not to be believed. Guilt sat heavy in his heart. This was largely his fault, he should have done more to prevent their relationship deteriorating so badly. In focusing on politics and fighting, he'd seriously underestimated Francesca's importance to him. Worse, he had used duty as an excuse to keep unruly emotions safely locked away. Their marriage had begun so well, she hadn't deserved his neglect.

The wind lifted her veil so it billowed out behind her. With a sigh, she reached back over her shoulder and dragged the veil forward, deftly twisting it into a rope to make it more manageable. Another woman would have had to rein in to complete such a manoeuvre, not so Francesca. He watched her tuck the veil efficiently beneath her cloak, and a simple phrase repeated itself over and over in his head.

Francesca wrote to me. Francesca wrote to me.

Tristan would give anything to know the content of those letters. That they hadn't reached him would have to be investigated later, but in the meantime her question—
Did you get my letters?
—changed everything.

When Tristan had responded to the call to arms, he'd left behind a wife who viewed the world through innocent eyes. He would be the first to admit that they hadn't really known each other. It hadn't seemed to matter. Francesca had been young and fresh and Tristan had found her guilelessness unexpectedly appealing. He'd never come across someone as uncomplicated. It had been extraordinarily refreshing and very flattering. Her face would light up if he so much as looked her way.

He had no doubt that Francesca's delight in the joys of the marriage bed hadn't been feigned. It wasn't predicated on the fact that he was one of Brittany's greatest lords, it had nothing to do with his wealth, or the power and standing Francesca would have as his countess. There was an astonishing spark between them and it had been as delightful as it had been unexpected.

Back then, Francesca hadn't hidden a single emotion. When they had married, they had known each other only a week, and she had come to their marriage bed as eager as he. Her untutored sensuality was as exciting as it was beguiling.

It had taken three days of marriage for her to tell him that she loved him. It would have been impossible for her not to tell him, he realised. She had been the most straightforward, honest person he had ever met.

Another week of their marriage had passed before Tristan realised that he was in danger of becoming seriously besotted himself. He didn't tell her. He couldn't, he simply wasn't a man to wear his heart on his sleeve. He'd sworn fidelity and he'd meant to honour that vow. He'd sworn to cherish her too. He'd been confident that Francesca would understand how he felt, his body spoke to hers in bed and hers responded. She understood.

Or so he had thought. When Esmerée had been brought to bed with Kristina, Tristan had naturally returned briefly to des Iles to ensure she was being cared for and to meet his daughter. That was when the secrets had begun.

Guilt sat heavy in his gut. He really should have told Francesca about Esmerée and he should have told her about Kristina. He hadn't done so because of the rebel alliance, it seemed safer that way. If the alliance had found out that Tristan had a daughter, Kristina's life would have been in danger. An innocent child might have been used as a bargaining chip.

So, instead of trusting Francesca with the truth, Tristan had lied to himself. He'd told himself it didn't matter that he was putting barriers between them. He'd convinced himself that his marriage to Francesca wasn't a matter of the heart, it was a political arrangement designed for the benefit of the Counties of Fontaine and des Iles and as such he had no need to tell her about Kristina.

In reality, there was more to it than that. He hadn't wanted anything to spoil the extraordinary rapport he'd found with his wife. Knowing that Roparz was caring for Esmerée had given Tristan the excuse to relegate his former mistress and his daughter to the back of his mind. They were part of his past, Francesca was his future. He hadn't wanted her altered in any way. Kristina and Esmerée hadn't been mentioned.

And later, when Tristan had been summoned to Rennes to the service of the little duchess, he'd been confident that his guileless, adoring and innocent wife would be waiting for him when he returned.

I took Francesca for granted. I thought she would keep all that shiny innocence.

Tristan hadn't liked leaving her, the extent to which he'd felt torn in two had surprised him. After all, he was used to being separated from his family. As a boy, his father's long silences when Tristan had been sent to foster with Lord Morgan had taught him to tamp down his emotions. And after what had happened with his father— Briefly, Tristan closed his eyes.

Emotions were messy and complicated and not for great lords—it was a lord's duty to focus on politics—battling enemies, holding land. That was a piece of advice he recalled his father, Count Bedwyr, giving him shortly after his mother had died.

Unfortunately, his father had not heeded his own advice—with tragic consequences. Tristan had learned from his father's tragic end. Emotions must be dominated, they must be controlled.

Even so, after Tristan had left Fontaine to serve the duchy, he'd been astounded at how he'd longed to hear from Francesca. Her silence had cut him to the quick, although it hadn't really surprised him. His father had never written to him whilst he'd been growing up under Lord Morgan's eye, why should Francesca?

But now...

She
had
written to him. He studied her profile—the sweet curve of her nose and the pretty pink of her mouth. The long, dark eyelashes. A curl of desire twisted inside. He wanted her. From that first meeting before their wedding, he'd wanted her. That had not changed. He'd wanted her in Sir Gervase's office, he would always want her.

If only they could go back in time and recapture some of the joy of their early days together. Was that possible?

Tristan had often tried to imagine what it must have been like for Francesca, believing she was a high-born lady, only to discover that she was nothing of the kind. As he had waited in vain for her to write to him, it had never occurred to him that she in her turn might be waiting for letters from him.

Had she waited? Had she longed to hear from him?

If waiting for her letters had driven him mad with uncertainty, what had his apparent silence done to her? In losing what she believed to be her birthright, she had reason enough for bitterness. Add to that two years of what she must think was neglect and carelessness from him. No wonder she expected an annulment.

A blinding flash of insight had him freezing in the saddle. He didn't want to let her go. He wanted what he had never had, space to get to know her.
I want to give our marriage a chance. I don't want an annulment.
Sir Joakim's face swam into his mind and Tristan gritted his teeth. He certainly didn't want Kerjean to marry her.

I want to keep her.
Tristan's heart jumped and his blood quickened, the thought of persuading Francesca to remain his wife was most enlivening. And not a little unnerving.

He would make the most of this journey to Brittany. He would explore every facet of Francesca's character. He would give her a chance to trust him again and at journey's end he would ask her to stay with him. And if she really didn't want him, he would do his utmost to see her happily settled before finding himself a second wife.

Noticing him watching her, she gave him a faint smile. ‘I'd forgotten what it is to ride so fast.'

Tristan took the change of topic in his stride. ‘You haven't been galloping through the Champagne vineyards?'

‘Certainly not. I have lived a quiet life—too quiet.'

Which chimed in with what Sir Ernis had told him. Francesca was shy, Tristan realised with something of a start. It was an aspect of her personality he had not marked until now, mainly because the passion between them had ignited so swiftly. It had never occurred to him that Francesca might be shy with other people. Acting as Count Myrrdin's steward, he hadn't had much chance to observe her outside Fontaine, where, before the arrival of Lady Clare, she had naturally felt entirely at home.

Tristan had first met Francesca a week before their marriage. They'd done their courting as they rode along the tracks and paths that criss-crossed the woods above Fontaine Castle. One of the first things that Tristan had noticed about her was that she was an excellent horsewoman. Princess had been the obvious betrothal gift and Francesca had kept her in good condition, the mare's flanks gleamed like polished ebony. Francesca looked stunning on her—a dark-haired beauty on a delicate black mare. Tristan's gaze caught on Princess's bridle as a round harness strap gleamed softly in the light—a silver-strap ornament complete with an enamelled black cinquefoil.

He'd given Francesca a set of strap ornaments as a Christmas gift and it would seem she still used them. Her large grey eyes were full of shadows, she was thinking about Count Myrrdin. Likely it didn't help that she was wary about being in Tristan's company.
We have been apart too long. She has learned to mistrust me.

There was no doubt that the girl Tristan had married was gone. That gorgeous, shiny naivety was no more. Sadly, he was pretty certain that the lost letters were only part of the story. He too was to blame, he had taken her for granted when he had left to serve the duchy and this was the result. His sweet, beautiful, adoring wife had changed. She was, in some invisible way, scarred. He wasn't sure if he could mend matters between them, but by God, he was going to try.

He gave her a direct look. ‘You don't believe I wrote to you.' Tristan's belly tightened as he paused for her reply. He could delude himself no longer, he didn't want an annulment. All the while he had waited to hear from her, he had held on to the hope that she would one day welcome him back. The silence lengthened as he endured her careful scrutiny.

‘I am not sure, my lord.'

My lord.
Her use of a more formal mode of address didn't escape him. She was wary and was using formality to keep him at a distance. Very well, he wouldn't push it. Yet. ‘We shall discuss this further when we stop to rest the horses.'

A lock of Francesca's ebony-coloured hair streamed in the wind. ‘As you wish, my lord. However, if you say you didn't receive my letters, then of course I must believe you.'

A village passed in a blur of movement. They slowed down to trot over a bridge and spurred on again. Tristan looked back. He was glad to see that Mari and Bastian were only a couple of horse-lengths behind. It would be the packhorse rather than Mari that slowed them down.

Irritably, he rolled his shoulders, instinct was telling him that someone was following them. He looked past Mari to the road they had covered. There was nothing there, just Mari and Bastian and the packhorse. The feeling remained—a slight prickle of unease running down his spine. Surely Kerjean wasn't foolhardy enough to be following them? Having warned him off in Provins, it seemed unlikely.

Nevertheless, the prickle down his spine persisted. Someone was following them and sooner or later they would reveal themselves.

As the field strips flashed by, Francesca's face was tight with concentration. That line between her eyebrows remained, a line that warned Tristan that despite her words, she had reservations about him and was holding herself aloof.

‘We won't be keeping up this pace for ever,' he said.

‘No, indeed, we'd lame the horses.'

‘I aim to reach Melun tomorrow.'

‘We are staying at the castle?'

Tristan made a negative gesture. ‘I think not. Melun is a stronghold of the French royal domain, and if Lord Ursio is in residence, he will press me for information on Breton relations with the English king and Prince Geoffrey. I'd like to avoid that if I can. We'll stay at St Michael's Abbey—their guest house is second to none.'

‘And tonight? Where do we stay tonight?'

‘There's an inn at La Chapelle, it's midpoint between here and Melun. The lodgings are clean and the food's tolerable.'

‘Very well, I shall rely on your judgement.' Her voice was cool, her eyes remote.

Tristan glanced at the silver-strap ornaments on Princess's bridle and hid a smile. With luck, it wouldn't be long before he made Francesca's face light up in the old way.