Mistaken for a Lady (8 page)

Chapter Five

T
hey stopped to rest the horses halfway to La Chapelle and reached the inn by nightfall. Francesca wasn't used to so much riding and sight of that torch-lit stable yard was welcome indeed. Stiffly, she dismounted, surreptitiously stretching tired muscles as Bastian led the horses into the stable.

Tristan offered her his arm. ‘Aching?'

‘A little.' She grimaced and allowed him to lead her into the inn. ‘I am not used to spending the whole day on horseback.'

Tristan's mouth crooked up at one corner. ‘It's only been half a day, we didn't set out till noon.'

‘Nevertheless, I confess I can hardly walk.'

The inn was busy, this being a regular stopping point for travellers heading to Paris or Chartres. Tristan gave her a brief smile and saw her settled at a bench in a corner. A tallow candle stood on the table, the surface of which was spotted with candle grease.

‘You'll be warm enough here while I see about food and lodgings?' he asked.

‘Yes, thank you.'

Tristan squeezed past the tables to reach the serving hatch, hair gleaming like jet in the candlelight. A serving girl appeared out of the shadows and Francesca leaned her chin on her hand and watched him as he spoke to the girl.

She liked looking at Tristan, she always had. His dark, masculine features were undeniably attractive and that hadn't changed. Tristan laughed at something the girl had said before turning and making his way back to her.

‘We're in luck,' he said. ‘They have a small chamber under the eaves that is sometimes used as a bedchamber. We shall take that. Mari and Bastian can sleep in the common room.'

Francesca managed to hide her dismay. It was dispiriting not to be trusted and clearly he was not prepared to let her out of his sight. She forced a smile. ‘I could sleep for a month and I am sure you are about to tell me that we will set out at first light.'

His lips curved as he took his seat. ‘How well you know me.'

She held his gaze. ‘Do I? I don't feel I know you at all.' Apart from the conversation as they had set out, they had hardly spoken. Most of today's ride had been completed in silence.

The bench creaked as he turned to study her. ‘You wish to know more about me?'

Tristan's question startled her. He'd always been reserved and she'd often wished she knew more about him. These past couple of years, she had been building an image of him in her head, an image she was beginning to see might be entirely wrong.

‘I believe I would.' If Tristan had written to her, she had misjudged him. Of course, even if she had misjudged him, she would still have to step aside to allow him to make a more propitious marriage. None the less, it would be good to have the chance to understand him better.

When they had met, Francesca's fascination with Tristan had been entirely carnal, she'd been too young to realise she should have taken time to learn more about the man. His reputation for being highly ambitious had made her wary of asking too many questions. Back then, she had been in awe of her handsome husband, she'd been certain he wouldn't welcome curiosity from a green girl who knew nothing of the world of politics and power. This was her chance. He might not trust her, but that didn't stop her wanting to know everything about him. ‘I am sorry I was silent earlier.'

‘You were thinking.'

‘Aye.'

A pot-boy approached with a flagon of wine and two clay cups. ‘The meat won't be long, my lord.'

The boy moved off and once again that warm blue gaze was focused on her. ‘Please continue, Francesca. I am yours to command.' Tristan picked up the wine flagon, filled the cups and slid one towards her.

The wine was rich and heavy and steeped with spices. Francesca sipped thoughtfully. She wanted to know how Tristan had passed the last two years. It couldn't have been easy maintaining good relations with a wayward and wilful prince. Given that such a task was more diplomatic than military, both Baron Rolland and the English king must think highly of him.

Noting how busy the inn was—Mari and Bastian had been forced to take a table some distance away—Francesca leaned towards Tristan and kept her voice low. ‘With the tavern so full, I don't suppose I can ask you about your business of the past two years? I'd love to know what Prince Geoffrey is like.'

Tristan glanced about the inn and his mouth twitched. ‘That might not be wise,' he murmured, dark head touching hers. ‘The people here look like farmers and merchants, but appearances can be deceptive.'

She murmured assent. She was painfully aware that whilst she did want to hear about Tristan's business for the duchy, she was far more interested in what had lain in his heart. Had he thought of her often? Had he been saddened when his letters had gone unanswered? Had he decided to cut her out of his life for good?

Had he been faithful? Had he?

With an effort, she chose another question. ‘You never talked much about your parents.'

He drew back and his broad shoulders lifted. ‘There's not much to tell, I barely knew them. I was sent to foster with Lord Morgan de Vannes. I was there when my father sent word of my mother's death.'

Francesca blinked. ‘Count Bedwyr sent you word? He didn't come and tell you himself?'

Tristan gave her an odd look. ‘Of course not. Lord Morgan told me, Father was busy with the funeral rites.'

Of course not. How strange.
‘You went to the funeral though?'

Face a mask, Tristan shook his head. ‘Father thought it best that I remain with Lord Morgan at Vannes.'

Francesca found herself struggling to understand. She had been told that Count Bedwyr had worshipped his countess, and that after her death he'd been struck down with grief. Surely he had loved his son too? It was hard to fathom him abandoning Tristan in such a way. She opened her mouth to express her disapproval of Tristan being left to grieve alone in an alien household, when Tristan covered her hand with his.

‘Francesca, I can see what you are thinking and you are wrong, very wrong. Lord Morgan is the kindest of men and his wife, Lady Renea, is a good woman, I wasn't neglected.'

Francesca stared at Tristan's hand lying on hers. It was so much larger than hers, and so strong. Those long warrior's fingers could be gentle. Loving. His thumb moved—Francesca wondered if he even knew what he was doing—gently caressing the back of her hand. Her gut ached, sweet and agonising. Tristan's touch—Saints—he still had the power to melt her.

Raising her eyes to meet his, she swallowed and found words. ‘If you say so, although I can't help thinking your father treated you harshly.'

‘Francesca, it is common practice for the sons of noblemen to be fostered in other households. It's supposed to teach self-reliance.'

‘I know, I know. But I've never warmed to the idea of fostering.'

With a jolt, Francesca realised that in a sense both she and Tristan had been fostered. Of course, their cases were entirely different—she had grown up believing Count Myrrdin to be her father; whilst Tristan, knowing his father, had been sent to train in another lord's household. The difference between them surely was that she had grown up knowing what it was to be loved. Could the same be said of Tristan?

‘Tristan, did Lord Morgan knight you?'

‘Aye.' A muscle flickered in Tristan's jaw. ‘As it happened, I consider it a blessing I was sent to Vannes when I was. With my father dying a year after my mother, it was probably just as well I'd come to know Lord Morgan.'

‘It made the blow easier to take?'

‘If you like, although as I said, Father was always a distant figure. He named Lord Morgan my guardian. Lord Morgan ran des Iles until I was old enough to take over myself.'

Strangely moved, Francesca stared at their hands and fought the impulse to link her fingers with his. ‘Lord Morgan didn't come to our wedding, why was that?'

‘Lady Renea was ill.'

Francesca waited, frowning when he said nothing more. How like Tristan to tell half the tale. ‘Really, Tristan, you can't leave it at that. Lady Renea—did she recover?'

‘Aye, she recovered well.'

‘That is good to know.' She took a deep breath. ‘Tristan, I don't care what you say, to my mind, your father treated you shabbily by making you miss your mother's funeral. Papa—Count Myrrdin, that is—would never have behaved in such a way.'

Broad shoulders lifted. ‘As I told you, I didn't know my father well. However, as far as I could judge, Count Myrrdin was very different. That might be something to do with his age.'

Francesca hesitated. As Count Myrrdin had grown older he had begun to suffer from periods of vagueness which increased as the days went by. ‘You are referring to Papa's dreaminess?'

‘Not at all.' Tristan's thumb moved softly over her skin, back and forth, back and forth. It was both soothing and distracting. ‘If you must have it, I was thinking of Count Myrrdin's generous character. The way he welcomed me when I arrived at Fontaine, I shall never forget his warmth.'

Francesca relaxed. ‘He likes you.' She stared at Tristan's hand, enjoying the warmth of his touch more than she should, given that Tristan was likely planning their annulment. It was very confusing. Gently, she drew her hand from his. ‘Should you be doing that?'

‘What? Oh, my apologies.'

She watched, bemused, as dark colour ran into his cheeks. Tristan? Flushing? He looked slightly bewildered, which was most strange.

An awkward silence fell and Francesca toyed with her wine cup. When the silence drew out, she lurched into speech. ‘Count Myrrdin wasn't always otherworldly. He used to be extraordinarily clear-headed.'

‘And well known for his prowess at arms—he was quite the warrior in his youth.'

‘So I hear.' She sighed. ‘Tristan?'

‘Aye?'

‘Papa withdrew from the world of power politics long before our betrothal. It occurs to me that his lack of interest in anything that happened outside Fontaine had its effect on me.'

‘Oh?'

She ran her finger round the glazed rim of her wine cup and gave a small smile. ‘Whenever I questioned him about duchy business, he would change the subject.'

Tristan's eyes were full of sympathy. ‘He was old and his mind was tired. I've seen it happen to others—their world begins to shrink and they lose interest in what is happening elsewhere.'

‘I know he couldn't help it. Papa lost interest in the world outside the castle long before you and I were married. I suspect his world began to shrink after Countess Mathilde's death. My main regret was that every time I asked him about Breton affairs, he would lose the thread of his thoughts.' She gave him a small smile. ‘It was almost impossible to unravel what he was saying.'

‘That must have been frustrating.'

‘That is an understatement. I wanted so much to be able to converse intelligently with you. You must have found me very uninformed.' A lowering thought came to her. Was that why Tristan had kept her in bed in the early days of their marriage? Had he thought her too ignorant to be taken seriously?

He smiled, eyes gleaming in amusement. ‘You do yourself a disservice. Francesca, I enjoyed being with you. It was restful beyond anything I had experienced. You brought me no petitions, you made no demands.'

‘I suspect Papa knew he was at fault for not tutoring me better. One of the reasons he chose you for my husband was because he respected your acumen and trusted your judgement. However you look at it, I was too ignorant to marry a count. I must have been a grave disappointment.'

Tristan pressed his thigh against hers—the movement was subtle and, she thought, deliberate.

‘Far from it.' His mouth curved, he was staring hungrily at her mouth and her stomach swooped. ‘As I recall, after the wedding there was never enough time for talking.'

Her face scorched and she looked swiftly away. ‘That's true.'

They'd spent too much time in each other's arms. Although they had talked, endlessly, it had been about inconsequential domestic topics such as how soon they might enlarge the stables at St Méen so as to accommodate more of Tristan's horses. They discussed the decoration of the manor solar—how many cushions Francesca should embroider with Tristan's colours. Why, he'd even given her his opinion on her design for the wall-hanging.

When she glanced his way again, Tristan was still staring at her mouth as though he wanted to devour it. Inevitably, their eyes met and for a moment she lost her breath. That look made bittersweet memories rush back at her—rumpled bedsheets; the softness of raven-dark hair as she sifted it through her fingers. That look, Saints, it was altogether too carnal for a quiet supper in a tavern.

The candle flickered—the pot-boy stood at Tristan's elbow, a wooden platter of lamb in one hand and a basket of bread in the other. ‘Here you are,
mon seigneur
,' the boy said, placing the platter in front of them with a clunk. ‘If you would carve off as much as you and your lady need, I will take the rest of the joint to your friends over there.' He jerked his head towards Mari and Bastian.

Tristan took up the carving knife and Francesca realised she would get no more out of him until after they had eaten.

* * *

Holding his candle clear of a draught, Tristan approached the bedchamber. The landlord had told him there was only one bed and, given how Francesca had pulled her hand from his when she'd realised he was caressing it, Tristan was concerned. Hoping to forestall an argument, he'd taken the precaution of asking the landlord to escort her upstairs as soon as she'd pushed her empty plate aside. That had been a good half hour ago. If she had been going to object about sharing a bed with him, she would surely have done so.

Tristan could have asked for a pallet to be brought in. He hadn't, he wanted to sleep with her. Nothing would happen, he was determined on that. He wanted her close, he enjoyed her company. It was undoubtedly a weakness, Francesca was his Achilles' heel. He'd enjoyed holding her hand before supper. Until she had noticed. It had been oddly warming to watch those large grey eyes fill with fellow feeling as he told her about his mother's death. Lord, his own eyes had prickled. More weakness. Sympathy always made him uncomfortable. It was such a novelty, he hardly knew how to react. As he had told Francesca, he'd been with Lord Morgan so long he barely remembered his mother. He couldn't account for that prickle of tears. Francesca got under his guard in a way no one ever had. She was his weakness.