Mistaken For A Lady. Carol Townend
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With difficulty, he eased back. He had to tell her about Count Myrrdin. Talking was the last thing he wanted to do, he was hard as iron. He wanted to go on touching her; he wanted to keep her close; he wanted to kiss her until they both lost their senses. He was halfway there already. Lord, he would never let her go.
His thoughts blurred and despite his resolution—I must tell her Count Myrrdin has summoned her to Fontaine—all he could think was how much he wanted her. He fought the impulse to press himself against her and caught himself wondering if an annulment might, after all, be a mistake. Then the old bitterness stirred. She never came to des Iles, she deserted me. She never replied to my letters.
He heard her swallow, her breathing was unsteady. ‘Tristan, it is marvellous to see you, but should we be kissing with so much unresolved between us?’
It was on the tip of his tongue to reply that she was his wife and he had every right to kiss her. He had to remind himself that she had fled Brittany and never looked back. ‘Probably not. Francesca, I bring news from Fontaine.’
Damn the gloom, he couldn’t read her expression, all he could see was her shape. Her very feminine shape, temptingly outlined by the light creeping round the door. Desire coiled inside him, dark and angry. Francesca wasn’t the woman he’d thought her to be and their life together had disintegrated into an utter shambles. He needed a titled lady with a spotless reputation. Despite that, he’d never wanted a woman more than this one and he had no words to tell her.
Blindly, he reached for her, but his arms closed on thin air.
Francesca drew in a steadying breath, stared at the dark shape that was Tristan and tried to analyse the warmth that had flooded every vein. It was heaven to be with him again, pure heaven, so much so that it was almost impossible to concentrate on what he had said. Something about news from Fontaine.
She felt most odd. Light-headed. Dizzy with happiness. Tristan had come for her! He had received her letter and he had come for her. Her heart thumped. Had he decided their marriage would stand? He had acknowledged her as his wife before that bully of a knight—that had to be a good sign.
Unless—Francesca’s stomach sank—Tristan was extremely possessive. Perhaps he had come to tell her their union was to be dissolved and he had claimed her only because until their marriage was over she remained his. Sad to say, the decision was in Tristan’s hands, she would have little influence. Tristan le Beau was Count of the Isles, she was no one.
Pushing the news from Fontaine to the back of her mind, she cleared her throat. ‘Have you called for an annulment, my lord?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Why not?’
‘Why the hurry?’
She gave a quiet laugh and felt the happiness slowly ebb away until there was only the familiar uncertainty. What were his intentions? ‘Why the hurry? Tristan, it’s been two years since we have been in each other’s company, that is hardly a hurry.’
A loud knocking made her start.
The door rattled and Tristan groaned. ‘Holy hell.’
Another bang had the door jump on its hinges. ‘Who’s in there?’ It was a man’s voice, edged with impatience. ‘Open up!’
Tristan made for the door.
‘Tristan, a moment, if you please.’ Cheeks scorching, Francesca straightened her gown. Heaven help her, she had lost her veil and dropped her mask and the lack of light meant she had no hope of finding them.
‘Open this door!’
‘Gervase, is that you?’ Tristan asked.
‘Aye, open up. Open up at once.’ The door shook. ‘Hurry, or I’ll have the guard smash their way in.’
‘Calm down, man. It’s Tristan, Tristan des Iles.’
‘Who?’
‘Tristan des Iles.’
‘What in Hades are you doing here? I thought you were in Brittany.’
Tristan gave a curt laugh. ‘I’ll be out shortly. Then you’ll understand.’
Francesca dropped to her knees and groped around on the floor, desperate to find her mask and veil. Nothing. The cool flags, the edge of the chamber, the wooden desk leg—it was hopeless. With a sigh, she straightened and smoothed her hair. She could hear more rustling. Tristan was doubtless tidying himself too. She had an unsettling recollection of dragging his tunic free of his belt so she could run her hands over his chest.
Why had he kissed her? He hadn’t denied that he needed an annulment. He would need a more propitious marriage. He shouldn’t have kissed her!
And she should not have responded.
‘Ready, Francesca?’
‘Aye.’
The bolt scraped and the latch clicked. Light filled the chamber as Sir Gervase crossed the threshold, a lantern in hand. Glancing over his shoulder—half the palace seemed to be congregated in the corridor—Sir Gervase pulled the door firmly shut. His mouth curled into a knowing grin.
Francesca’s heart ached and her cheeks were on fire. It was obvious what she and Tristan had been doing. In truth, it looked as though they had done far more than kiss—her veil and mask lay in a corner and Tristan was adjusting his belt.
Sir Gervase’s eyes danced. ‘Tristan, you devil.’ He gave Francesca a puzzled look. ‘Who is this lady?’
‘This, Gervase, is my wife, the Countess Francesca des Iles.’
* * *
By the time they left the chamber, Francesca had put on her veil and her mask was firmly in place. Tristan’s appearance had her mind in a shambles. Not only that, she was mortified, it was obvious that Count Henry’s steward thought he had interrupted a passionate tryst. Grateful that the mask would hide the worst of her blushes, she let Tristan take her hand in a firm grip and march her through a boisterous and nosy crowd. Grinning onlookers stood aside to let them pass.
Tristan didn’t trouble to replace his helmet, everyone knew exactly who he was. There were several sniggers and, out of the corner of her eye, Francesca saw a lewd gesture.
Someone hissed. ‘Tristan le Beau.’
‘Aye, but who’s the woman?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
Francesca didn’t want to hear the rest. It was plain the entire palace thought they’d been making love in Sir Gervase’s office. It was beyond embarrassing. Determined not to catch anyone’s eye, she stared at the floor as she was swept along the passageway. Only when they neared the entrance to the great hall did she lift her head. And there, leaning against the doorpost, was the yellow-haired knight who had tried to kiss her. He’d removed his mask and was watching Tristan, mouth thin, eyes cold.
Tristan’s grip tightened on her hand. The yellow-haired knight unfolded his arms and slipped into the hall ahead of them. At once a ring of dancers encircled him, swallowing him up.
‘How have you been, my lord?’ Sir Gervase was speaking to Tristan. ‘How do matters stand in Brittany?’
‘All is well, sir, save for a few loose ends,’ Tristan replied absently. He was looking towards the dancers, a deep crease in his brow. ‘Sir Gervase, who’s the man with the yellow hair?’
‘His name’s Kerjean, I believe, Sir Joakim Kerjean.’
The men talked as they made their way across the hall towards the stairwell and Francesca found she couldn’t tear her gaze from Tristan. It had been so long since she had seen him and it had been too dark in the chamber to see whether