Mistaken For A Lady. Carol Townend
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She was curious about the differences between the man she had married and the man she saw before her.
He had altered in some as yet indefinable way, that much was plain. It had been two years. He had known battle, faced death. He had seen friends slain. And he had also, or so she had heard, become quite the courtier. There was a disturbing edginess to him and she wasn’t sure she liked it—a hardness that she hadn’t noticed before. Had he always been this way? Had love—no, it had surely been lust that had flared between them, not love—had lust blinded her to his true nature? She didn’t love him, she couldn’t. To love someone you had to know them and it was becoming painfully clear that she didn’t know Tristan at all.
It wasn’t going to be easy sleeping with him. Did he really expect her to join him in bed?
‘Tristan?’
He looked up from his meal, a handsome stranger with blue eyes that were hard as sapphires. ‘Aye?’
‘We don’t have to share this chamber. I could quite easily bed down in the solar with the other ladies.’
He tore a chunk off the bread and frowned at some cheese on a platter. ‘We stay together.’
‘Why? Because I am not a lady?’
He narrowed his eyes on her and for a moment she thought she had disconcerted him. Then she realised her mistake—he hadn’t expected to be questioned. Doubtless his men obeyed him in a trice. No one would dare question Lord Tristan le Beau, Comte des Iles.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Tristan, I assume we are to seek an annulment. If it is unseemly for a man and woman to lie together when they are not wed, surely it is unseemly for a man and woman to lie together when they are planning on dissolving their marriage?’
His expression hardened. ‘We stay together.’
‘Why?’
‘I want to know where you are. I want to know what you are doing.’
She frowned. ‘Even at night, when I am sleeping?’
‘Even then.’
‘You don’t trust me, why? Tristan, please tell me what’s wrong.’
A muscle flickered in his jaw. He didn’t answer, he simply turned his attention to the food, leaving Francesca to her thoughts. Clearly, the kiss he had given her was an aberration. An annulment was obviously what he wanted, she had to free him so he could make a proper marriage. The pity was that he had kissed her before he had told her his reasons for coming to find her. Her foolish heart had soared, for a wild moment she had thought he’d come for her.
What a simpleton, to allow a kiss to affect her so, she should have known better. She shook her head, she must not let him upset her. Particularly when she was planning to move on with her life. It was a pity he’d kissed her though, that kiss merely proved that she was a fool if she thought she’d find it easy to marry someone else.
Tristan had come to escort her to Fontaine because Count Myrrdin was dying. That was what mattered. He would take her to Brittany and after that they would part.
Saints, in the past hour so much had changed. Count Myrrdin was dying and by Tristan’s account he might not be alive when they reached him. A lump formed in her throat. Francesca loved Count Myrrdin, she’d always hoped to return to Brittany and she had assumed that he would be there to greet her. From what Tristan had said, it looked as though she’d best pray for a miracle.
Quietly, she rose from the bed and turned her back on her husband as he finished his meal. She placed her mask on a side-table next to a jug of water and a basin. She unpinned her veil and began to undress.
After their marriage, Francesca and Tristan had slept naked, that wasn’t going to happen tonight. She was conscious of Tristan’s eyes on her as she pushed her shoes under the bed and drew off her gown. She left her undershift on.
She washed quickly, flicked back the bedcovers and got into bed. Rolling on to her side, she presented Tristan with her back and waited.
She heard the clack of a knife being dropped on to the platter. She heard a splash—wine being poured?—no, he was using the water in the ewer. She waited some more.
Clothing rustled. The bed dipped.
‘Goodnight, Francesca.’
‘Goodnight, my lord.’
Tristan yawned, shifted on the mattress, and the room went quiet.
The hours crept by.
Francesca could scarcely believe she was lying in bed next to the husband she had never expected to see again. One who apparently trusted her so little that he wasn’t prepared to allow her to sleep in the solar. She fixed her gaze on a candle, watching as it slowly burned down to a stump before flickering out. The shadows moved in. Tristan was surely asleep, his breathing was low and even and he hadn’t moved in an age.
She sighed, carefully rolled on to her back and stared into the darkness. Wary of touching him, she was trying desperately to lie still. He had looked exhausted and was plainly in need of rest. His face was leaner than it had been, and there was a drawn look to it that she’d never seen before.
Sleep came and went in fractured snatches. One moment she was staring into the darkness, listening to Tristan’s breathing, and the next a heavy weight was resting on her shoulder. Tristan’s head. They had moved together in sleep. His foot was hooked about her calf and his hand was warm on her waist. He was naked. At least she thought he was. She couldn’t be sure and exploration was simply out of the question.
Softly, she eased away. More of the night drifted by with her listening to his breathing.
The second time she woke, she was on her side facing him and his breath was warm on her face. This time his hand was on hers, almost as if he were holding it.
With a slight huff, she freed herself and rolled away from him.
On her third awakening, light was creeping round the shutters and the shadows were retreating. She was on her side with Tristan’s body wrapped tightly around hers as though he would protect her until the end of time. Yes, he was definitely naked.
Half-asleep, she lay there unmoving. Her undergown had ridden up and she could feel the rough brush of his legs against hers. She could smell him, a musky masculine scent that brought back bittersweet memories—legs tangled in rumpled bed linens; lingering kisses; warm caresses that sent fire shooting through every vein.
Heavens, what was she doing? Their marriage was over.
She knew it, and so too did he.
Leaving Tristan to sleep off the rigours of his journey to Champagne, Francesca dressed with a heavy heart and slipped down to the great hall to find Mari. The tables were up for breakfast and Mari was sitting with a group of women at one of the long benches. The peacock mask lay on the table next to a basket of bread, it was a little the worse for wear with the longest feather bent out of true.
‘Good morning, Mari.’
Mari jumped to her feet with the energy of a woman half her age. ‘Good morning, my lady. I’ll fetch some fresh bread.’
‘There’s no need. Mari, I need to speak to you. I take it you received my message that Lord Tristan is here?’
Mari picked up her mask and moved with her to the side of the hall. ‘Aye, Sir Gervase told me.’ She gave Francesca a long, assessing look. ‘You’re not happy—what’s happened?’
Francesca took a steadying breath. Mari had spent most of her life in Fontaine; she was bound to be upset when she heard of Count Myrrdin’s illness. ‘Lord Tristan brings worrying word from Brittany.’
The peacock feathers