Prologue

      October 1175—Paimpont Manor

      in the County of Champagne

      Francesca set her quill aside with a sigh. Her maid Mari was setting logs on the fire, muttering darkly under her breath. Mari had been with her for years and her familiar face was creased with lines. Despite the age gap between them, Francesca considered Mari her friend as well as her maid. ‘Mari?’

      ‘My lady?’

      ‘Will you hear what I have written?’

      Mari stabbed at a log with the poker. ‘If I must.’

      ‘I would appreciate your views.’

      Mari scowled and the poker clattered on to the hearth. ‘I don’t know why you want to read it to me, you will send it to Brittany whatever I say.’

      ‘Be that as it may, I value your opinion.’ Francesca’s gaze lingered on her signet ring, the ring Tristan had given her on their wedding day. A lump formed in her throat. Tristan’s features remained clear in her mind—the startling blue eyes; the thick, jet-black hair; that firm jaw. Tristan was the most handsome of men, so much so that he was often referred to as Tristan le Beau—Tristan the Handsome. Unfortunately for Francesca, his image hadn’t faded with time, she hadn’t been able to forget him.

      The wrinkles about Mari’s mouth deepened as she came to the table and looked sourly at the vellum. ‘My lady, if you valued my opinion, you wouldn’t be writing that letter in the first place. It’s a waste of ink, the man’s not worth it.’

      Francesca took a slow breath. ‘The man, as you call him, is Count Tristan des Iles. He is also presently my husband. I beg you to remember that.’ Mari muttered something that might or might not have been an apology and Francesca continued. ‘I am not asking you to give your opinion of Lord Tristan, Mari, you have already made your views very plain. I would like your opinion on the letter, not my husband.’

      ‘You want him back,’ Mari said. ‘My lady, he never replied to your other letters, what makes you think he will reply to this one?’

      Foolish hope. Francesca ran her forefinger over the three cinquefoils stamped on the face of her ring, conscious of a sharp ache in her chest. It was depressing how fresh the pain was, even after almost two years. Tristan. She tried to forget him by day, but each night he returned. He came to her in her dreams, night after restless night. Dark-lashed blue eyes would be smiling deep into hers, strong arms would reach for her and those clever, wicked fingers would work at her lacings and slide her gown aside...

      Hoping she wasn’t blushing, she looked at Mari. ‘What if my letters never reached him? It’s possible.’

      Mari snorted. ‘One letter might go astray, but you wrote several, they can’t all have got lost.’

      Francesca bit her lip. Mari was adamant that all she would hear from her husband was silence, yet Francesca had to make one last-ditch attempt to reach him. Yes, her marriage to Tristan had been an arranged marriage, but she was sure she hadn’t been the only one to have felt the shock of delight on their wedding day. Mari had never understood that.

      Tristan and I liked each other, we truly liked each other.

      Sadly, that liking hadn’t had a chance to turn into lasting love, at least not on Tristan’s part. First, he had been called away to keep Brittany whole for the little duchess, and then Lady Clare had arrived at Fontaine and Francesca had been ousted as the Fontaine heiress. Francesca had been brought up believing herself to be Count Myrrdin’s daughter, only to discover that she wasn’t even his distant relation. She was a nobody and she had, albeit unwittingly, married Tristan under false pretences.

      Francesca had at one time been certain that the feelings she had for Tristan were genuine. She had been confident that Tristan had liked her because after their marriage he had been the most attentive of lovers. She’d assumed that one day he would love her back. Which was why she was determined to send this final letter. They’d never had a proper chance to get to know each other.

      ‘Mari, if Count Tristan doesn’t reply, I shall know beyond doubt that our marriage is over.’

      ‘You said that the last time you wrote to him. He didn’t reply.’

      Francesca’s nails dug into her palms as a deeper fear surfaced. I never gave him a child. He needs an heir and I failed him. Was that why he’d never come for her? Did he fear she was barren? ‘I need to hear from my lord himself as to his intentions.’

      Mari made an exasperated sound. ‘You’ve not seen the man in almost two years; your previous letters went unanswered—what more do you need to know? There is nothing to stop you starting afresh, there hasn’t been since you left Brittany.’

      Francesca took a deep breath. ‘When Lord Tristan and I separated, Brittany was in chaos. The duchy needed him.’ She stared at the stick of sealing wax on the table—it was silver to represent the silver field on her husband’s shield. ‘It needs him still.’

      ‘My lady, he’s your husband. He could surely have spared a couple of weeks to make sure you were well?’

      Francesca found herself taking her husband’s part, even though she knew it would do no good. She and Mari had been over this many times. Mari wouldn’t budge from her stance, in her mind Tristan had neglected Francesca.

      ‘Mari, you’re forgetting the politics. My lord holds large swathes of land in the duchy and for that honour he is duty-bound to support the duchess. The duchess is a minor—she depends on Count Tristan and other lords loyal to Brittany. Too many noblemen are careless of their responsibilities. Not so Tristan. The duchess and the duchy rely on him.’

      Shaking her head, Mari pursed her lips. ‘There is no hope, you’re besotted. You were besotted when you left Fontaine and you’re besotted still. He isn’t worth it.’

      Francesca pushed to her feet and stalked to the fire. It wasn’t easy to speak calmly, but she managed it. ‘Until our marriage is actually dissolved, Lord Tristan remains my husband.’ Fists opening and closing, she paced back to the table.

      ‘My lady, he should have come for you last year.’

      ‘For heaven’s sake, that wasn’t possible. The English king had laid waste several Breton counties and the council was relying on my lord to defend the local people.’ Francesca stalked back to the fire. The flames were taking hold, licking around the edges of the logs, rimming them with gold. Irritably, she twitched her skirts and turned to head back towards the table.

      ‘Count