Mistaken For A Lady. Carol Townend
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and revenues.
Tristan’s kisses meant nothing—he was ambitious, he needed a dynastic marriage.
How stupid she’d been down there in Sir Gervase’s office. She’d lost herself in his kiss. A kiss which had made her long for things which were not hers and never could be.
Tristan wanted a real lady. Francesca couldn’t excuse herself by saying she’d been overcome by passion, she should know better. She couldn’t even claim it had been the sight of his handsome face or his powerful body that had weakened her knees. It had been far too dark for her to see very much. Being in his arms had simply overwhelmed her.
Her mistake had been that she shouldn’t have let him know it. Mari would be well within her rights to call her a halfwit. She had forgotten her training and in responding with such heat she’d simply confirmed her lack of breeding. She’d made matters worse.
At the last turn in the stairs, they came to a studded oak door. Leaning past her, Tristan opened the door.
Candles were burning in wall sconces. The bedchamber was, as Sir Gervase had hinted, cramped. There was a decent-looking bed, a long, shuttered window and not much else.
* * *
Confirmation of Sir Joakim Kerjean’s identity had hit Tristan like a blow to the gut. Shaken by a bewildering combination of fury and anxiety, he’d barely heard anything else Sir Gervase had said.
Sir Joakim Kerjean was the very man who’d been asking after Francesca at des Iles. What had the man been planning when he had pulled her into the palace corridor? Had they spoken before this? Had she become his mistress?
Tristan cast his mind back to the moment he’d come upon them outside Sir Gervase’s office. He wanted to believe that Kerjean had lured an innocent Francesca into the corridor. He wanted to think that she had been cornered by an unwelcome and unexpected admirer. She had certainly slapped the man smartly enough. Unfortunately, it might not be as simple as that. Tristan must keep his mind open to all possibilities, however grim he might find them.
Think, Tristan, think. Francesca was still his wife. Their marriage was in tatters, yet he couldn’t help but be fond of her. That kiss had proved—as he feared it might—that their passion for each other wasn’t completely dead. And what Tristan was feeling now—the anger, the rush of loathing towards Kerjean, the terrible uncertainly that scattered clear thought—it felt very much like jealousy. Jealousy would not help here.
Think. When Tristan had followed them into the corridor, both Francesca and Kerjean had been wearing masks. The most harmless possibility was that neither of them knew the other’s identity, they had met by mere chance. In light of the enquiries Sir Joakim had been making in des Iles, the idea that Tristan had stumbled upon an innocent flirtation seemed extremely unlikely. Sadly, the idea that they had met by mere chance must be dismissed.
Tristan tore his gaze from Francesca as she looked about the bedchamber and forced himself to remember exactly what he had seen from the gallery. Kerjean had taken her by the hand and he’d been pulling her towards that corridor. Had she gone willingly? It might not have been an assignation.
He was starting to feel distinctly queasy. It had certainly been ill-advised of Francesca to allow Kerjean to lead her away from the safety of the crowd in the great hall. Perhaps what Tristan had witnessed had simply been a mild flirtation on her part, one that had got out of hand.
A far more disturbing possibility was that Kerjean had set out to entrap her into becoming his mistress. What were the man’s long-term intentions? Marriage? If Kerjean believed Francesca was alone in the world, he might consider her easy prey.
Think, Tristan, think.
Francesca had slapped Sir Joakim’s face. She had been turned away from Tristan, she couldn’t have known Tristan was about to interrupt them, yet she had slapped the man’s face. Tristan ached to believe that slap was proof of her innocence. Kerjean, on the other hand, had been facing Tristan’s way, Kerjean had seen him coming. Suppose the man had told Francesca to slap him to make their meeting appear innocent?
Tristan shoved his hand through his hair. What was wrong with him? He felt as though he was losing his mind. This only ever happened with Francesca. She clouded his thoughts in a way no one else ever did. In truth, after they were married, Tristan had feared that he was coming to be ruled by his emotions. He’d feared his judgement was at risk, and when the council had summoned him to Rennes to help contain the rebels, it had almost been a relief. He’d hoped that a separation from Francesca would clear his mind.
And here he was, after scant moments in her company, as confused as ever. It was profoundly unsettling.
Could he be jealous? If so, he was letting it get the better of him. No more. This was Francesca, she would never take a lover, not whilst she was still married. She would never betray him in that way, it wasn’t in her nature.
Swearing under his breath, Tristan pushed Kerjean to the back of his mind. I must tell Francesca about Count Myrrdin and I should tell her without delay. Tristan wanted to break the news of Count Myrrdin’s illness to her kindly. The count had been a father to her and she loved him—news that he was on his deathbed was bound to distress her.
‘Francesca?’ Tristan gave her a guarded look. ‘You’d best brace yourself, I bring ill news from Fontaine.’
Grey eyes met his. Candid grey eyes. Wary eyes that had silver and gold flecks in them. Tristan had been attracted to her eyes from the first, surely she could not look at him in such a way if she was hiding some deceit?
‘From Fontaine?’ She lost colour. ‘What’s happened?’
Tristan took a deep breath. ‘With your permission, I’ll tell you straight. There’s no prettying this.’
She swallowed and clasped her hands. ‘Please do.’
‘It’s Count Myrrdin. He is sick, Francesca, mortally sick. He’s asked that you and I attend him.’ A hand reached towards him and fell back. Swearing softly, Tristan reached for it and enfolded it in his. It was icy, she was in shock. He took her other hand.
‘Papa—the count—is dying?’ Her voice was faint, a whisper of pain.
‘I’m afraid so.’ Gently, he stroked her hand.
‘How did you hear? Lady Clare?’
‘Aye, she sent word to my steward Sir Roparz, it was waiting for me when I arrived at Château des Iles. Francesca, the count is fading fast and it is his dying wish to see you.’
She bit her lip, dragged her hand from his and started to pace. ‘I have to go to him. Tomorrow.’ Agonised grey eyes held his. ‘He wants to see you too?’
‘He does.’
‘Are you planning on escorting me to Fontaine?’
‘Of course, we shall go together.’
‘Thank you.’ She walked to the bed, stared down at it and heaved a great sigh. ‘So this was why you came to Provins. To tell me Count Myrrdin is dying.’
‘That is one reason, yes.’
She nodded and said nothing, leaving Tristan to wonder what was in her mind.
‘Francesca, once I had the news, I rode as swiftly as I could. I ought to tell you that even if we leave tomorrow, even if we travel lightly and ride like the wind, we might not reach Fontaine in time.’
‘We should leave at first light.’ Her face was drawn and pale.
‘I need sleep, Francesca. As does Bastian.’
‘Bastian?’
‘My squire. Rest assured though, we shall leave in the morning.’
‘Thank you.’
‘We will travel light. And fast.’
‘I understand.’
*