Mistaken for a Lady (10 page)

Tristan set his jaw. No one, not even Francesca, must know of his father's sin.

Jerking irritably at his damp cloak, he fixed his gaze on the wretched-looking inn they had passed earlier. Blast this wind, his skin was covered in goosebumps.

* * *

The inn's roof was thatched and sagging. At either end, by the eaves, grass was sprouting. A tattered inn sign moaned as it swung in the wind, the image on it so battered and blurred by the turning seasons that all Tristan could make of it was a pale splotch of paint. The White Swan? The White Hart? He didn't really care, he just wanted this over. He wouldn't rest easy until he had confirmation that the man he'd seen on the road today—the one with the yellow hair—was
not
Joakim Kerjean.

Sight of that yellow hair had been deeply unsettling. Why had Kerjean gone to Provins? Had meeting Francesca been his main purpose? If so, what did he want from her? Was marriage to Francesca his aim? Another possibility was that Kerjean could be planning to use Francesca as a means of putting pressure on Tristan. If so, to what end?

A horrible thought came to him.
Mon Dieu
, was it possible that the rebel alliance might flare back to life? Was that was this was about?

Tristan and Baron Rolland had been battling against unruly barons and their rebel alliance for months, and up until this moment Tristan had been confident that the alliance was a spent force. A few suspects had vanished, scuttled into hiding, no doubt. Naturally, both Tristan and Baron Rolland had known there would be stragglers on the loose. It was only to be expected, the day would never dawn when every miscreant was under lock and key.

Knowing stragglers were at large was one thing, a possible revival of the alliance quite another. Could that be what was happening here?

Tristan had long known the alliance made use of the trade routes to carry messages to supporters further afield. Kerjean's appearance in des Iles and later in Provins made his involvement a distinct possibility. Normally, Tristan would be inclined to give the man enough rope with which to hang himself. Yet with Francesca involved, that was impossible, she must be protected at all costs.

When he had set out for Champagne, Tristan hadn't bargained on the effect that Francesca would have on him. Her safety was paramount. The last thing he wanted was for her to be dragged into Brittany's struggles against outlaws and rebel barons.

Tristan rolled his shoulders, pushed inside and headed for the warmth of the fire. A tired-looking serving woman appeared out of the gloom. Her hair was drawn back in an untidy braid and her dress was as faded and grey as her face.

‘Can I fetch you some ale, sir? Maybe you'd like wine?'

‘Ale, if you please.' Tristan doubted this place would serve anything approaching wine. Choosing a bench by the fireside, he unwound his cloak from about his shoulders and draped it on the bench.

As he sat down to watch the door, steam rose gently from his hose. He knew he wouldn't have long to wait and he wasn't wrong, the woman had only just brought him his ale when the door opened.

Sir Joakim Kerjean walked in.

Tristan's every sense sprang awake. Lord, what a nightmare, it
was
Kerjean. What the hell was the man up to? Keeping his face free of expression, Tristan rose to his feet. ‘Good evening, Kerjean.'

Sir Joakim checked before smoothly continuing towards him. ‘Count Tristan, I didn't think to be conferring with you so soon. I thought you would be at St Michael's with your beautiful wife.'

Tristan stiffened.
I didn't think to be conferring with you so soon.
A threat? It certainly sounded like one. Tristan gestured at the table, saying drily, ‘I would be honoured if you would join me.'

Sir Joakim peeled of his gloves and tossed them down. ‘Didn't think you'd noticed us.'

Us?
So the men Kerjean had been riding with were in some way linked to him. Interesting.

‘Spotted you some miles back.' Tristan shrugged. ‘Couldn't be sure it was you, you kept your distance. Ale? Wine?'

Sir Joakim combed his yellow hair with his fingers, hooked out a bench with his foot and sat down. ‘Ale, thanks.'

Tristan narrowed his eyes. Sweat was beading Kerjean's brow, the man wasn't as cool as he pretended. Catching the serving woman's eye, Tristan signalled for another ale. ‘You're a fair way from home. What took you to Provins?'

Kerjean's smile was suggestive. ‘Had a mind to find myself a new mistress and thought the May Revel was a good place to find one.'

Rage gripped Tristan and he found himself wrestling with the urge to go for the man's throat. Thankfully, years of training stood in good stead and he kept his seat. He wouldn't learn anything if anger took over. Lifting an eyebrow, he picked up his ale mug. ‘Weren't the Breton ladies receptive?'

The serving woman brought Sir Joakim his ale. Gripping the mug, he downed it in one and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic. He leaned towards Tristan, eyes cold. ‘Heard there was an especially pretty lady in Champagne who was looking for a new home. Heard her husband had neglected her.'

The blood rushed in Tristan's ears. An image flashed before him—Francesca in that corridor just off the palace great hall, lifting her hand to slap the man's face. The image helped him keep his calm.

‘So you admit you knew she was my wife. You deliberately sought her out. I did wonder.'

‘I thought I would test the waters, thought she might be getting lonely.' Kerjean leaned back and grinned. It was an infuriating grin, blatantly designed to make Tristan lose his temper.

‘If you're trying to anger me, it won't work,' Tristan said.

‘I am not so sure.' Another infuriating grin tested him further. ‘
Mon seigneur
, I am thinking you are fond of that girl despite your neglect.'

‘You might try to be civil. That girl, as you insolently name her, is currently my wife. I would prefer it if you gave her the respect she is due as Lady Francesca des Iles.'

‘If you say so. Certainly, I wasn't the only one to ride a long way to see her. Did you miss Lady Francesca while you were darting about all over Christendom? Were you thinking of patching up your marriage, my lord? Or do you plan to keep her—around—whilst you hunt for a real heiress?'

Tristan took a draught of ale to help him hang on to what was left of his temper. What was Kerjean up to? Unfortunately, Tristan knew next to nothing about him. If he knew more, he'd perhaps understand Kerjean's sudden interest in Francesca.

Kerjean's mistress-seeking didn't hold water. Had the man even met Francesca before the May Revel? Why wait until now to seek her out? Was he after her manor? Did Kerjean have cronies—his fellow travellers, perhaps—who were planning to use Francesca as a weapon against him?

A ball of ice settled in Tristan's gut. To think that he had at first thought to send someone else to escort Francesca to Fontaine. Thank God he'd come for her himself. Although it would seem he'd made a grave mistake riding to Champagne with a single squire for company.
If Kerjean is planning something dark—Francesca's abduction, for example—I need men to back me up.

Conscious that every muscle was tight as a bowstring, Tristan forced himself to relax. ‘Lady Francesca is my wife, Kerjean. And as long as she is, she is out of bounds to you.'

Sir Joakim lifted his ale mug in a mocking salute. ‘As you wish, my lord. Far be it for me to stand between a man and his wife.'

The door opened to admit a rush of damp air. Half a dozen burly men, swathed in dark cloaks, swaggered in. They were all wearing swords and they made a beeline for the serving hatch. The word ‘mercenary' sprang into Tristan's head.

‘Friends of yours, Kerjean?'

‘Travelling companions. Merchants.'

Tristan raised an eyebrow. ‘Rough-looking merchants.'

Sir Joakim gave a thin smile. ‘Merchants need to be strong these days, particularly if their route takes them away from the jurisdiction of the Guardian Knights. Not every highway is as safe as those in Champagne.'

Tristan's skin crawled as his suspicions hardened. Kerjean didn't support the new peace in Brittany. He was siding with men who believed a faction-ridden duchy offered rich pickings. Did he think to use Francesca to force Tristan into negotiations? Tristan could feel his anger building. He doubted that Kerjean was ready to go as far as an abduction, but he wasn't prepared to take the risk. For Francesca's sake, he must ensure Kerjean believed her welfare meant little to him.

Tristan gave a casual shrug. ‘You won't have to wait long, in a few weeks you may press your suit. It makes more sense for me, politically, if my marriage is dissolved.' Which was, Tristan reflected, true enough. That didn't mean he was going to allow that to happen.

Sir Joakim studied him. ‘It seems damned odd that you tramped all the way to Champagne to collect a woman you are preparing to divorce.'

Leaning back against the plaster, Tristan crossed his legs at the ankles. His spurs chinked. ‘Family matters, Sir Joakim. I am merely fulfilling an obligation to Count Myrrdin.'

‘Oh?'

‘You haven't heard? Count Myrrdin is ill. Frankly, he's not long for this world. Likely you will know that he thinks of my wife as his daughter. He's asked to see her.'

A blond eyebrow shot up. ‘You're acting as Count Myrrdin's envoy?' Sir Joakim's lip curled. ‘Must be something of a comedown to someone used to consorting with kings and princes.'

‘It's called loyalty, not that I can expect you to understand. Count Myrrdin was good to me after my wedding.'

Kerjean let out a bark of laughter. ‘
Jésu
, the man foisted some peasant's get on you, and you run about for him like a servant?'

Tristan's hand curled into a fist. ‘I advise you to think before you start hurling insults. Lady Francesca remains my wife, and until such time as our marriage is annulled, you will refer to her by her title.'

‘She's a pretty wench. Perhaps I'll have her as my mistress when you're done with her.'

Like hell you will.
Tristan took a deep breath and hoped he looked more careless than he felt. ‘I wish you luck with that, though from my observations in that corridor in the palace, things don't look good for you. For the present, Lady Francesca goes with me to Count Myrrdin. You can press your suit after the divorce.'

‘Des Iles, you can't fool me, you don't want a divorce. At the palace, Sir Gervase told me he'd housed the two of you together in a tower bedchamber. The innkeeper at Melun told a similar story.'

Tristan yawned. ‘Believe what you like.'

‘So your interest is merely to get her to Fontaine?'

Another yawn. ‘Quick, aren't you?'

A muscle flickered in Sir Joakim's eyelid. ‘I can wait.'

‘See that you do.'

Coming to the conclusion that he wasn't likely to get any more out of Sir Joakim, Tristan abandoned the pretence of finishing his ale and reached for his cloak. He would deal with Joakim Kerjean later. In the meantime, he would push on to Fontaine with as much speed as was humanly possible.

Tristan wasn't sure what Kerjean wanted with Francesca. He did know that the sooner he had her safely behind the walls of Fontaine, the better he would feel.

Chapter Seven

A
t the guest house, Francesca, Mari and Bastian changed out of their damp clothes and hung them to dry on a rack by the fire. They ate supper and Tristan's portion was covered and placed by the hearth to keep warm for when he came back.

Leaving Mari and Bastian at the table murmuring quietly to one another, Francesca found herself exploring the guest house hall, wondering why she felt so very ill at ease.

Her disquiet had nothing to do with their lodgings. St Michael's guest house was one of the finest in Christendom. Long and narrow and built of stone, it had a generous hooded fireplace. At either end of the chamber, thick wool curtains were looped back behind great iron hooks. When drawn across, the curtains would act as screens for people to sleep behind, it was all very civilised. She stalked to one of the looped-back curtains, turned and retraced her steps to the other.

No, her disquiet had nothing to do with the guest house. She couldn't stop thinking about Tristan. Why had he gone back to that ramshackle-looking inn? Surely he should have told them what he was doing? He was keeping something from her. Again. She let out a sigh, here was yet another barrier to drive them apart.

Without doubt, she had irritated him when she'd kept asking about his father, but she hadn't been able to stop. Tristan's reluctance to talk more openly with her was surely a root cause of what had gone wrong between them.

It wasn't simply that he had abandoned her to fulfil his duty to his beloved Brittany—every lord in the land had responsibilities. Count Myrrdin hadn't taught her much about local politics, but Francesca understood how the feudal system worked. The lords held land from their overlords, and for that privilege the lords had many obligations. They must attend endless council meetings and, most importantly, if their overlord needed men to bolster his cause, he called on his lords to supply them.

Loyalty was the foundation stone upon which the entire system rested. Currently, King Henry of England was Duke of Brittany, so theoretically the Breton lords should be loyal to him. After Francesca and Tristan had married, Tristan had been quick to answer the council's call to arms. Some noblemen had schemed and plotted against the king, questioning his right to be Duke of Brittany. Not so Tristan. He was the most loyal of men. The most principled. Francesca recalled him saying that if they could only win peace, everyone in Brittany would benefit. It made complete sense.

No, Tristan's duties had not caused their difficulties.

Neither had those lost letters.

Nor, if Francesca could believe what Tristan had said to her last night about hoping their marriage would survive, had the difference in their status. Yes, Tristan was a great lord and she had turned out to be a nobody, but if that didn't concern him, then surely it need not concern her?

She bit her lip. Perhaps there was hope for them. Hope. Her stomach churned. Hope, she was learning, was extremely unsettling. She wrapped her arms about her middle. What a fool she was. If Tristan did the sensible thing, he would set her aside and find a well-dowered noblewoman.

She marched up and down. She had no grounds for confidence. Not whilst Tristan kept things from her. That lay at the root of their problems and therein lay her greatest challenge.

He was so used to giving orders, he expected everyone to jump to do his bidding. He wasn't in the habit of confiding in people and he hated being questioned. His pride, she supposed.

Still, he had made a start by telling her about his mother's death. It wasn't enough, he didn't fully trust her. She scowled at the lodge door. Why had he gone back to that horrible-looking inn?

She bit on a fingernail, realised what she was doing and stalked to the airing rack. Irritably, she twitched at their clothes, turning them so they would dry more quickly.

The latch lifted. Flames rocked in the fireplace and the door banged. Tristan. He tossed his cloak on the bench.

‘My lord, does Flint need bedding down?' Bastian asked, smothering a yawn.

‘Relax, lad, I've done it.'

‘Wine, my lord?' Rising, Bastian went to drape Tristan's cloak on the airing rack.

Tristan glanced at Francesca. ‘It's palatable?'

‘It's very good.' She tipped her head to one side. ‘Did you dry out properly? Tristan, that rain—'

‘I sat by the inn fire.' Noticing the ewer on a side-table, he went to wash his hands. ‘I'm starved.'

Francesca felt a smile form. ‘Of course.' Taking up a cloth, she collected the dish from the hearth and took it to the table. ‘Here, it should still be hot.' She lifted the lid.

Tristan took a place at the table as she reached for the ladle. ‘What is it?'

‘Fish stew. Eel mostly.'

He grimaced. ‘Must be Friday.'

‘You don't like eel? There's bread and cheese and—'

‘I could go to the refectory and see if the monks have anything else, my lord,' Bastian said on another yawn.

‘This will be fine. Get to bed, Bastian, for pity's sake,' Tristan said. ‘We've another early start tomorrow.'

‘Yes, my lord.' Bastian hesitated. ‘My lord?'

‘Aye?'

Bastian shuffled his feet and his ears went pink. ‘Are you and my lady— That is, I was wondering— I haven't organised the sleeping arrangements yet, my lord.'

‘Lady Francesca and I will take that end of the room, you and Mari may take the other.' Tristan looked at Mari. ‘I take it that is acceptable?' It was clear from his tone that he expected no argument.

‘Yes, my lord,' Mari said, meek as a lamb.

* * *

Later, when Tristan had finished eating and the fire had been banked up for the night, he and Francesca carried candles to their sleeping space behind the woollen curtain. Two pallets had been dragged together—presumably by Bastian before he'd gone to bed. Francesca hadn't noticed him do it.

As soon as the curtain fell into place, Tristan took her candle from her and placed it on a shelf on the end wall. A golden fringe of light glimmered around the edge of the curtain—fire glow and a lantern they'd left burning by the hearth. His dark hair gleamed in the candlelight. His eyes were unreadable and his expression thoughtful.

‘Come here, if you please.' He tugged her towards him and slid his hand about her waist, not holding her tightly, but gently, as though he was waiting for her to object. After a moment, Francesca felt warm lips on her neck and the slight scrape of his growing beard.

Hands on his shoulders, she shifted back. ‘Tristan, what happened at the inn?' Mindful of Mari and Bastian sleeping behind the curtain at the other side of the hall, she kept her voice to a whisper. ‘Why did you go back?'

A large hand cupped her face as he stared into her eyes. ‘Francesca.'

‘Tristan, what happened? What's the matter?'

He swallowed, there was a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. Yes, something was definitely troubling him.

‘Francesca, you remember what I told you last eve? About our marriage?'

‘You said you hoped to save it.'

‘Aye, that. I would ask you—do you still want an annulment?'

‘Tristan, I never
wanted
an annulment.'

‘You didn't?'

Smiling, she shook her head and tightened her grip on his shoulders. ‘You surely need a better marriage though, a wife who brings you more lands will secure your position in Brittany.' Reaching up, she placed a swift kiss on his cheek. ‘What happened at the inn?'

Tristan released her and began readying himself for sleep—sword belt, tunic, gambeson—without giving her an answer. Sighing, Francesca followed his lead. She was slipping beneath the blankets, having given up on further conversation, when he snuffed out the candle and joined her on the pallet. Again, he pulled her to him. Again, she let him. He was naked, of course, it was useless to pretend otherwise, Tristan always slept naked. And she had to admit it gave her a
frisson
, he was all masculine muscle. Disturbing and comforting. He felt so warm and tempting, she was hard-pressed to resist the urge to cuddle and stroke.

‘I saw someone behind us on the road,' he murmured.

‘The other travellers? I saw them too. What of them?'

‘I went back to the inn because I needed to know who they were.'

‘And?'

‘The knight you were speaking to at the revel was among them.'

‘The man who dragged me into the corridor? How odd.'

‘Francesca, I need to know, what did he say to you?'

‘Nothing much. Tristan, you saw it all. He tried to kiss me, then you appeared and—'

‘You swear he said nothing else? Nothing about me?'

‘Tristan, what is going on?'

‘I have to say I am concerned. Francesca, the man who accosted you at the revel is Breton, one Sir Joakim Kerjean. He has a manor at Léon.'

Francesca found she was holding her breath. Could it be that Tristan was opening up to her? On a matter of politics? Her pulse gathered pace. ‘You think he sought me out deliberately?'

‘I know he did.'

‘But I was wearing a mask when he found me.'

‘He must have had you pointed out to him. Francesca, Roparz told me Kerjean had been seen in des Iles. The man had been asking about you, he went to Provins specifically to meet Lady Francesca des Iles. Back there at the inn, he claimed he was angling for you to become his mistress.'

‘There's no chance of that, I took him in great dislike.' Francesca leaned her head on Tristan's chest and tried to ignore the pleasure it gave her—the scent of his skin, the slight abrasion of chest hair. ‘Something else is troubling you.'

‘I'm beginning to suspect Kerjean thought to use you in some scheme, perhaps to force my hand in some way. I am not sure how, and in any case I believe his plans are unformed. Clearly, he didn't expect me to suddenly appear in Provins whilst he was trying to seduce you.'

Francesca gave a soft laugh. ‘I have to tell you, he is not that good at seduction.'

Tristan caught hold of a length of her hair and gave it a gentle tug. ‘I am glad to hear that, my heart.'

He started to play with her braid and after a moment she felt him unbind it. When they were first married, Tristan used to unwind her hair as a prelude to lovemaking. As he combed his fingers carefully through her hair, her scalp warmed. If only everything could be as it had been. She took a deep breath. ‘Tristan, what shall we do?'

‘We proceed to Fontaine as planned. Kerjean is travelling back to Brittany with a group of men he tells me are merchants. To my mind they look like mercenaries.'

Her breath caught. ‘Mercenaries?'

‘There's no need for alarm. I can't prove who they are or what they're up to, but our party is small and I am not putting you at risk. I've taken the precaution of speaking to the abbot. He has agreed that a deputation of monks might travel with us.'

Francesca's jaw went slack. ‘The abbot permits his monks to act as guards? I thought monks couldn't bear arms.'

A soft laugh warmed her cheek. ‘It is unusual, although I have to say that these men are not quite monks, they have yet to take their vows.'

‘Surely the shedding of blood, even by a novice, remains a sin?'

‘I am no theologian, Francesca. All I can say is that a sizeable donation to abbey coffers helped win us our escort.'

‘I see.' Francesca frowned thoughtfully. Tristan must be worried to have, in effect, recruited bodyguards. ‘Monks against mercenaries?' His fingers stroked through her hair, soothing and sensual. Gently, he began massaging her scalp. ‘Tristan, do you really think we might be attacked?'

‘Not any more, the men the abbot is lending us were not bred for the Church. He tells me that among the novices he has four retired knights, one of whom was a champion-at-arms, and a blacksmith. They are all brawny men. Francesca, I doubt the men travelling with Kerjean have had a day's real training in their lives, there's no way they will attack with four knights in our train.'

‘You really think we're at risk without the novices?'

‘I couldn't say, but I won't put you in danger. Once in Brittany, you'll be safe at Fontaine.' His arms tightened about her. ‘We can discuss the future after you've seen Count Myrrdin.'

Faint sounds reached them through the woollen curtain—the crackle of the fire, the soft rattle of the door as it was buffeted by the wind.

‘Tristan, you did bolt the door?'

He ruffled her hair. ‘Aye, don't worry, we are safe in here. The monastery walls are high and in good order, and if anyone did scale them, the abbot's wolfhounds would raise the alarm. Not to mention the geese.'

Francesca closed her eyes and turned her head slightly to give Tristan the gentlest, most surreptitious kiss on his chest. She hadn't thought he would notice, but a slight hitch in his breathing pattern told her that he had.

‘Everything's changing,' she murmured. ‘You think the world will go on as it has always done and suddenly it changes.'

‘Count Myrrdin has reached a fair age. He can't live for ever.'

‘I wasn't thinking of Papa.'

Tristan angled his body towards hers. ‘Oh?'

‘I was thinking of you. Of us.' His chest rose and fell steadily under her hand. Strong and achingly familiar. This was their third night together after far too long a separation. She didn't think she could bear it if they were separated a second time.

‘I left Fontaine because I was ashamed of my heritage, or rather my lack of it. At least I thought that was why I left Fontaine, I see now that wasn't the whole of it. Tristan, the other reason I left Fontaine was because—' she picked her words with care ‘—because I didn't think we could ever be truly close.'

He cupped her head with his hand. ‘Francesca, I found great joy in our marriage. Far more than I believed possible. I missed you and I regret not having told you how much you meant to me.'