Mistaken for a Lady (14 page)

‘I didn't want to alarm you.' Sighing, he brushed a strand of hair from her face. ‘I suspect I know the identity of the man who took that tapestry.'

‘How so?'

‘We found faint marks scratched on the solar wall—exactly where the tapestry hung. The marks are in the shape of a knight's shield and the device is remarkably similar to Sir Joakim Kerjean's.'

‘Sir Joakim took the tapestry? That blond oaf? Why?'

Tristan's hand shifted back to where hers was lying on the coverlet. His gaze was steady. ‘Kerjean is warning me, he wants me to know that he can get to you, even when you are in your own manor.'

Her brow furrowed. ‘To what end?'

His mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘Damned if I know, perhaps he thinks I care about you.' His expression sobered. ‘Francesca, I don't believe he means to court you.'

She shivered. ‘No, that was definitely a lie.' She gave him a straight look. She'd never been to des Iles and at almost any other time she would be curious to see it. But to miss Papa's funeral? ‘Would you really bind me hand and foot to get me to go with you?'

‘If I need to.'

There was a pause. She looked sadly at the ripped tapestry and made up her mind. ‘There'll be no need for that. I will trust that you have your reasons. I won't fight you, I'll accompany you to des Iles.'

He squeezed her hand. ‘Thank you, my heart. I shall do my utmost to make sure you don't regret it.'

She swallowed. ‘Have you told Bastian we're leaving Fontaine?'

‘Aye.'

‘And Mari?'

His lips twitched. ‘Naturally.' He glanced at their linked hands and all humour left his expression. ‘Francesca, before we leave, there's something I must tell you.' Tristan's voice was calm, although something in his manner lifted the hairs on the back of her neck.

Whatever he had to say, she wasn't going to like it.

Chapter Ten

T
ristan's blue eyes were so troubled, Francesca's breath stopped.

‘I have a confession to make,' he said. ‘Before we married, I had a mistress.'

‘Tristan, this doesn't surprise me.' Her lips curved. ‘Many young lords have mistresses and, innocent though I was, I could tell you'd had experience.'

Hot colour washed into his cheeks. ‘I should have told you about her. I should also have told you that she lives at Château des Iles. When we get there, you're bound to meet her.'

Francesca blinked, she was going to meet Tristan's former mistress? His fingers tightened on hers, and if what he was telling her hadn't been so outrageous, she could almost believe he looked regretful. A stone settled in her gut.

‘What...what is her name?'

‘Esmerée.'

Esmerée. ‘Tristan, you told me you have kept our marriage vows. Is your relationship with her at an end?'

‘Of course it is, it ended when you and I were betrothed.'

‘Yet she's living at your castle? Why? Is she hoping you will take her back?'

‘Far from it. Esmerée has married my friend Roparz. He is besotted with her and they're disgustingly happy.' Tristan cleared his throat and stared at the wall behind her. ‘Esmerée is expecting her second child.'

Francesca's eyes widened as she struggled to take in what she was being told. Tristan's former mistress was married to Sir Roparz? ‘She's a knight's daughter, I assume?'

He shook his head. ‘Esmerée's father was a merchant.'

‘Yet Sir Roparz married her? Your steward?' A knight ranked higher than a merchant, and generally it would be expected that a knight would marry into his class. It was most unusual for a knight to choose to marry below him. ‘Her father was rich?'

‘Actually, he wasn't. Roparz simply wanted her, no one else would do. As soon as it became clear that my relationship with Esmerée was coming to an end, Roparz came forward and asked for her hand.' He grimaced. ‘I admit to being all kinds of a fool. Roparz confessed he'd wanted her for an age. I'd never noticed, more's the pity.'

‘You would have let her go sooner if you had?'

‘Of course, my relationship with her was purely a business arrangement.'

‘A business arrangement,' Francesca murmured. He made it sound so cold. So distant. Worse, lurking in the back of her mind was the lowering thought that her marriage to Tristan had also been a business arrangement. One that had become worthless the moment Lady Clare was declared heiress to the County of Fontaine. Up until then Tristan had believed that Count Myrrdin's lands would one day be added to the list of his holdings. He'd acted as steward for Count Myrrdin; he knew his way about Fontaine blindfold.

And now? With Count Myrrdin dead, was Tristan regretting the loss of those lands more keenly than ever? Francesca tried to ignore the lump in her throat. Tristan would have to be a saint for such thoughts not to have occurred to him and Tristan le Beau was many things, but saint he was not.

‘How long was Esmerée your lover?'

‘A year? Two? Lord, Francesca, I didn't count the days.'

Francesca nodded as though she understood, except she didn't understand, not at all. Tristan might say his arrangement with Esmerée had ended, but he must be fond of her. Why else would he keep her at des Iles? Had he married her off to his friend in order to keep her close? Was she truly happy with Roparz? It was all a little too convenient. Slowly, she slid her hand from under his. ‘It sounds extremely awkward.'

‘What does?'

‘Esmerée living at des Iles.'

He shrugged. ‘Does it?' His face was blank. Puzzled. As though he had no idea why she would say such a thing.

‘It is most peculiar. Tristan, surely you see that?'

He looked away, flushing. ‘I'm not the only man who's taken a mistress.'

‘Aye, but to have her living in des Iles—in your most important castle—can't you see how odd it is? When you're in residence, you must run into her all the time.'

‘You will recall I have not spent much time there of late.' He shrugged. ‘In any case, as I said, my relationship with Esmerée was purely a business transaction. I like Esmerée very much, but I never loved her. Our union was purely physical.'

‘You paid for her services.'

‘She wasn't reluctant, if that is what you are thinking.'

She raked him with her eyes, taking in his dark hair, those blue eyes that had once, or so she had thought, looked at her with such warmth.
What am I to you? A failed business transaction? Another woman who gives you physical release? Or is there more to us than that?
She sighed, unable to tear her gaze from that firm jaw, that sculpted mouth. Tristan le Beau. Even with all his arrogance, his coldness, he was a handsome devil. ‘I don't suppose she was.'

That puzzled look was back in his eyes. ‘Francesca, I apologise for not telling you about Esmerée years ago. On my honour, she stopped being my mistress the moment I decided to marry.'

‘Why didn't you mention she was living at des Iles before now?'

‘It makes a difference?'

‘Of course it does! Tristan, I've said I'll go back with you to des Iles, but I've no wish to be living under the same roof as your former mistress.' She gripped the bedcovers. ‘You must see it will be impossible.'

‘She's married to my steward, she is Lady Esmerée de Fougères. I can't send her away.'

‘Château des Iles is not your only castle.'

His eyes narrowed. ‘You expect me to dispense with Roparz? He's my friend, not to mention that he's also a most efficient steward. I want my best steward in charge of my main holding.'

‘I'm asking you to have the decency to house your friend and his wife elsewhere. God knows you've plenty of castles to choose from.'

‘I can't do that.'

‘Why not?'

Tristan shoved his hand through his hair and glowered—that was the only word for it—at the torn tapestry lying at the foot of the bed. Despite the warmth of the bedcovers, Francesca shivered. She had never really crossed swords with Tristan before and she didn't like it. Was this merely the arrogance of a great lord used to commanding others? There was something odd in his manner, some reluctance she couldn't pin down. What was it? Did it concern Roparz?

Roparz had shown Tristan great loyalty and clearly Tristan thought of him almost as a brother. Indeed, Roparz was perhaps the only stable element in Tristan's life. No wonder he was so valued. Tristan's parents had never given him much warmth, it was possible that the bond between him and Roparz made up for that. Roparz was his rock.

Was that why Tristan refused to give Roparz an appointment elsewhere? If so, much as she hated the idea of coming face-to-face with Lady Esmerée de Fougères, she might have to accept it.

At heart, Francesca was sure Tristan wasn't as cold as he pretended. He had made love to her so sweetly last night. It had surely been more than mere physical release on his part. He'd been tender and loving. A man who could make love like that was far from cold. Whatever it was that sparked between them was more than any business transaction, it had to be. Their marriage had been contracted for dynastic reasons, but the instant she had laid eyes on him she had known there was only one man for her. Tristan le Beau. That had not changed.

Tristan, I love you.
The words echoed through her mind. She had loved him from the start, she had even told him as much. However, she would be the first to admit that her love had been immature. It had been based mainly on his looks and the carnal attraction—unexpected and overpowering—that had flared between them. Her feelings were stronger now, the girlish infatuation had blossomed into deep love.

If I want to keep him, I shall have to fight for him.

She drew in a breath. ‘Tristan, why did you come to fetch me from Provins?'

He gave her the oddest look. ‘You know the answer to that—to tell you Count Myrrdin was ill.'

‘You didn't have to come in person, you could have sent someone else.'

‘I wanted you to hear it from me.'

‘Why?'

A muscle twitched in his cheek. ‘I've no idea.' His voice was dry. ‘Let us say it was an impulse I am beginning to regret.'

You, my lord, are a liar.
Francesca bit her lip and pushed her disappointment aside. She longed for him to admit that he had been worried for her, that he wanted to tell her about Count Myrrdin's illness personally because he knew how upset she'd be. She wanted him to say something—anything—that revealed that he cared for her. Her heart squeezed. Even though she'd known their relationship had begun as a useful dynastic transaction, she'd hoped it would turn into something more meaningful. And then Lady Clare had arrived and all she could think was that the county Tristan had married her for would never be his.

With a start, she realised she had changed in the months they had been apart. She was older and, she hoped, a little wiser. Although the original nature of their relationship—a dynastic alliance—might be no more, she had cause for hope. Tristan must value her, he had come to Provins in person, when he could have sent someone else.

Tristan wasn't one to wear his heart on his sleeve. Despite that, he was loyal to those he cared for. He valued Roparz more than most—witness the way he refused to send him to a remote holding on the edge of his county.

If Francesca wanted to keep Tristan, she must prove that there was more to them than a dusty agreement forged because Count Tristan des Iles and Count Myrrdin de Fontaine held adjoining counties.

When Tristan had dragged her away from the revel in the palace, she'd given him the benefit of the doubt. She'd told herself that his knightly upbringing—being fostered away from his parents, not to mention his father's harsh treatment of him after his mother's death—was responsible for his apparent coolness.

At their wedding, she'd been innocently confident in her role as the Fontaine heiress. She'd been certain she could change him. She gritted her teeth. No, that was wrong, she'd imagined he had it within him to be a loving, caring husband. Deep down, she still felt the same. The fire between them still burned as last night had proved. Francesca couldn't imagine joining with another man in the way she did with Tristan. She lost herself completely, and she was confident it was the same for him. Were all men so giving when it came to making love with their wives? Her experience was limited, but she felt sure they were not.

During her stay at Paimpont, Francesca had had leisure to think. She had observed that many married men were careless of their wives' affection and she had seen them sow their seed where they might. Not all men were cast in that mould, of course—some could be faithful...they honoured their marriage vows. Such men surely felt affection for their wives. Tristan swore he had kept his marriage vows, as she had kept hers.

Tristan did care about her. He might not be able to express his affection in words, but she believed his tenderness in bed spoke for him. She would hang on to that and pray that he would learn to acknowledge his feelings.

Likely he saw love as a weakness. If she wanted him, she would have to teach him that far from being a weakness, love was a great strength. However, there was something Tristan must be made to understand, she wasn't going to let him trample all over her.

‘Tristan, I really don't want to meet your former mistress.'

Silence. Then, in a troubled tone, ‘I am sorry, but Lady Esmerée and Sir Roparz will not be leaving des Iles.'

Francesca clutched at the bedcovers. Saints, she hoped she was right about loyalty and affection being behind Tristan's insistence that Sir Roparz remain with him at des Iles, because if she was wrong, if Tristan was incapable of such feelings, there would be no hope for them.

A loveless marriage wasn't for her. If that was all he had to offer, she would have to be strong. She would quietly withdraw from his life, leaving him free to make a dazzling dynastic alliance elsewhere.

Eyes prickling, Francesca rolled over and presented him with her back. She heard him sigh. The bed rocked as he pushed to his feet and she listened to him undressing—the faint click of a belt buckle being unclasped; the
thud, thud
of boots being tossed into the corner.

The St Méen wall-hanging lay across the foot of the bed, heavy as a millstone. Irritably, she kicked it away and it landed on the floor with a soft thump.

Tristan padded over. Out of the corner of her eye—not that she was watching him—she saw him bend to pick it up.

‘What's this doing here?' He placed it on a coffer.

‘I thought I might mend it, but I fear it is beyond repair.'

Tristan just looked at her, a muscle twitching in his cheek. Then he got silently into bed.

* * *

The next morning the bailey was filled with sunlight as Francesca and Tristan took their leave of Lady Clare and Sir Arthur. Overhearing Tristan's last hurried conversation with Sir Arthur, Francesca gathered Tristan had persuaded Sir Arthur to send a small deputation of men to look over Sir Joakim's manor. Sir Arthur's men were, apparently, to report back on anything unusual. That, more than anything, proved how concerned Tristan was about the threat posed by Sir Joakim.

There was no sign of the Benedictine novices, who had set out early on their return journey to St Michael's, and their farewells finally made, Francesca and Tristan clattered across the Fontaine drawbridge in the midst of a large troop of Sir Arthur's knights.

Tears not far away, Francesca sat stiffly in the saddle and didn't look back. It was hard to believe she was missing Count Myrrdin's funeral.

Despite the sun, the forest of the Brocéliande echoed her sombre mood. The trees marched alongside them, dark sentinels whose trunks were stained with grey lichen. The trackways beneath the unfurling leaves were heavily shadowed. Even the screech of a hawk sounded like a soul in torment. Shutting her mind to her surroundings, Francesca rode in a daze.