Mistaken for a Lady (19 page)

Shortly after dawn, a small fishing boat nosed out of the harbour and sailed out into the bay.

* * *

Tristan sat in the stern and pinned his gaze on Hermit's Rock.

What were they doing to her? Was she safe? Absently, he touched his pouch, the pouch in which he'd put that dark twist of hair. One moment he'd been thanking God that Kristina was safe and the next...

Mon Dieu
, Tristan had faced some bleak reversals in his life, but when he'd cracked the seal on the letter and that lock of Francesca's hair had fallen out, he'd gone weak at the knees.

Sir Joakim had Francesca.

Had those bastards hurt her? Sweet Lord, let her be safe.

Tristan had galloped straight to the village. He'd hauled two fishermen—Ivon and Alan—from their beds. He'd been deaf to every objection.

‘Think, Tristan, it's clearly a trap,' Roparz had said. ‘We need a plan. Racing alone into the mouth of hell will achieve nothing.'

Tristan's mind had room for only one thought. ‘I can't abandon Francesca.'

‘
Mon Dieu
, man, no one is asking you to abandon her. Hermit's Rock is a small island, we can surely surround it. There are plenty of boats in the village and you have an entire troop at your command. Capturing a handful of outlaws should be child's play.'

An image of Francesca lying bloodied and still on the shingle had flashed into Tristan's mind. He had stared at that dark lock of hair before shoving it into his pouch. ‘Kerjean wants to negotiate. He will kill her if we try anything else. I won't put her at risk, I have to see what he wants.'

The trouble was, Tristan knew only too well what Kerjean was after. The man was using Francesca to drum up support for the disbanded rebel alliance. Doubtless he needed money to tide him over until more men could be persuaded to rally under his banner.

‘There's no need to rush into things,' Roparz had said. ‘I urge caution. You've sent word to Rennes, surely it makes sense to wait until reinforcements arrive? We can negotiate then.'

‘To hell with sense.' Tristan hadn't listened, he couldn't. He was haunted by that image of Francesca lying motionless on the shingle. Had Kerjean hurt her?

And now, even though he was grimly aware that his actions were dictated by passion rather than reason, Tristan was sitting in Ivon's boat with the smell of fish filling his nostrils as the fishermen set the sail.

‘Going to be a storm,' Ivon muttered, jerking his head in the direction of a mass of dark clouds.

Tristan grunted, his gaze never shifting from the rock in the bay. He hoped to hell he wasn't too late. The sail bellied out with the wind and the little vessel surged into the grey, heaving waters.

* * *

After what seemed like an eternity, Tristan leapt out of the boat and on to Hermit's Rock.

‘Thanks, friends, wait here.' He drew his sword.

Kerjean was waiting in front of the ruined hermitage, hand clamped round Francesca's arm. She didn't appear to be hurt, although her skin was pale and her eyes looked enormous. Relief flooded through him. Tristan strode towards them, his boots crunching through a patch of shingle. He couldn't take his gaze off Francesca. Her veil had gone and her hair streamed like a dark pennon in the wind.

Her lips pursed, her eyes were as stormy as the sky. ‘You shouldn't have come.'

He made his voice light. ‘Thought you might need to know that I reply to letters when I get them.'

The faintest of smiles lifted the corner of her mouth. ‘None the less, you shouldn't have come.'

Sir Joakim jerked his head at the fishing boat rocking up and down on the shoreline. ‘Those men are unarmed?'

‘They are fishermen, Kerjean. They have knives. They gut things.' He sighed. ‘Look, you have a proposition to put to me, get on with it. What do you want?'

‘It's quite simple, my lord, I want you to join us.'

Tristan hoped the surprise didn't show, he was under the impression that he was here to pay a ransom for Francesca's freedom. ‘You don't want money?'

‘Gold is always welcome, my lord. If you want to support us in that way, I won't stop you. However, I was hoping to persuade you to join our cause. With your backing, others will soon join us.'

Tristan snorted. ‘You're insane, Kerjean, the alliance is dead.'

‘Is it?'

Pointedly, Tristan glanced about. ‘Face it, you've been chased from the mainland and all that is left to you is a barren rock on the edge of the ocean. I doubt you can muster a dozen men. This is your last, desperate stand. It will fail.'

‘It won't fail if you join us.'

Kerjean's fingers were white on Francesca's arm, he had to be hurting her. Tristan reined in his anger and prayed he looked calmer than he felt. In truth, he was watching Kerjean like a hawk, waiting for the slightest sign of weakness.

‘Why in hell should I join you?'

Kerjean's fair hair lifted in the wind. ‘With you as our ally, our fortunes would turn. More men would rally to our cause.'

‘What cause?'

‘The cause of freedom, le Beau.'

‘Freedom?' Tristan gripped his sword. He was finding it increasingly hard to hang on to his temper. ‘Anarchy, more like. Your so-called alliance has never been more than a gang of robber barons. Duchess Constance is a minor and you and your friends have been taking advantage of that for years.'

‘We have no quarrel with the duchess, le Beau, we question the rule of that foreign king and his puppet. In my opinion, you made a grave error supporting Baron Rolland.'

‘I don't give a damn for your opinion. I support the rule of law. Always have, always will. Kerjean, however you dress it, you and your cronies don't fight for anyone's good but your own. You're a bunch of outlaws.' Tristan felt a muscle tick in his cheek. ‘I work for Brittany. You work to feather your nest and to hell with everyone else. You and your accomplices are nothing more than a pack of wolves. You want to tear the duchy limb from limb. You will fail.'

A seagull shot past them, heading for the cliffs. With a sly smile, Kerjean shifted his grip on Francesca and captured a trailing length of hair. With slow deliberation, he wound it around his wrist. ‘I am surprised you defend yourself in so passionate a fashion, Lord Tristan. I really did hope that you would join us.'

Tristan's gaze flickered briefly to Francesca. Her eyes had never seemed so large, nor her face so pale. It came to him that even with a tattered blanket wrapped around her, she was the most beautiful woman in the world. He would do anything to save her.

‘This is lunacy, Kerjean. For God's sake, release my wife. Put her back in the hermitage. We can talk just as easily with Francesca in the shelter.'

‘I think not.' Pulling Francesca by her hair, Kerjean reeled her in until her body touched his. ‘She is my security, and in any case I enjoy having her close. It's a pity you won't join us though. There I was, thinking you'd be certain to follow in your father's footsteps.'

Tristan felt himself frown. ‘What are you talking about?'

‘Didn't you know?' Kerjean sneered. ‘Count Bedwyr was one of us. He supported the cause.'

For a moment it seemed that the wind stopped blowing, everything went still. Then another gull flew shrieking past them and the steady beat of the waves resumed. A gust of wind lifted the edge of Francesca's blanket.

Tristan took in a deep breath of salty air. ‘Don't be ridiculous.'

‘Your father was one of our most valued allies.'

‘You, sir, are a liar.' Tristan almost went for Kerjean's throat, it took all his willpower to resist. ‘Hell burn it, release my wife.'

Kerjean looped his arm about Francesca's waist, pinning her tight against him. ‘In good time, my lord. First, I would have your answer. Will you join us? I am anxious to put this unpleasantness behind us.'

‘My father would never side with thieves and traitors.'

A blond eyebrow lifted. ‘You are mistaken, my lord. Count Bedwyr joined the alliance shortly after your mother died.'

Kerjean's statement gave Tristan pause. His father had, by all accounts, been beside himself after his mother's death. Who knew what a man might do when out of his mind with grief? Doubt balled in Tristan's gut—when all was said and done, how well had he known his father?

Kerjean twisted the knife. ‘How far would your precious English prince trust you if he knew you were the son of a traitor? Would you still have a county to call your own?'

Ugly words. Words that couldn't be true. As they washed over him, Tristan felt a niggle of doubt. Never in a thousand years would he have imagined that his father would kill himself. Yet he had done so. Could his father have joined the alliance?

Never, that never would have happened.

Tristan put iron in his voice. ‘You're bluffing. How would you know? Firstly, you're too young to remember. I myself was only a lad and you're younger than I. Secondly, I doubt there's anyone else in your ragbag so-called alliance who can remember that far back.'

‘I have it from a reputable source, my lord.'

The wind blew Tristan's hair into his eyes. Impatiently, he shoved it back, it was sticky with salt. ‘Kerjean, this is ridiculous. Join you? The answer's no. Release my wife.'

‘I don't think so.' Sir Joakim shrugged. ‘Very well, my lord, I accept you won't join us. It was a long shot, I admit. However, there is another way you can help.'

Tristan laughed. ‘You've nerve, I'll give you that. Kerjean, I am not going to help you in any way whatsoever.'

Kerjean gave a thin smile and shifted his hold on Francesca. His hand moved and suddenly there was a knife pressed against her throat. ‘We'll see. I want a ship. The vessel that brought us to this benighted isle is fine for hugging the shore, but it is hardly seaworthy. We need a proper seagoing vessel.'

Tristan felt his eyebrows snap together. ‘You marooned yourself on this island, you can rot here for all I care.'

‘A ship, Lord Tristan, is surely not too much to ask.' Sir Joakim gave an oily smile. ‘Since I have your lady at my mercy.
Olivier! Biel!
'

Two thugs appeared from nowhere. The blood beat in Tristan's ears. Francesca was still as a statue, her face was strained, yet she remained calm. Thank God she was a level-headed woman. ‘Release. My. Wife.'

‘Give me a ship and you need never see me again.'

Tristan didn't reply.
Stay calm, my heart. A few moments more and we shall be out of this.

‘If you are not going to see sense, le Beau, I shall have to change your mind.' Kerjean dropped the knife and his sword scraped clear of its scabbard.

His own sword in hand, Tristan lunged forward. He must take care. Francesca was struggling to twist away from Kerjean, but the man hadn't let go of her hair. She couldn't get away, she was too close to Kerjean's sword.

Tristan's heart thumped. He was about to make the most delicate manoeuvre of his life, nothing less than precision would serve. Utter precision. ‘Forgive me, my heart,' he said. Quick as lightning, he sliced at her hair.

Francesca gasped, tumbled to the rocks and scrambled out of harm's way. For a moment Tristan couldn't breathe. There she was, lying on the rocks exactly as he had imagined earlier. Except—
Dieu merci
, there was no blood, just the appalling desecration of her head shorn of that beautiful mass of hair.

Kerjean, gaping with shock, stood stock-still, an untidy hank of black hair in one hand and his sword in the other.

Tristan pushed the sight of Francesca running her fingers through her shorn locks out of his mind and stepped within fighting distance of Sir Joakim. ‘You have a choice, Kerjean. A fair fight, or surrender. Which is it to be?'

Kerjean's mouth curled into a sneer. ‘My lord, you must have forgotten, you are outnumbered here.'

Tristan beckoned him forward. ‘Very well, if it's a fight you're after, I'm your man.'

* * *

Francesca rose shakily to her feet, staggered to a large rock and leaned against it. Tristan's blue eyes gleamed, bright and determined. Francesca was no expert on hand-to-hand combat, but even she could see that Tristan's stance was firm, and the grip on his sword unwavering. He and Sir Joakim were slowly circling each other.

At a guess, she would say that Sir Joakim was reluctant to engage. Each time Tristan pressed closer, Kerjean skipped sideways. If he continued, it wouldn't be long before he ended up with wet feet, he was very close to the water.

‘Biel?' Sir Joakim's voice was tight with anxiety, his men had slunk away. ‘
À moi!
To me! Olivier?
Pierrick!
' Eyes hunted, he glanced frantically at the hermitage.

No one appeared. Sir Joakim's cronies, if they hadn't already put to sea, were apparently content to remain out of sight. Kerjean swore under his breath, and Tristan and he continued their unnerving, circuitous dance for the advantage.

Tristan was the taller of the two and that should surely give him the advantage in terms of reach. His shoulders were broader and he exuded confidence. He made a testing pass.

Sir Joakim sidestepped.

Tristan made another pass. Sweat gleamed on Sir Joakim's brow. His heel splashed in the shallows. More swearing. Waves buffeted his calves.

The fishing boat Tristan had arrived in lay slightly offshore. Francesca caught her breath as Tristan made a gesture with his left hand and the fishermen reached for their oars. They were beaching the boat a few yards away, Tristan wasn't alone.

And there was more, Francesca had clear sight of the village and harbour. A flotilla of fishing boats was spread out across the bay, headed towards Hermit's Rock. Even better, Tristan's colours were flying from one of the masts. Francesca felt a smile form. With his back to the sea, Kerjean hadn't noticed the boats.