Mistaken for a Lady (20 page)

Tristan, on the other hand, had. ‘Sir Roparz,' he murmured. His sword sliced through the air and Kerjean danced backwards. Tristan levelled his sword at Kerjean's throat. ‘You don't watch your back,' he said, in a conversational tone that bordered on insulting. ‘It's quite a weakness.'

Kerjean barked out a laugh and struck out wildly. Steel clashed against steel. Francesca could hardly breathe. Sword weaving this way and that, Tristan pressed harder, edging Sir Joakim inexorably into the shallows. The flotilla drew closer.

Tristan smiled. ‘If I were you, Kerjean, I'd yield. I played on these islands as a boy and those rocks can be damned slippery.'

‘God rot you.' Sir Joakim's sword swung wide. A wave splashed against him, he lost his footing and tumbled into the seething foam.

Chapter Fourteen

T
hunder rolled overhead as Francesca hurried out of the rain and into the castle, the storm had finally broken.

Tristan kept close, his face was tight, she couldn't read him. Since leaving Hermit's Rock he hadn't let her out of his sight, even going so far as to ride back from the village with Francesca sitting before him on his saddle. Back in the bailey with rain falling all about them, he'd ordered Sir Roparz to escort Sir Joakim to the dungeon. Then he'd taken her firmly by the hand and had marched her out of the rain and into the hall.

A number of servants were working in the great hall—carrying logs, folding linen—and a small silence fell as everyone looked their way. Francesca had never felt less like a lady and she took care not to meet anyone's eyes. Her clothes were damp and stiff with salt; she was chilled to the bone and her skin itched. With her free hand, she clutched the coarse blanket tightly about her, she was using it as a veil to hide her shorn hair. Her ruined hair and bedraggled state would inevitably raise questions and she wasn't ready to deal with them. For the time being she was simply relieved to be free of Sir Joakim.

Tristan gestured at a maidservant. ‘Where's Lady Francesca's maid?' he demanded.

‘I believe she's in the solar, my lord.'

‘Take my lady straight to our bedchamber. Then you may tell Mari that her mistress has need of her. My wife will want a fire and hot water to bathe in.'

The maidservant curtsied. ‘Very good,
mon seigneur
.'

Tristan cupped Francesca's cheek with his hand. ‘I shall join you once I have seen Kerjean under lock and key. Until later, my lady.'

Upstairs, Francesca huddled on a stool by the fire until she stopped shivering. She watched the flames and listened to the thunder as it moved slowly to the north.

Mari burst in. ‘Oh, my lady, thank heavens you are all right. I didn't sleep a wink for worrying about you. What happened? Where have you been? Bastian said something about you passing the night on Hermit's Rock.' Pausing for breath, Mari grimaced at the blanket. ‘And why have you got that filthy thing on your head?'

Mari plucked the blanket from her and her face fell. ‘Oh, my lady, your hair, your poor hair.'

With a grimace, Francesca ran her hand through what was left of her hair. ‘It's that bad?'

Mari's lips worked. ‘What happened?'

The moment Tristan had lifted his sword was sharp in Francesca's mind. ‘I was trapped by my hair, Lord Tristan cut me free.' A reminiscent shiver ran through her. It had been so close, she had actually felt a brush of air as the tip of his sword had flicked past her neck. The accuracy of that stroke was too unnerving to contemplate. If Tristan had misjudged it...

Mari stepped behind her and Francesca felt a gentle tug on her hair.

‘It's not very ladylike,' Mari muttered. ‘Far too short. And very messy. Would you like me to tidy it up?'

‘Thank you, I am sure it looks hideous.'

‘Honestly, that man.' Mari tutted. ‘Was there no other way to free you? Did he have to chop off your hair?'

Francesca felt a smile form. ‘He did his best. I am lucky Lord Tristan is a master swordsman, Sir Joakim didn't care whether I lived or died.'

Mari covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes were shiny with tears. ‘Oh, my lady.'

Francesca rose from the stool and gave her a swift hug. ‘Come, Mari, there is nothing to cry about. Lord Tristan and I are both safe, and my hair will soon grow. They will be bringing up the water soon, please help me disrobe. I am sticky with salt.'

There was much Francesca needed to resolve with Tristan. He must be made to understand that if their marriage had a future, he would have to abandon his penchant for secrets. Most importantly, there was Kristina and Esmerée.

Tristan had a child. Francesca had prayed to give him an heir, but in all their time together she had never quickened. Until learning about Kristina, it hadn't been something Francesca had really worried about. Yes, it had crossed her mind, but she'd kept faith that she would some day have his baby.

Learning about Kristina threw her relationship with Tristan into a different light. Clearly, Tristan had no problem fathering children. Again her thoughts plagued her.
What about me? Am I barren? Am I? If Tristan wants a legitimate heir, he might have to find a new wife.
The very idea of Tristan remarrying made her curl up inside.

Stiffening her spine, Francesca turned her back to Mari so her gown could be unlaced. She and Tristan had much to sort out and she had no mind doing it looking like a drowned rat. When she next saw him, she needed to look presentable. At least as presentable as was possible, given what he had done to her hair.

* * *

Francesca was reluctant to leave the bedchamber after she had bathed. It wasn't that she was ashamed about her altered appearance, her reluctance stemmed from the fact that she was unsure of her ground as Tristan's countess. Until she knew where she stood, she would feel awkward among his retainers. And they would surely feel awkward with her. So, until she and Tristan had resolved matters, it was surely best she kept to the bedchamber.

She sat on her stool by the fire, talking to Mari. At length, brisk footsteps sounded on the stairs and the door opened. Tristan had a wine flask dangling from one hand and two silver goblets in the other. He set them on the side-table.

Francesca smiled at Mari. ‘Thank you, Mari. That will be all.'

Gesturing for Mari to wait, Tristan locked eyes with Francesca. ‘Adèle tells me you ate nothing at noon. Would you like Mari to send up a tray?'

‘I had an apple and some bread earlier.'

He studied her, a slight frown between his eyebrows. ‘That's not very sustaining.'

‘I am not hungry, thank you.'

He nodded at Mari, who went out. ‘What about wine? Would you like some?'

‘Thank you.' Francesca's stomach was churning, wine might make this conversation easier. She drew in a breath and plunged straight in. ‘How is Kristina coping after her ordeal?'

‘Kristina seems fully recovered, she was eating the kitchens out of spiced buns when I last saw her.'

‘I am glad to hear it. Tristan, when were you going to tell me that she is your daughter?'

He paused in the act of pouring the wine. ‘I am sorry, my heart. I wanted to tell you. I thought you had enough to contend with after Count Myrrdin's death. It seemed wrong to burden you further. Here.' He handed her a goblet.

‘Thank you.' Francesca sipped the wine as he drew up Mari's stool and sat down. She lowered her goblet and met his gaze straight on. ‘Tristan, hearing about Kristina has disturbed me greatly. How could you keep her existence from me for so long? She's not an infant, she was born in the first year of our marriage—over three years ago. You could have told me about Kristina a number of times in the past three years and yet you did not.'

‘I had my reasons.'

Francesca tapped the side of the goblet. ‘You feared that if these alliance people learned Kristina was your daughter, they might use her against you.'

‘That's it, exactly.
Bon sang
, Francesca, I had to keep her existence dark. You've seen for yourself what ruthless men can do. Kerjean's outlaws kidnapped Kristina not knowing she was my daughter—imagine what they might have done to her if they had known the truth.'

‘None the less, you should have told me about her.'

He drew back. ‘How could I? You said it yourself, if word got out that she was mine, she would have been a target for every outlaw in the duchy.'

‘You didn't trust me.'

A pleat formed in his brow. ‘That's not true, of course I trust you.'

‘You didn't trust me three years ago.' Francesca swallowed hard. Despite the wine, her throat was dry. She gulped down another mouthful. ‘I can understand that, I was young and untried and incredibly naive. We were practically strangers.' Leaning forward, she touched his hand. ‘I'll have you know that Count Myrrdin had taught me about honour and discretion and loyalty, your secret would have been safe with me.'

Strong fingers gripped hers. ‘My heart, I am sorry. A new husband and wife have a lot to learn about each other—and from each other. It takes time.'

She squared her shoulders and freed her hand. ‘You didn't trust me after Kristina was born, just as you didn't trust me when you decided to bring me here after Papa's death. Tristan, we travelled together all the way from Champagne and I thought—hoped—that we were finally coming to understand each other. I thought our marriage had a chance. How wrong I was. Nothing has changed.'

Dark eyebrows came together in a deep frown. ‘Everything's changed. What about those letters?'

Francesca took heart from the fact that Tristan looked more confused than angry. Firmly, she shook her head. ‘Forget the letters, nothing has changed, deep down. If it had, you would have told me about Kristina. You still don't trust me.'

Blue eyes holding hers, Tristan set his goblet down on the matting and leaned his elbows on his knees. ‘Francesca, I do trust you. I wanted to tell you about Kristina, indeed I knew it would be wrong for you to arrive here in ignorance. As I told you, in the wake of Count Myrrdin's death, it seemed cruel to burden you with yet more.' His mouth twisted. ‘It was hard enough telling you about Esmerée, I was certain that telling you I had a daughter too would be a step too far. And then there was Kerjean—my fears that he would attempt to revive the alliance meant that Kristina was no longer as safe as I had hoped.

‘Francesca, I swear I wanted to tell you. In truth, I was on the point of confessing all when we arrived at des Iles. Roparz counselled against it.'

Firelight played over the planes of Tristan's face, accentuating his sharp cheekbones and strong jaw. With a sigh, he leaned back and dug into his pouch. A signet ring—the ring he had given her on their wedding day, the one Sir Joakim had stolen—glittered in his palm. Finely sculpted lips twisted as he stared at it.

‘Francesca, I am sorry if you think I misled you. I have made many mistakes in my life and doubtless I will make many more, but I have no regrets as far as our marriage is concerned.' Swallowing, he held out the ring. ‘I need you to put this back where it belongs.'

Francesca searched his face. Her fingers itched to pick up the ring—her hand felt naked without it. However, he hadn't said a word about love. Perhaps he couldn't. ‘Why?'

A line formed in his brow. ‘I need you, Francesca.'

‘You need heirs and you have decided I will suit you? Is that it? Tristan, have you considered this—what if I am barren? What if I cannot give you an heir? Would you still want me as your wife?'

‘You're not barren.'

‘You can't know that.' She looked sadly at him. ‘You have fathered a child with Esmerée, but you and I— Tristan, we had all that time together, and nothing. What if I am barren?'

‘We are young, Francesca, there is no rush.'

‘Tristan, you cannot simply dismiss this. I could be barren and you need an heir.'

He sat very straight, the ring glittered in his palm. ‘Francesca, you are overwrought. I do not for a moment believe you are barren and I refuse to discuss this further. You are my wife and you suit me, you suit me very well.' A dark eyebrow lifted and his voice changed, became tinged with laughter. ‘Besides, you must realise by now that the idea of trying to get you with child has always held appeal.'

Taken with the urge to touch his cheek, she glanced swiftly away. He was simply too handsome. Never mind that he hadn't declared that he loved her, all she could think was that she wanted to be in his arms again. How could that be? ‘Tristan, please don't.'

‘What?'

‘You're trying to seduce me and I shan't let you.'

He smiled. ‘
Dommage.
Pity.'

‘It is true that we have never had problems with the carnal side of our marriage.' She tore her gaze from him and stared into the fire. ‘Tristan, we won't be young for ever, what happens when our blood cools and the fever abates?'

‘Francesca, you're my wife, wedding vows should last for life.'

‘Even though the grand alliance that you hoped to forge with Fontaine has come to nothing? I bring you no lands. I am no one, Tristan.'

He shrugged. ‘You suit me.'

‘I suit you.' Francesca stared at the ring in his palm and swallowed. Her mind was in turmoil, save for one thing—she would like nothing better than to reach for the ring. Tristan seemed earnest about wanting to keep her as his wife and yet there had been no mention of love. ‘I bring you no lands. I bring you nothing.'

She held her breath and waited. If he loved her, her lack of breeding and fortune might not matter.

Smiling, he shook his head. ‘You bring yourself and that is all I want. Here.' He twitched the goblet out of her hand and set it on the matting. Firmly, he pushed the ring back on to her finger. ‘You are my wife, Francesca. I will have no other.'

Francesca's throat closed and her vision blurred. It wasn't quite the declaration of love she had been longing for. Was it enough to sustain a marriage? She blinked and his dark features swam into focus. His forehead was creased, he looked almost anxious.

Surely more than mere pride was at stake here?
Tristan cares about me, I believe he really cares. He does not know how to express it.

‘You'll wear my ring?' His voice was husky. ‘You'll stay?'

‘I will stay.'

Tristan's forehead cleared as though by magic. Francesca prayed she had made the right decision. He must love her, he just didn't know how to tell her. She curled her fingers round the ring. ‘There is one condition.'

‘Name it.'

‘No more big secrets.'