Wearing his ring again...

When a shocking revelation reveals Francesca’s illegitimacy, she worries for her marriage to Tristan, Comte des Iles. Her heart in tatters, she awaits her husband’s return... Will he request an annulment or give their union a second chance?

Duty has kept Tristan from his beautiful wife’s side for far too long, but the memory of her touch is seared into his soul. Now, with malevolent forces working against them, it’s more important than ever for Tristan to show Francesca that he’ll never let her go!

Duty, Honor, Truth, Valor

The tenets of the Knights of Champagne will be sorely tested in this exciting Medieval mini-series by

Carol Townend

The pounding of hooves, the cold snap of air, a knight’s colors flying high across the roaring crowd—nothing rivals a tourney. The chance to prove his worth is at the beating heart of any knight.

And tournaments bring other dangers too. Scoundrels, thieves, murderers and worse are all drawn toward a town bursting with deep pockets, flowing wine and wanton women.

Only these powerful knights stand in their way.

But what of the women who stand beside them?

Find out in

Carol Townend’s

Knights of Champagne

Powerful swordsmen for passionate ladies

Author Note

Arthurian myths and legends have been popular for hundreds of years. Dashing knights worship beautiful ladies, fight for honor—and sometimes lose honor! Some of the earliest versions of these stories were written in the twelfth century by an influential poet called Chrétien de Troyes. Troyes was the walled city in the county of Champagne where Chrétien lived and worked. His patron, Countess Marie of Champagne, was a princess—daughter of King Louis of France and the legendary Eleanor of Aquitaine. Countess Marie’s splendid artistic court in Troyes rivaled Queen Eleanor’s in Poitiers.

The books in my Knights of Champagne mini-series are not an attempt to rework the Arthurian myths and legends. They are original romances set around the Troyes court and the town of Provins, which is also in Champagne. I wanted to tell the stories of some of the lords and ladies who might have inspired Chrétien—and I was keen to give the ladies a more active role, since Chrétien’s ladies tend to be too passive for today’s reader.

Apart from brief glimpses of Count Henry and Countess Marie, my characters are all fictional. I have used the layout of the medieval cities to create Troyes and Provins in these books, but the stories are first and foremost fictional.

Mistaken for a Lady

Carol Townend

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CAROL TOWNEND was born in England and went to a convent school in the wilds of Yorkshire. Captivated by the medieval period, Carol read History at London University. She loves to travel, drawing inspiration for her novels from places as diverse as Winchester in England, Istanbul in Turkey and Troyes in France. A writer of both fiction and non-fiction, Carol lives in London with her husband and daughter. Visit her website at caroltownend.co.uk.

Books by Carol Townend

Mills & Boon Historical Romance

Knights of Champagne

Lady Isobel’s Champion

Unveiling Lady Clare

Lord Gawain’s Forbidden Mistress

Lady Rowena’s Ruin

Mistaken for a Lady

Palace Brides

Bound to the Barbarian

Chained to the Barbarian

Betrothed to the Barbarian

Wessex Weddings

The Novice Bride

An Honorable Rogue

His Captive Lady

Runaway Lady, Conquering Lord

Her Banished Lord

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk.

To Kathy and Chris, with love.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

October 1175—Paimpont Manor

in the County of Champagne

Francesca set her quill aside with a sigh. Her maid Mari was setting logs on the fire, muttering darkly under her breath. Mari had been with her for years and her familiar face was creased with lines. Despite the age gap between them, Francesca considered Mari her friend as well as her maid. ‘Mari?’

‘My lady?’

‘Will you hear what I have written?’

Mari stabbed at a log with the poker. ‘If I must.’

‘I would appreciate your views.’

Mari scowled and the poker clattered on to the hearth. ‘I don’t know why you want to read it to me, you will send it to Brittany whatever I say.’

‘Be that as it may, I value your opinion.’ Francesca’s gaze lingered on her signet ring, the ring Tristan had given her on their wedding day. A lump formed in her throat. Tristan’s features remained clear in her mind—the startling blue eyes; the thick, jet-black hair; that firm jaw. Tristan was the most handsome of men, so much so that he was often referred to as Tristan le Beau—Tristan the Handsome. Unfortunately for Francesca, his image hadn’t faded with time, she hadn’t been able to forget him.

The wrinkles about Mari’s mouth deepened as she came to the table and looked sourly at the vellum. ‘My lady, if you valued my opinion, you wouldn’t be writing that letter in the first place. It’s a waste of ink, the man’s not worth it.’

Francesca took a slow breath. ‘The man, as you call him, is Count Tristan des Iles. He is also presently my husband. I beg you to remember that.’ Mari muttered something that might or might not have been an apology and Francesca continued. ‘I am not asking you to give your opinion of Lord Tristan, Mari, you have already made your views very plain. I would like your opinion on the letter, not my husband.’

‘You want him back,’ Mari said. ‘My lady, he never replied to your other letters, what makes you think he will reply to this one?’

Foolish hope. Francesca ran her forefinger over the three cinquefoils stamped on the face of her ring, conscious of a sharp ache in her chest. It was depressing how fresh the pain was, even after almost two years. Tristan. She tried to forget him by day, but each night he returned. He came to her in her dreams, night after restless night. Dark-lashed blue eyes would be smiling deep into hers, strong arms would reach for her and those clever, wicked fingers would work at her lacings and slide her gown aside...

Hoping she wasn’t blushing, she looked at Mari. ‘What if my letters never reached him? It’s possible.’

Mari snorted. ‘One letter might go astray, but you wrote several, they can’t all have got lost.’

Francesca bit her lip. Mari was adamant that all she would hear from her husband was silence, yet Francesca had to make one last-ditch attempt to reach him. Yes, her marriage to Tristan had been an arranged marriage, but she was sure she hadn’t been the only one to have felt the shock of delight on their wedding day. Mari had never understood that.

Tristan and I liked each other, we truly liked each other.

Sadly, that liking hadn’t had a chance to turn into lasting love, at least not on Tristan’s part. First, he had been called away to keep Brittany whole for the little duchess, and then Lady Clare had arrived at Fontaine and Francesca had been ousted as the Fontaine heiress. Francesca had been brought up believing herself to be Count Myrrdin’s daughter, only to discover that she wasn’t even his distant relation. She was a nobody and she had, albeit unwittingly, married Tristan under false pretences.

Francesca had at one time been certain that the feelings she had for Tristan were genuine. She had been confident that Tristan had liked her because after their marriage he had been the most attentive of lovers. She’d assumed that one day he would love her back. Which was why she was determined to send this final letter. They’d never had a proper chance to get to know each other.

‘Mari, if Count Tristan doesn’t reply, I shall know beyond doubt that our marriage is over.’

‘You said that the last time you wrote to him. He didn’t reply.’

Francesca’s nails dug into her palms as a deeper fear surfaced. I never gave him a child. He needs an heir and I failed him. Was that why he’d never come for her? Did he fear she was barren? ‘I need to hear from my lord himself as to his intentions.’

Mari made an exasperated sound. ‘You’ve not seen the man in almost two years; your previous letters went unanswered—what more do you need to know? There is nothing to stop you starting afresh, there hasn’t been since you left Brittany.’

Francesca took a deep breath. ‘When Lord Tristan and I separated, Brittany was in chaos. The duchy needed him.’ She stared at the stick of sealing wax on the table—it was silver to represent the silver field on her husband’s shield. ‘It needs him still.’

‘My lady, he’s your husband. He could surely have spared a couple of weeks to make sure you were well?’

Francesca found herself taking her husband’s part, even though she knew it would do no good. She and Mari had been over this many times. Mari wouldn’t budge from her stance, in her mind Tristan had neglected Francesca.

‘Mari, you’re forgetting the politics. My lord holds large swathes of land in the duchy and for that honour he is duty-bound to support the duchess. The duchess is a minor—she depends on Count Tristan and other lords loyal to Brittany. Too many noblemen are careless of their responsibilities. Not so Tristan. The duchess and the duchy rely on him.’

Shaking her head, Mari pursed her lips. ‘There is no hope, you’re besotted. You were besotted when you left Fontaine and you’re besotted still. He isn’t worth it.’

Francesca pushed to her feet and stalked to the fire. It wasn’t easy to speak calmly, but she managed it. ‘Until our marriage is actually dissolved, Lord Tristan remains my husband.’ Fists opening and closing, she paced back to the table.

‘My lady, he should have come for you last year.’

‘For heaven’s sake, that wasn’t possible. The English king had laid waste several Breton counties and the council was relying on my lord to defend the local people.’ Francesca stalked back to the fire. The flames were taking hold, licking around the edges of the logs, rimming them with gold. Irritably, she twitched her skirts and turned to head back towards the table.

‘Count Tristan left the duchy, or so I heard.’

‘My lord went to England on behalf of the duchy. He had Duchess Constance’s interests to protect.’

‘And his own, I’ll be bound. All that man thinks about is politics.’

Francesca was painfully aware that her maid had put her finger on it—Tristan did put politics before all else. Politics and duty. And as his wife, she had failed in her main duty—she had not provided him with an heir.

Sadly, she reached for the vellum and rolled it into a scroll. ‘I can see you don’t want to help.’

Mari put out her hand. ‘I’m sorry, my lady. Please, read your letter.’

‘Thank you. Bear in mind this is the last time I shall write him.’ Unrolling the scroll, Francesca began.

Right worshipful husband,

I write to you from your manor in Provins.

I pray that you are in good health and that you have suffered no hurt since my last letter. Word has reached us that the skirmishes that broke out between King Henry of England and the rebel lords have come to a satisfactory conclusion. I trust that the negotiations between the King, his son Prince Geoffrey and the rebels will result in a lasting peace and I live in hope that you may at last be relieved of some of your duties.

I would like to ask you about our marriage. You must feel you married an impostor and for that I can only apologise. On my honour, I had no intention of deceiving you. By all that is holy, I swear that I did honestly believe myself to be Count Myrrdin’s daughter. Like you, I believed myself to be heiress to the lands of Fontaine.

Please know that I am anxious to hear your plans regarding our marriage. Is it to continue? Dearest lord, it has long been my earnest wish that our marriage might stand, but since I have not heard from you I can only conclude that you wish our marriage to be annulled. If that is so, please know that I will not stand in your way. You married the heiress of the County of Fontaine, only to discover that far from being an heiress, I am not even nobly born.

Most worshipful husband, I trust you understand that I was not aware of my true status until Lady Clare arrived at Fontaine and proved to be Count Myrrdin’s true daughter.

I am not a lady. I bring you no lands and no revenues, save those which may be drawn from an insignificant manor at St Méen. As I mentioned in my last letter, Count Myrrdin and his true-born daughter, Lady Clare, have graciously allowed me to retain it.

My lord, I beg you to inform me if our marriage is to continue.

I will be greatly saddened if you decide on an annulment, but I will understand. Noble lords need to marry ladies who match them in title and estate. However, if you decide to keep me as your wife, let me assure you that although I come to you virtually empty-handed, I bring with me a warm heart. I hold you in the highest esteem.

I beg that you give our marriage—and us—another chance.

My lord, I would be grateful if you would let me know your mind. You are ever in my thoughts.

Your respectful and loving wife,

Francesca

Francesca met Mari’s eyes. ‘Is it clear?’

‘You don’t style yourself lady in the letter.’

Francesca stared blindly at the vellum. ‘I hold no title in my own right, I cannot presume. If Lord Tristan dissolves our marriage, I will truly be no one.’

‘You’ll always be a lady to me,’ Mari said firmly.

‘Thank you.’ Francesca gave a faint smile. ‘Well? Does this letter pass muster?’

‘You will send it whether or not I agree. My lady, Lord Tristan’s neglected you for too long.’ Mari shook her head. ‘In my opinion you’re better off without him.’

Francesca felt her expression freeze. ‘Mari, please understand, Lord Tristan cannot act at whim, he has the interests of Brittany at heart.’

Mari’s mouth twisted. ‘Lord Tristan’s a man, isn’t he? To my mind, it’s a crying shame when a man can’t put his wife before all else.’

Francesca looked sadly at her maid. ‘Lord Tristan is more than a man, he’s a count. I knew what I was marrying.’ She gripped the letter. ‘I only wish he could say the same of me.’

‘Send the letter, my lady, it will be good to know his intentions. Where is Lord Tristan at present, do you know where to send it?’

Francesca’s chest heaved. ‘Not exactly, but if I send it to Château des Iles, it’s bound to reach him sooner or later.’

‘That may take weeks.’

‘Thank you, Mari, I am aware of that.’

Throat tight, Francesca reached for the silver sealing wax. Would this be the last time she used her husband’s seal? If Tristan wanted their marriage dissolved, she would have to accept it. She pushed away the memory of those smiling blue eyes. Lord, even now she could actually feel the texture of his dark hair as she ran her fingers through it. Longing was a sharp ache, a spear in her vitals. Tristan, come for me, please. Bending over the table, she sealed the letter. Blinking hard, she picked up the quill and ink and crossed to the wall cupboard to put them away.

Tristan would do as he pleased, and if he did not want her, she would have to face it. At least she would know. She would make a new life for herself. First, she would go to the manor at Monfort. Her friend Helvise had asked for advice on running the place and she had agreed to help. Francesca might not have the right bloodlines, but she’d been trained to cope with a castle, a small manor was well within her competence. And after that?

She might marry again, she had always wanted children. There was a chance that with another man she might be more lucky. She shivered. The thought of bedding anyone but Tristan wasn’t pleasant.

First, however, her marriage had to be given one last chance. The letter had to be sent. Today. And if the worst came to the worst, if Tristan didn’t reply, she would force herself to forget him. She had lived in limbo long enough.

‘Mari?’

‘My lady?’

‘Please ask a groom to saddle Princess. I need fresh air.’

Chapter One

May Day 1176—the market town of Provins

in the County of Champagne

Tristan spurred through the Lower Town, his squire Bastian at his side. It had taken them many days to reach his Champagne manor and he’d expected to find Francesca at home when he’d arrived.

Not so. On his arrival at Paimpont, his steward Sir Ernis had told him that Francesca had gone to a revel at Count Henry’s palace. A masked revel, of all things. On May Day. It could hardly be worse.

Did she have any idea how rowdy the revel might become? How bawdy? Tristan had thought Francesca innocent. Overprotected. It was possible she had changed. These days it was possible she made a habit of attending such events.

With a sigh, Tristan had called for hot water and a change of horses and he and Bastian had hauled themselves wearily back into the saddle.

Tristan had urgent news for Francesca, terrible news that would knock her back. Count Myrrdin of Fontaine—the man she thought of as her father—was on his deathbed. Count Myrrdin wanted to see Francesca before he died and Tristan had been charged with bringing her back to Fontaine.

Tristan’s head was throbbing after so long on the road. His eyes felt gritty and his guts were wound tighter than an overstrung lute. Telling Francesca about Count Myrrdin’s illness was bound to be a challenge, he wanted it over and done with. The news was bound to distress her. None the less, the sooner Francesca knew that the man she thought of as her father was on his deathbed, the better. She needed to prepare herself for the long ride back to Brittany.

Would it distress her further when she learned that she must make the journey with the husband she’d not seen in nigh on two years? Impatient with himself, Tristan reined in his thoughts. Since separating from Francesca he’d learned to his cost that thinking about her wreaked havoc with his emotions. She affected his judgement and that he couldn’t allow. He was a count with responsibilities. Emotions were dangerous, emotions wrecked lives. Allow strong emotion to take root and good judgement flew to the four winds.

He was here to take Francesca to Count Myrrdin.

He was here to solicit for an annulment. A wife who hadn’t troubled to answer any of his letters, a wife who hadn’t troubled to reply when he’d invited her to visit des Iles, wasn’t the wife for him.

He glanced at his squire. Bastian was young and doubtless worn out. Tristan’s territories in the Duchy of Brittany lay many miles behind them, they’d crossed several counties to reach Champagne. ‘Holding up, lad?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘You didn’t have to come with me this evening, you could have stayed at the manor. One of the grooms could have come with me.’

Bastian stiffened. ‘I am your squire, Lord Tristan, it is my duty to accompany you.’

In the Lower Town the market square was clear of stalls, although something of a holiday atmosphere ensured that the taverns were doing a brisk trade. Indeed, the entire population seemed to have spilled out of the narrow wooden houses and into the streets. Men were wandering about, ale cups in hand; girls had braided flowers into their hair. The atmosphere was relaxed. Festive. And all in honour of the ancient festival of Beltane. Tristan knew what that meant, he wouldn’t mind betting that every full-blooded male in Provins had one thing on his mind.

He folded his lips together. He’d been told that Francesca had gone to the revel attended only by a groom and her maid. If things got out of hand, would she be safe? His brow was heavy as they trotted through the evening light and made their way up the hill towards the palace. Swifts were screaming in the sky overhead, a welcome sign that summer was on its way, a sign that should have lifted his mood.

Tristan stifled a yawn, Lord, he was tired. His stomach rumbled and his skin itched—that quick wash at Paimpont hadn’t done much to remove the dust of the road, he could feel it clinging to his every pore, he was longing for a proper bath.

What would Francesca do when she saw him? She wouldn’t be expecting him. Bon sang—good grief—he’d left her in Fontaine thinking his service to Duchess Constance would last a couple of months, and they’d ended up being separated for two years. Two years. Francesca was bound to have changed. It was a pity, the girl he had married had been a sweetheart. He gripped the reins as, against his will, his mind conjured her image. She’d been a sweetheart with candid grey eyes and long dark hair that felt like silk. What is she like these days? He wasn’t sure what to expect or how he would feel when he saw her. Merciful heavens, what did it matter? When she’d fled Brittany without even setting foot in his castle at des Iles, she’d made it plain she didn’t see herself as his wife.

The trouble was that now he was on the verge of seeing her again, it was impossible not to think about her. Impossible and painful. By refusing to enter his county, Francesca had, in effect, deserted him. And despite his best efforts, his pretty young wife had managed to occupy most of his thoughts over the past months. In truth, ever since he’d heard that Francesca had been ousted from her position as Count Myrrdin’s daughter, he’d had no peace.

Francesca had left Brittany at the worst time. With the duchy infested with rebels, every county had been in a ferment. The council had called on Tristan for support and he’d not been able to go to Francesca. He’d felt bad. Worse than bad. And, given that she had not made any attempt to contact him, far worse than he should have done.

Initially, Tristan hadn’t wanted their marriage dissolved. A knife twisted in his gut and he cursed himself for his foolishness. He’d been captivated by Francesca’s innocence and apparent liking for him. He’d been overwhelmed by the startling physical rapport that had sprung up the moment they’d set eyes on each other and had clung to the hope that once the dust from the rebellion had settled, they might make their marriage work. He’d ached to see her. Still did.

Tristan had been told that Francesca had fled to his manor in Champagne as soon as she’d learned she wasn’t Count’s Myrrdin’s daughter—his retainers had sent word when she had arrived.

What he didn’t understand was why she had chosen to leave Brittany. Francesca loved Brittany, it had been her home. She loved the aged Count Myrrdin, and surely that wouldn’t change even though it had been proved she wasn’t his daughter?

Had she fled because Lady Clare—Count Myrrdin’s true daughter—had made difficulties for her?

Or had she gone because she couldn’t bear to live on in her beloved Fontaine knowing it would never be hers?

It had hurt that Francesca had left the duchy rather than wait for him to complete his duties. So many months had passed and she’d not answered a single one of his letters. That hurt too. Theirs had been an arranged marriage, surely he shouldn’t feel this way?

Now, with Francesca continually ignoring his letters, Tristan refused to waste more time. He needed to apply for an annulment. He needed a sound political marriage. He needed heirs.

He hardened his heart. The plain truth was that Francesca hadn’t taken refuge in his castle at des Iles as he had invited her to. She had fled the duchy. Her silence was yet more proof that she wanted nothing to do with him. Silence was a form of desertion. And desertion was definitely grounds for annulment.

Somewhere in the depths of his memory a pair of candid grey eyes—Francesca’s eyes—smiled back at him. Her smile had been warm and genuine. Or so he had believed. A knife twisted, deep inside.

He set his jaw. It was time to have their marriage dissolved. Francesca wasn’t an heiress. Their marriage had brought him nothing but grief—the confusion he’d felt at their parting refused to dissipate. At times it felt very much like pain. Perhaps that wasn’t so surprising. He had liked Francesca very much; her lack of response to his letters really rankled.

Bastian was staring at the gatehouse outside Count Henry’s palace. ‘Is that the palace, my lord?’

‘Aye.’

Bastian gave him a troubled look. ‘What will you do for a mask, my lord? Didn’t Sir Ernis say a mask was obligatory?’

‘Never mind, Bastian, I have the very thing.’

* * *

Francesca’s mask was green to match her gown. Standing in a stairwell just outside the palace great hall, she held her veil to one side while Mari tied it into place.

‘Thank you. Are you ready, Mari?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

Giving her veil a tweak to ensure it flowed neatly over the ties of her mask, Francesca stepped into the hall. A wave of noise and heat rolled over her. Unprepared for either the press of people or the warmth, Francesca recoiled so swiftly that Mari—who was following close behind—walked into her.

‘I’m sorry, my lady.’

Francesca’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Saints, half of Champagne must be here. It would be hard to imagine there’s room for anyone else.’

A manservant bearing a tray of goblets shot past the doorway faster than she could have believed possible, he nimbly sidestepped a small child playing with a grizzled wolfhound and narrowly avoided an upturned bench.

Behind her mask, Mari’s eyes sparkled. ‘Oh, my lady, isn’t it exciting? May Day always is the best of the festivals.’

‘It’s a pagan celebration,’ Francesca said. ‘It’s not an official one, it’s not sanctioned by the Church.’

‘All the better, we can really enjoy ourselves.’ Mari nudged her in the small of her back. ‘Well? Don’t you think we need a goblet of wine?’

Straightening her spine, Francesca pushed into the throng. The twanging of a lute floated down from the minstrel’s gallery. A drum beat softly in the background.

Truth be told, Francesca had no wish to take part in the revel, she wasn’t in the mood. She’d only come to please Mari, who had been talking of nothing else since Sir Ernis had so foolishly mentioned there was going to be a masked revel at the palace.

Mari was more of a companion than a servant and, despite her outspoken manner, she was a loyal supporter. It would have been churlish to deny her and Francesca had known Mari wouldn’t dream of coming without her. So, despite not being in the mood for frivolity, she’d been persuaded to come.

Mari’s mask made her smile. It was a dazzling and complicated arrangement of peacock feathers, gold thread and ribbons. The feathers danced and waved about Mari’s face as she squeezed through the press, tickling people as she passed them.

Francesca’s mask was far more modest. She had ignored Mari’s blandishments that a young lady like herself, one whose husband had clearly given up on her, ought to set about attracting new interest. She had cut a simple mask out of some backing, covered it with a remnant of green fabric from her gown and edged it with some glass beads she’d found rolling about in the bottom of her sewing box.

‘My lady, you really must make the most of this revel,’ Mari muttered from behind her. ‘You need to think about your future. Your marriage is over, and if you want children, you will have to marry again.’ Mari glanced pointedly towards the ceiling, where row upon row of knights’ colours hung from the beams. ‘Look at all those pennons. There are plenty of knights here tonight, you could take your pick.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Find a new husband.’

‘Mari, please.’ As Mari’s words shivered through her, Francesca was gripped with a horrid suspicion. Had Mari insisted on coming to the revel, not for her own entertainment, but because she wanted Francesca to choose a new husband?

Well, that day might almost be upon her. Her separation from Tristan was bound to be formalised soon, even so, she wasn’t ready to start husband hunting. Not until she had heard from Tristan himself.

The long silence probably meant that she would at any moment receive notice that he had asked the Pope to annul their marriage. Tristan had good cause to do so. She’d failed him in the most damning of ways, she was a nobody, a nobody who had not provided him with an heir.

Determined not to give the knights’ colours another glance, Francesca kept her gaze trained on the trestle tables arranged around the walls. She had come here tonight so Mari could let her hair down. As to her future, she had already discussed moving to Monfort with her friend Helvise, she would think more about that another day.

Francesca forged on, heading for a tray of goblets next to the wine racks. Heavens, she’d never seen tables so laden—great platters of venison, mountains of pastries, honeyed almonds... Unfortunately, her stomach felt like lead and she doubted she could eat a bite.

It would help if she could forget how she had enjoyed Tristan’s company. The trouble was that every time Mari spoke about Francesca’s plans for the future, Francesca found herself dwelling on her brief time with Tristan. Until she had discovered she wasn’t related to Count Myrrdin in any way whatsoever, she had been so happy.

My life has been a lie. None of it was real.

Tears rushed to her eyes and the tray of goblets seemed to waver in a mist. Blinking fast, she stiffened her spine. She knew what she had to do. She must step aside and allow Tristan to make a more propitious marriage. With a noblewoman. With an heiress who would give him heirs.

Francesca reached for a goblet and wrenched her mind away from Tristan. ‘Count Henry is generous,’ she said brightly.

Mari was staring wide-eyed at a stand that was bowing under the weight of so many wine barrels. Her peacock feathers shivered. ‘Dieu du ciel, God in heaven, Count Henry’s steward must have raided the stock of every wine merchant in Champagne. That rack will surely break.’

‘I am sure the barrels will soon be empty.’ Francesca handed the goblet to Mari as one of her maid’s peacock feathers flicked across the face of a large man with a shock of white hair. The man sneezed.

Francesca took another goblet. When she turned back, wine in hand, Mari was gone.

‘Mari?’

Francesca could see no sign of her. No, wait, there she was, halfway across the hall. At the centre a space had been cleared, dancing was about to begin. The man with the shock of white hair had taken Mari’s arm and was drawing her into the crowd. Mari glanced over her shoulder, Francesca saw the glint of her eyes behind the mask. She was smiling.

Returning the smile, Francesca mimed for Mari to join the dance. With any luck, Mari would soon be so engrossed that Francesca could sneak back to the ladies’ bower and retire. She really wasn’t in the mood for a masked revel. And she certainly wasn’t in the mood for husband hunting.

Pensively, she took a sip of wine and skirted round the edge of the hall. She hadn’t gone more than a couple of paces before a tall man with untidy yellow hair stepped in front of her.

He gave her a flourishing bow. ‘Will you dance, fair lady?’ he asked, holding out his hand.

The man’s mask was black and Francesca caught a glimpse of blue eyes. Her heart missed a beat and she immediately thought of Tristan. Heavens, this had to stop! She was seeing Tristan in every man she met. It was ludicrous, this man didn’t even have the right colour hair.

Was he a knight? Francesca didn’t want to dance, however, if he was a knight, there was a danger she might insult him by refusing. He certainly held himself confidently enough. She dipped into a curtsy. ‘I am sorry, sir, I do not dance.’

‘Dommage. Pity,’ he said, easily enough.

A woman squeezed past Francesca, elbowing her in the ribs. ‘Excuse me, mistress.’ She jerked her head at a wine barrel. ‘I can’t reach the tap.’

The fair man took Francesca by the arm. ‘Come, we are in the way here.’ He guided her away from the serving tables. It didn’t take long for Francesca to realise that he was making a beeline for one of the corridors—a corridor that at this hour was dark and shadowy and lit by a line of lanterns. Francesca resisted the tug on her arm.

‘Sir, if you please. I have arranged to meet a friend in the ladies’ solar.’

‘All in good time.’ Behind the black mask, blue eyes—the wrong blue eyes—gleamed. ‘First, we shall step into the quiet and introduce each other properly.’ His grip firmed and before Francesca could protest she found herself in the corridor.

* * *

From the minstrels’ gallery, there was a bird’s-eye view of the goings-on in the great hall. This was just as well because Tristan was wearing his helmet instead of a mask. He’d had to put it on before the pages would admit him and the view through the eye slits was somewhat restricted. None the less, he would surely spot Francesca easily from up here. And he would know her, he was sure, even if she was wearing a mask.

After nodding briefly at a lute-player, he turned back to the guard rail. His gaze was caught by a slender, dark-haired lady in a group standing by the hearth. A brief perusal told him it wasn’t Francesca, the lady’s hands didn’t look right. Too many rings. He skimmed quickly over a group of would-be dancers forming in the middle, again, one or two of the women had Francesca’s build. None of them had her grace. Next, he studied the revellers by the serving tables as they jostled to reach the meats and the wine barrels. One lady in a crimson gown with a mask to match looked too young; another in a blue gown and heavy silk veil was too small; another— No, none of them resembled Francesca.

His gaze moved on, sliding over more guests until at last, by the door that led into a corridor, Tristan caught sight of a large, fair-haired man pulling a tall, willowy woman in a green gown towards one of the doors. The hairs rose on Tristan’s neck. Francesca!

Before he knew it, he was tearing down the twisting stairs.

He hadn’t seen her face, she had lost weight and her ebony hair was hidden beneath her veil, but he didn’t need the details to know he’d been looking at his wife. Swearing under his breath, Tristan shoved his way unceremoniously through the revellers.

His mind raced. What the devil was she doing leaving the great hall in the company of a stranger?

A name jumped unbidden into Tristan’s brain. Joakim Kerjean. His pulse thudded and his mind filled with questions.

Before setting out from Château des Iles, Tristan had learned that a yellow-haired knight named Joakim Kerjean had been enquiring after Francesca in the village. Never having met the man, Tristan had followed up with some enquiries of his own. He’d not got far, all he’d learned was that Sir Joakim Kerjean held title to some land not far from Francesca’s manor at St Méen. That in itself was fairly innocuous. What was more worrying was that after Sir Joakim had been told that Francesca was living in Tristan’s Champagne manor, he had gone on to ask for precise directions as to how to get there. Clearly, this Kerjean was determined to find her. Why?

If Sir Joakim’s manor bordered with Francesca’s, he might be after her land. He might be considering marriage.

Was the man a fortune hunter? Tristan might be considering an annulment, but he had no wish for Francesca to fall into the hands of a fortune hunter. If Francesca were to remarry, it was Tristan’s duty to make sure she married someone who treated her with the respect she deserved. Sir Joakim would have to prove himself a decent man before Tristan allowed him anywhere near her.

Tristan shouldered through the throng. That yellow-haired man might not be Kerjean, what mattered at this moment was whether Francesca was going with him willingly.

That man could be her lover. Tristan clenched his fists, filled with an emotion so raw he couldn’t begin to analyse it. He was about to petition for an annulment, what Francesca did was no longer his concern. So why in hell did the sight of her walking into a shadowy corridor with another man have him in knots?

‘Excuse me, sirs.’ Tristan pushed past several knights with barely concealed impatience. The very fact that he’d found Francesca at this revel argued against what he’d believed about her living quietly at Paimpont Manor.

Before Tristan had left her to join the Breton council in Rennes, he had made a point of telling her how important it was that he proved himself a loyal subject of the duchy. He’d been sure she understood, he had to do his duty.

Tristan had long been aware that of all the duchess’s vassals, his hold on his county was tenuous. He held it on sufferance. The trouble was that if he put a step wrong, he’d lose more than his county. Tristan hadn’t told his wife that he wanted to make up for the shameful mess that his father had left behind him. That would have felt too much like betrayal.

Before parting from Francesca, he had warned her that he would only be able to write to her occasionally. She had given him one of her dutiful smiles and had said that she understood. He’d been sure she would wait for him. Yet she hadn’t replied to any of his letters and here she was, sneaking into a corridor with a stranger at a revel. It was hardly the act of an innocent.

It wasn’t what he would have expected of the young woman he had married. I thought you were daughter of the Count of Fontaine. I thought you were innocent.

Hell burn it, it wasn’t pleasant to have one’s illusions ripped away. When they had first married, he’d been beguiled by her innocence. Yet how innocent had she been? He wasn’t sure about anything any more. Who was she? What was she? What drove her? He had no idea.

Is that man forcing her? Is it the man who was nosing around des Iles? Is it Joakim Kerjean? Digging his nails into his palms, clenching his jaw, Tristan brushed past an embracing couple and stepped into the corridor.

Candles were burning in a row of lanterns set in wall sconces, the rest was gloom. At the far end of the corridor, he caught the flash of a green skirt.

‘Let me go!’ Francesca’s voice was sharp. Anxious. ‘Unhand me, sir!’

‘My lady!’ Tristan lurched towards her, swiftly closing the distance between them.

A large shadow moved. The lantern light fell on the man’s yellow hair as he glanced Tristan’s way before bending purposefully over Francesca.

Tristan heard a sharp crack as she slapped the man’s face. Relief—this was no tryst—warred with anger. The cur, how dare he molest her! Tristan reached them and all he could think was that he wanted Francesca safe. Her green mask was crooked, her breast heaving.

He forced his way between them and tore off his helmet. It fell to the floor with a clang. He was vaguely aware that he ought to know better than to mistreat a Poitiers helmet in such a way, it had cost a fortune. It wasn’t important. Ignoring Francesca’s gasp of surprise as she recognised him, he glared at her molester. ‘Touch my wife again and you die.’

The man’s jaw slackened. His gaze dropped to Francesca and he scowled. ‘You didn’t tell me you had a protector.’

Francesca lifted her chin and the beads glinted on her mask. ‘You didn’t bother to ask, sir,’ she said. ‘And even if I had told you, I doubt whether you would have listened. You may leave.’

The man’s mouth tightened. ‘There’s a word for women like you,’ he said, voice surly.

Anger surged, dark and primitive. Tristan felt like pounding the man into the floor. ‘Watch your mouth.’

Muttering obscenities, the man shouldered past him. Heavy footsteps receded down the corridor and Tristan discovered that learning whether or not the man was Kerjean had become utterly irrelevant.

Was Francesca unhurt?

A candle flared, spitting and hissing as it guttered and went out. It didn’t matter. Tristan wasn’t aware of anything save for Francesca standing before him, a door at her back. Her face was in shadow. Her mask glinted.

Francesca dipped into a curtsy even as she whipped off her mask. Her grey eyes were shining with what looked very much like happiness. ‘Tristan! How wonderful to see you.’

Tristan found himself returning her smile before he recalled why he was here. Count Myrrdin, the man she thought of as her father, was dying and he had promised to bring her to him.

She touched his hand and every nerve tingled. ‘Your arrival was most timely. I thank you.’

Tristan curled his fingers round hers. ‘We can talk in here.’ Pushing through the door, he pulled her with him into the chamber. He had a dim recollection that it was used as an office by the palace steward, Sir Gervase de Provins. It was cramped and dark. No candles. No matter.

Kicking the door shut with his heel, Tristan felt for the bolt and shoved it home. All he could think was that they were together again. At last.

Tugging Francesca to him, he slid an arm about her waist. He had to kiss her. One last kiss. God save him, after their wedding she had tasted so sweet, he had to see if that had changed. One kiss. He touched her face, fingers lingering on her cheek. So soft. Warm. A faint, womanly fragrance reached him—jasmine and roses. She’d always liked jasmine. Francesca.

‘Tristan.’ Her voice trembled. Her body did too.

Lowering his head, his lips found hers. He intended to keep it gentle and brief. He ought to tell her about Count Myrrdin and he would, as soon as they had finished this kiss. This kiss—their first in almost two years—was everything.

Feeling engulfed him. Lord, it was almost too much. Finally, he had her in his arms again and her lips were as soft as he remembered. She stood trembling in his arms as he went on kissing her, nibbling at her mouth, waiting—aching—for her to respond. Lightly, lightly. He tasted cinnamon and honey, she’d been drinking spiced wine.

She must feel something, she must respond, she must.

His blood began to heat, yet he held himself in check. They would talk in a moment, but first he had the absurd wish that she should respond in the old way.

It didn’t take long. He felt a last shiver run through her body, one moment she was hanging in his arms, apparently nothing more than a bundle of nerves, and the next she gave a small sigh and her body fell against his as it had done in the early days of their marriage. The ache inside him intensified, it became actual pain. Mon Dieu, he had missed this—she had him in flames with a touch. He’d never known anything like it.

A couple of heartbeats later, small hands took firm hold of his shoulders. She eased back and her soft murmur reached him through the dark. ‘Tristan.’

Triumph flooded every vein. The cracks of light edging round the door were thin, the dark almost absolute. If she was little more than a shadow, then so was he. ‘My heart.’ The old endearment slipped out before he had thought. And his hand slid round her head, he was unable to stop himself urging her mouth back to meet his. They fell into each other’s arms in the old way and went on kissing. The kissing got deeper. Wilder. It was as though Tristan had been dragged back in time and they were newly wed. While they were kissing, Tristan could almost imagine that he had never felt guilty for keeping secrets from her. He could almost imagine that they had never separated, and there had never been this silence between them. His blood pounded in his ears. It was impossible to breathe. There was so much to resolve, but it was drowned by the need to kiss and touch.

With difficulty, he eased back. He had to tell her about Count Myrrdin. Talking was the last thing he wanted to do, he was hard as iron. He wanted to go on touching her; he wanted to keep her close; he wanted to kiss her until they both lost their senses. He was halfway there already. Lord, he would never let her go.

His thoughts blurred and despite his resolution—I must tell her Count Myrrdin has summoned her to Fontaine—all he could think was how much he wanted her. He fought the impulse to press himself against her and caught himself wondering if an annulment might, after all, be a mistake. Then the old bitterness stirred. She never came to des Iles, she deserted me. She never replied to my letters.

He heard her swallow, her breathing was unsteady. ‘Tristan, it is marvellous to see you, but should we be kissing with so much unresolved between us?’

It was on the tip of his tongue to reply that she was his wife and he had every right to kiss her. He had to remind himself that she had fled Brittany and never looked back. ‘Probably not. Francesca, I bring news from Fontaine.’

Damn the gloom, he couldn’t read her expression, all he could see was her shape. Her very feminine shape, temptingly outlined by the light creeping round the door. Desire coiled inside him, dark and angry. Francesca wasn’t the woman he’d thought her to be and their life together had disintegrated into an utter shambles. He needed a titled lady with a spotless reputation. Despite that, he’d never wanted a woman more than this one and he had no words to tell her.

Blindly, he reached for her, but his arms closed on thin air.

Chapter Two

Francesca drew in a steadying breath, stared at the dark shape that was Tristan and tried to analyse the warmth that had flooded every vein. It was heaven to be with him again, pure heaven, so much so that it was almost impossible to concentrate on what he had said. Something about news from Fontaine.

She felt most odd. Light-headed. Dizzy with happiness. Tristan had come for her! He had received her letter and he had come for her. Her heart thumped. Had he decided their marriage would stand? He had acknowledged her as his wife before that bully of a knight—that had to be a good sign.

Unless—Francesca’s stomach sank—Tristan was extremely possessive. Perhaps he had come to tell her their union was to be dissolved and he had claimed her only because until their marriage was over she remained his. Sad to say, the decision was in Tristan’s hands, she would have little influence. Tristan le Beau was Count of the Isles, she was no one.

Pushing the news from Fontaine to the back of her mind, she cleared her throat. ‘Have you called for an annulment, my lord?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Why not?’

‘Why the hurry?’

She gave a quiet laugh and felt the happiness slowly ebb away until there was only the familiar uncertainty. What were his intentions? ‘Why the hurry? Tristan, it’s been two years since we have been in each other’s company, that is hardly a hurry.’

A loud knocking made her start.

The door rattled and Tristan groaned. ‘Holy hell.’

Another bang had the door jump on its hinges. ‘Who’s in there?’ It was a man’s voice, edged with impatience. ‘Open up!’

Tristan made for the door.

‘Tristan, a moment, if you please.’ Cheeks scorching, Francesca straightened her gown. Heaven help her, she had lost her veil and dropped her mask and the lack of light meant she had no hope of finding them.

‘Open this door!’

‘Gervase, is that you?’ Tristan asked.

‘Aye, open up. Open up at once.’ The door shook. ‘Hurry, or I’ll have the guard smash their way in.’

‘Calm down, man. It’s Tristan, Tristan des Iles.’

‘Who?’

‘Tristan des Iles.’

‘What in Hades are you doing here? I thought you were in Brittany.’

Tristan gave a curt laugh. ‘I’ll be out shortly. Then you’ll understand.’

Francesca dropped to her knees and groped around on the floor, desperate to find her mask and veil. Nothing. The cool flags, the edge of the chamber, the wooden desk leg—it was hopeless. With a sigh, she straightened and smoothed her hair. She could hear more rustling. Tristan was doubtless tidying himself too. She had an unsettling recollection of dragging his tunic free of his belt so she could run her hands over his chest.

Why had he kissed her? He hadn’t denied that he needed an annulment. He would need a more propitious marriage. He shouldn’t have kissed her!

And she should not have responded.

‘Ready, Francesca?’

‘Aye.’

The bolt scraped and the latch clicked. Light filled the chamber as Sir Gervase crossed the threshold, a lantern in hand. Glancing over his shoulder—half the palace seemed to be congregated in the corridor—Sir Gervase pulled the door firmly shut. His mouth curled into a knowing grin.

Francesca’s heart ached and her cheeks were on fire. It was obvious what she and Tristan had been doing. In truth, it looked as though they had done far more than kiss—her veil and mask lay in a corner and Tristan was adjusting his belt.

Sir Gervase’s eyes danced. ‘Tristan, you devil.’ He gave Francesca a puzzled look. ‘Who is this lady?’

‘This, Gervase, is my wife, the Countess Francesca des Iles.’

* * *

By the time they left the chamber, Francesca had put on her veil and her mask was firmly in place. Tristan’s appearance had her mind in a shambles. Not only that, she was mortified, it was obvious that Count Henry’s steward thought he had interrupted a passionate tryst. Grateful that the mask would hide the worst of her blushes, she let Tristan take her hand in a firm grip and march her through a boisterous and nosy crowd. Grinning onlookers stood aside to let them pass.

Tristan didn’t trouble to replace his helmet, everyone knew exactly who he was. There were several sniggers and, out of the corner of her eye, Francesca saw a lewd gesture.

Someone hissed. ‘Tristan le Beau.’

‘Aye, but who’s the woman?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

Francesca didn’t want to hear the rest. It was plain the entire palace thought they’d been making love in Sir Gervase’s office. It was beyond embarrassing. Determined not to catch anyone’s eye, she stared at the floor as she was swept along the passageway. Only when they neared the entrance to the great hall did she lift her head. And there, leaning against the doorpost, was the yellow-haired knight who had tried to kiss her. He’d removed his mask and was watching Tristan, mouth thin, eyes cold.

Tristan’s grip tightened on her hand. The yellow-haired knight unfolded his arms and slipped into the hall ahead of them. At once a ring of dancers encircled him, swallowing him up.

‘How have you been, my lord?’ Sir Gervase was speaking to Tristan. ‘How do matters stand in Brittany?’

‘All is well, sir, save for a few loose ends,’ Tristan replied absently. He was looking towards the dancers, a deep crease in his brow. ‘Sir Gervase, who’s the man with the yellow hair?’

‘His name’s Kerjean, I believe, Sir Joakim Kerjean.’

The men talked as they made their way across the hall towards the stairwell and Francesca found she couldn’t tear her gaze from Tristan. It had been so long since she had seen him and it had been too dark in the chamber to see whether he had changed. Saints, he was just as good to look upon as he always had been. In the brightly lit hall he was achingly familiar. So handsome. That raven-black hair was as thick as she remembered; his shoulders were pleasingly broad, and through his tunic she could see hints of the well-honed muscles that she’d felt in the gloom of Sir Gervase’s office. As for his eyes, that clear sapphire blue was as beautiful as it was unmistakable. How could she even for a moment have imagined she’d seen them elsewhere? That other knight’s eyes were nothing like Tristan’s.

‘Loose ends?’ Sir Gervase was saying, with a puzzled frown. His brow cleared. ‘Ah, the trouble in Brittany. I would think there are always loose ends.’

‘True enough, there’s been trouble for decades. Thankfully, the rule of law has prevailed.’

Sir Gervase grunted. ‘That’s good to hear. My lord, what about Prince Geoffrey? Do you think he will make a match of it with Duchess Constance?’

‘I believe he will. The prince seems to have the interests of Brittany at heart and he’s genuinely fond of our little duchess. I see no reason why they shouldn’t marry when she is older.’

‘So all is well.’

‘Aye.’

Smiling, Sir Gervase gripped Tristan’s arm. ‘Count Henry will be pleased to hear you attended the revel.’

‘I haven’t seen him, he’s away?’

‘Count Henry is dining with a deputation of Apulian merchants.’

A torch was flickering at the foot of the stairs, Sir Gervase waved them on. ‘It’s at the top, I’m afraid, the very last bedchamber. It’s not large.’ He grinned. ‘If you’d given me more notice, I’d have found you something grander. We’re bursting at the seams tonight.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Have you just ridden in? I’ll send someone up with food and wine, if you wish.’

‘My thanks, I would appreciate that. Francesca, are you hungry?’

‘No, thank you.’

Sir Gervase looked at Tristan. ‘Do you want someone to find your squire?’

‘No need, the lad is exhausted, we shall manage very well. Thank you.’

Francesca stepped forward. ‘Sir Gervase?’

‘My lady?’

‘Sir, my maid Mari is in the great hall enjoying the revel. She will worry when she can’t find me. I would be grateful if you could ask someone to search her out and tell her I am with Lord Tristan and that I shall speak to her at breakfast.’

‘How will I know her?’

She smiled. ‘You won’t be able to miss her. Her mask is decorated with the longest peacock feathers in Christendom. When I last saw her, she was dancing.’

‘Her name is Mari, you say?’

‘Aye, Mari de Fontaine.’

Sir Gervase bowed his head. ‘Consider it done, my lady.’

‘Thank you.’

With a smile, Sir Gervase returned to the great hall.

Tristan glanced thoughtfully at their linked hands. Uncurling his fingers from hers, he stood back. ‘After you, my lady.’

Francesca went cold. His voice was curt and he was no longer meeting her eyes. ‘Tristan, what’s the matter?’

He looked down at her and gave her a tight smile. Her heart dropped to her toes, his smile was counterfeit and his eyes, those beautiful blue eyes, weren’t smiling at all.

‘Tristan?’

‘After you, my lady.’

Swallowing hard, Francesca picked up her gown and started up the stairs. What was going on? She didn’t know what to think. Tristan’s kiss had felt like a kiss of welcome. And his voice, the voice that spoke so warmly to Sir Gervase, was utterly changed. She cast her mind back. What had she done? She couldn’t think of anything. Had Sir Gervase given him ill news? She thought she’d been attending to their conversation, however, it was possible something had slipped past her, she had been staring at Tristan much of the time.

Pausing halfway up a twist in the stairs, she turned. ‘Tristan, have I done something wrong?’

He looked blankly at her. ‘I don’t know, have you?’

What a strange reply! And to deliver it in that surly tone, it was as though he loathed her. Francesca searched his face, hoping to see a trace of the warmth she thought she had felt in the downstairs chamber. The torchlight shone full on his face, yet it revealed nothing, he might as well be wearing a mask. His blue eyes looked stony. Remote. Had she imagined the warmth? Had she wished it into being in some way?

With a sigh, she continued up the stairs. Brittany was far away, he must be exhausted. ‘How long did your journey take?’

‘A little over a week.’

She shot him a startled look. ‘Saints, you must have galloped full tilt the whole way. Did you sleep at all? When I travelled to Troyes with Lady Clare, we took ages.’

Tristan didn’t reply and they continued up the stairs.

Francesca gave a sad, reminiscent smile. Tristan never knew when to stop, he had exhausted himself. She used to watch him in the practice yard at Fontaine, sparring with Sir Brian and the other household knights. He’d dance round his opponent, sword flashing, darting this way and that as though his armour weighed little more than a feather.

Except—she frowned—she’d seen Tristan exhausted many times, yet not once did she recall him being surly. And she certainly didn’t remember him using that cold tone on her. What had she done?

She should never have kissed him. That was undoubtedly the problem. He had kissed her and she should have known better than to respond. Before their marriage, Mari had warned her never to forget that she was a lady. Ladies were expected to be quiet and modest, Mari had said. They must remain unruffled. Detached. Even if a lady came to love her husband, she must never tell him. And she must certainly never initiate their joining in the marriage bed.

All of which had sounded so easy before Francesca had met Tristan le Beau. The attraction between them had been overwhelming. She had felt such joy and she could have sworn it was mutual. It would have been easier for Francesca to fly than to pretend a coolness towards her strong and virile husband. She had loved joining with him in their marriage bed. She had loved talking to him long into the night. In short, her foolish sixteen-year-old self had tumbled head over heels in love with him.

No wonder Tristan had never replied to her letters. She had forgotten her training as soon as they married and in so doing had lowered his opinion of her. She’d been too eager. She hadn’t been ladylike. And with Lady Clare taking her place at Fontaine, Francesca’s true colours had been revealed to the world. I am not a lady, our marriage is over. I mustn’t let a handful of kisses delude me into hoping otherwise.

And if discovering that she was in truth no lady wasn’t bad enough, today she had behaved like a loose woman. The Count of the Isles needed a real lady—one with impeccable bloodlines and lands to bolster his holdings 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.’

* * *

Francesca sat on the edge of the bed, watching Tristan devour the bread and meat a servant had brought up. She was curious about the differences between the man she had married and the man she saw before her.

He had altered in some as yet indefinable way, that much was plain. It had been two years. He had known battle, faced death. He had seen friends slain. And he had also, or so she had heard, become quite the courtier. There was a disturbing edginess to him and she wasn’t sure she liked it—a hardness that she hadn’t noticed before. Had he always been this way? Had love—no, it had surely been lust that had flared between them, not love—had lust blinded her to his true nature? She didn’t love him, she couldn’t. To love someone you had to know them and it was becoming painfully clear that she didn’t know Tristan at all.

It wasn’t going to be easy sleeping with him. Did he really expect her to join him in bed?

‘Tristan?’

He looked up from his meal, a handsome stranger with blue eyes that were hard as sapphires. ‘Aye?’

‘We don’t have to share this chamber. I could quite easily bed down in the solar with the other ladies.’

He tore a chunk off the bread and frowned at some cheese on a platter. ‘We stay together.’

‘Why? Because I am not a lady?’

He narrowed his eyes on her and for a moment she thought she had disconcerted him. Then she realised her mistake—he hadn’t expected to be questioned. Doubtless his men obeyed him in a trice. No one would dare question Lord Tristan le Beau, Comte des Iles.

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Tristan, I assume we are to seek an annulment. If it is unseemly for a man and woman to lie together when they are not wed, surely it is unseemly for a man and woman to lie together when they are planning on dissolving their marriage?’

His expression hardened. ‘We stay together.’

‘Why?’

‘I want to know where you are. I want to know what you are doing.’

She frowned. ‘Even at night, when I am sleeping?’

‘Even then.’

‘You don’t trust me, why? Tristan, please tell me what’s wrong.’

A muscle flickered in his jaw. He didn’t answer, he simply turned his attention to the food, leaving Francesca to her thoughts. Clearly, the kiss he had given her was an aberration. An annulment was obviously what he wanted, she had to free him so he could make a proper marriage. The pity was that he had kissed her before he had told her his reasons for coming to find her. Her foolish heart had soared, for a wild moment she had thought he’d come for her.

What a simpleton, to allow a kiss to affect her so, she should have known better. She shook her head, she must not let him upset her. Particularly when she was planning to move on with her life. It was a pity he’d kissed her though, that kiss merely proved that she was a fool if she thought she’d find it easy to marry someone else.

Tristan had come to escort her to Fontaine because Count Myrrdin was dying. That was what mattered. He would take her to Brittany and after that they would part.

Saints, in the past hour so much had changed. Count Myrrdin was dying and by Tristan’s account he might not be alive when they reached him. A lump formed in her throat. Francesca loved Count Myrrdin, she’d always hoped to return to Brittany and she had assumed that he would be there to greet her. From what Tristan had said, it looked as though she’d best pray for a miracle.

Quietly, she rose from the bed and turned her back on her husband as he finished his meal. She placed her mask on a side-table next to a jug of water and a basin. She unpinned her veil and began to undress.

After their marriage, Francesca and Tristan had slept naked, that wasn’t going to happen tonight. She was conscious of Tristan’s eyes on her as she pushed her shoes under the bed and drew off her gown. She left her undershift on.

She washed quickly, flicked back the bedcovers and got into bed. Rolling on to her side, she presented Tristan with her back and waited.

She heard the clack of a knife being dropped on to the platter. She heard a splash—wine being poured?—no, he was using the water in the ewer. She waited some more.

Clothing rustled. The bed dipped.

‘Goodnight, Francesca.’

‘Goodnight, my lord.’

Tristan yawned, shifted on the mattress, and the room went quiet.

The hours crept by.

Francesca could scarcely believe she was lying in bed next to the husband she had never expected to see again. One who apparently trusted her so little that he wasn’t prepared to allow her to sleep in the solar. She fixed her gaze on a candle, watching as it slowly burned down to a stump before flickering out. The shadows moved in. Tristan was surely asleep, his breathing was low and even and he hadn’t moved in an age.

She sighed, carefully rolled on to her back and stared into the darkness. Wary of touching him, she was trying desperately to lie still. He had looked exhausted and was plainly in need of rest. His face was leaner than it had been, and there was a drawn look to it that she’d never seen before.

Sleep came and went in fractured snatches. One moment she was staring into the darkness, listening to Tristan’s breathing, and the next a heavy weight was resting on her shoulder. Tristan’s head. They had moved together in sleep. His foot was hooked about her calf and his hand was warm on her waist. He was naked. At least she thought he was. She couldn’t be sure and exploration was simply out of the question.

Softly, she eased away. More of the night drifted by with her listening to his breathing.

The second time she woke, she was on her side facing him and his breath was warm on her face. This time his hand was on hers, almost as if he were holding it.

With a slight huff, she freed herself and rolled away from him.

On her third awakening, light was creeping round the shutters and the shadows were retreating. She was on her side with Tristan’s body wrapped tightly around hers as though he would protect her until the end of time. Yes, he was definitely naked.

Half-asleep, she lay there unmoving. Her undergown had ridden up and she could feel the rough brush of his legs against hers. She could smell him, a musky masculine scent that brought back bittersweet memories—legs tangled in rumpled bed linens; lingering kisses; warm caresses that sent fire shooting through every vein.

Heavens, what was she doing? Their marriage was over.

She knew it, and so too did he.

Chapter Three

Leaving Tristan to sleep off the rigours of his journey to Champagne, Francesca dressed with a heavy heart and slipped down to the great hall to find Mari. The tables were up for breakfast and Mari was sitting with a group of women at one of the long benches. The peacock mask lay on the table next to a basket of bread, it was a little the worse for wear with the longest feather bent out of true.

‘Good morning, Mari.’

Mari jumped to her feet with the energy of a woman half her age. ‘Good morning, my lady. I’ll fetch some fresh bread.’

‘There’s no need. Mari, I need to speak to you. I take it you received my message that Lord Tristan is here?’

Mari picked up her mask and moved with her to the side of the hall. ‘Aye, Sir Gervase told me.’ She gave Francesca a long, assessing look. ‘You’re not happy—what’s happened?’

Francesca took a steadying breath. Mari had spent most of her life in Fontaine; she was bound to be upset when she heard of Count Myrrdin’s illness. ‘Lord Tristan brings worrying word from Brittany.’

The peacock feathers trembled. ‘My lady?’

‘Count Myrrdin is gravely ill.’ Francesca touched Mari’s arm. ‘It’s so serious that I gather he is unlikely to recover. He has asked to see me. He wants to see Lord Tristan too, we are to journey back to Brittany together.’

‘Count Myrrdin is dying? Oh, my lady, that is terrible news.’

‘Lord Tristan and I will set out this morning, before noon.’ Francesca blinked back tears. ‘Do you wish to accompany us?’

Mari gripped Francesca’s hand and nodded fiercely. ‘Of course. In any case, you will need a maid.’

Francesca managed a smile. ‘I should warn you, the journey is going to be rushed and likely very tiring. Sadly, as I understand it, we don’t have much time.’

Mari gave her a doleful look and a tear tracked slowly down her cheek. ‘Count Myrrdin,’ she murmured, voice choked. ‘One of the best.’

Francesca’s eyes prickled. ‘Aye.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘Mari, we need to get back to the manor, to pack. We shall be taking one saddlebag each.’

‘Just one, my lady?’

‘We will reach Fontaine more quickly if we travel light. Come, we should get back to the manor. If you are still hungry, you can eat there.’

‘Yes, my lady.’ Mari glanced towards the stairwell. ‘What about Lord Tristan?’

‘He’s exhausted. We’ll let his squire know what we are doing and they can join us at the manor when Lord Tristan is ready.’

‘Very good, my lady.’

Seeing Sir Gervase enter the hall, Francesca moved towards him. ‘I’ll bid farewell to Sir Gervase and join you in the stables.’

* * *

An hour later, Francesca was back in her bedchamber at Paimpont, kneeling before one of three travelling chests that were lined up against the wall. She felt as though she was being pulled in two.

Count Myrrdin was dying. It was hard to accept. The count was getting on in years, so it shouldn’t have been such a shock, yet shock it was. All this time Francesca had been fondly imagining that she would return to Brittany and see him again. She’d never imagined that meeting would take place at his deathbed—assuming they got there in time. How horrible, she’d taken Count Myrrdin for granted.

And then there was Tristan, here in Champagne. It was only beginning to sink in.

All in all, Francesca felt utterly dazed. It was only the second time in her life that she had felt quite so stunned. The other time had been when Lady Clare and Sir Arthur Ferrer had arrived at Fontaine bearing news that Francesca was not Count Myrrdin’s daughter. Afterwards, Francesca had drifted about in a dream, doubting everyone and everything.

Lady Clare was Count Myrrdin’s real daughter. Francesca, despite her upbringing, was no one.

Paralysed by uncertainty, Francesca had no longer known how to behave. Who was she? What was she? She’d been brought up as a lady, but she wasn’t a lady.

Enquiries had been made as to her parentage, but every trail was long cold. In the end, she’d had to resign herself to the fact that her background would remain shrouded in darkness. She was no one. In a sense, it would have been better if they had discovered her to be a peasant, at least she would have had parents.

I am no one. Sometimes Francesca had found it hard to string a sentence together. Uncertain what was expected of her, and with no sign of her elusive husband, she had hidden herself away at her manor at St Méen with only Mari for company. It had taken a visit from the new Lady Clare to winkle her out.

Lady Clare had been wonderful. So understanding. The new lady of Fontaine had had a hard life, and she was quick to make it plain that she wasn’t going to make difficulties. Lady Clare had asked Francesca to think of her as a sister. And it had been Lady Clare who had urged Count Myrrdin to let Francesca keep St Méen. By rights it should have devolved to Clare as the count’s true-born daughter.

Notwithstanding Clare’s kindness, Francesca hadn’t found it easy to adjust to her change of status. She’d felt wounded. Her mind had been in a tangle. Sensing that she needed to recover somewhere where there were no reminders of her past life, she had come to Champagne.

Heart like lead, Francesca fingered the cold metal edge of the travelling chest. There was no time for shock today, though in truth that was what she felt. She stared blankly at the chests. They contained everything she owned and before the revel she had spent days packing in preparation for her departure from Paimpont.

Having had no reply from Tristan, Francesca had concluded that she was no longer welcome here. She had been ready to leave—if Tristan had brought his news a couple of days later, he would have found her gone.

Some weeks since, after much heartache and soul-searching, Francesca had decided that Judgement Day would come before Tristan deigned to answer her letters. She had contacted her friend Helvise, a friend she’d met in the Provins marketplace, and told her she was ready to go to Monfort. Helvise came from a humble background just as she did, and when Helvise had confessed to feeling overwhelmed regarding the running of a small manor outside the town, Francesca knew she could help. Francesca might not be a real lady, but she had been trained to run a castle and answering Helvise’s questions had been child’s play. And when Francesca had offered to move to Helvise’s manor so she could teach her all she knew, Helvise had jumped at her offer.

Francesca had realised that if she continued to live in Tristan’s manor, she would never be free of him. She would for ever be waiting for him to ride into the courtyard. Why, if she had a silver penny for every day she’d caught herself wishing he would sweep her up on to his saddle-bow and carry her back to Château des Iles, she would be a rich woman.

The scales had fallen from her eyes, she had waited long enough. She wanted a real marriage. God willing, she wanted children. It was possible she and Tristan had simply been unlucky. Of course, she only really wanted Tristan’s children, but if she couldn’t have them with him, much as it grieved her, she’d find someone else. There was no point being married to a man one never saw. Beginning a new life with Helvise had seemed the perfect solution, there was great comfort in being needed.

Helvise must be told of this change in arrangements.

I must repack, and quickly. Count Myrrdin is dying and I must go to him.

Heart heavy, Francesca reached into the trunk and shifted her neatly folded crimson gown to one side. Red fabric was costly and worn only by nobles. The gown wasn’t suitable for the ride to Brittany, and even if it had been, these days she didn’t have the gall to wear it.

She riffled though the chest. Whatever happened, she must remember one thing—the only reason Tristan had come for her was because he was honouring Count Myrrdin’s deathbed wish to see her again. Would Tristan have come to Champagne if not for the count’s last request? She doubted it.

Tristan had mentioned the need to travel light. She would need a couple of her most serviceable gowns; a couple of cloaks; a spare veil; a pair of shoes in addition to her riding boots; one good gown; an extra shift...

Mari clumped into the chamber, a saddlebag over each shoulder. ‘Ned found these for us, my lady,’ she said, as one of the bags slid to the floor with a clunk. ‘He suggested that you use that one, it looks fairly new.’

‘Thank you.’ Francesca pulled the bag towards her and eyed it doubtfully. It didn’t look large enough to contain everything she would need, but it would serve. ‘You’re happy with the other one?’

‘Yes, my lady. Here, let me help.’

Francesca waved her away. ‘You have your own packing to do, I can manage.’

Mari nodded. Halfway to the door, she sent her a wry smile. ‘Will we be returning to Champagne, my lady?’

Francesca sat back on her knees. ‘Of course, we can’t disappoint Helvise.’

Mari eyed the small pile of clothes Francesca had set aside for the journey. ‘Aren’t you going to take a few of your good gowns? Won’t you need them in Fontaine?’

‘Mari, I am no longer the Fontaine heiress, it wouldn’t be right. In any case, Lord Tristan insists we travel light. Sir Ernis will look after our things, I am sure.’ Thoughtfully, Francesca ran her forefinger along a line of stitching on the saddlebag. ‘Mari, we shall have to send word to Helvise that our plans have changed and our visit to Monfort will be delayed. Don’t let me forget.’

‘Very good, my lady.’

* * *

Tristan was in the manor gatehouse, issuing last-minute instructions to Sir Ernis before their departure.

‘Ernis, as we won’t be a large party, all we shall need in the way of food is a small supply of bread and cheese. Some ale and a couple of flasks of wine—you know the sort of thing. We can’t carry much, we simply need something to tide us over in case we don’t happen upon an inn when hunger strikes.’

‘Of course, my lord. We had chicken last night—I could ask the cook to wrap some in muslin for your noon meal.’

‘My thanks. Have someone give it to Bastian, he will be in charge of provisions.’

A clattering of hoofs drew Tristan to the doorway. Ned was mounted up and heading out of the gate. Thinking it a little unusual that a groom should be riding out alone at this hour, Tristan caught his eye and the lad reined in.

‘My lord?’

‘You’ve an errand in Provins?’

‘No, mon seigneur, I’m headed for the manor at Monfort.’ Ned patted his saddlebag. ‘Lady Francesca has asked me to deliver a letter.’

‘She’s writing to someone in Monfort?’ Tristan waved the boy on his way and glanced thoughtfully at his steward. It was natural to expect Francesca to have made friends during her stay in Champagne. All Tristan knew about Monfort was that it lay a few miles from Provins, he hadn’t been back long enough to name all the landowners. ‘Ernis, who holds Monfort?’

‘Sir Eric, my lord.’

Tristan leaned on the door frame and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Never heard of him.’

‘Sir Eric fostered at Jutigny with Count Faramus de Sainte-Colombe. He married the count’s daughter, Lady Rowena.’

Tristan drew his eyebrows together. ‘And my wife is writing to de Monfort because...?’

Sir Ernis cleared his throat and developed an intense interest in the toe of his boot. ‘I...I don’t think Lady Francesca is writing to Sir Eric or Lady Rowena, my lord. I expect she is writing to one of his servants.’

Tristan’s eyebrows lifted. ‘She’s writing to a servant?’ Ernis looked up. With a jolt, Tristan realised that his steward was deeply uncomfortable. ‘Can this servant even read?’

‘I have no idea, my lord. Her name is Helvise and I believe she is Sir Eric’s housekeeper. My lord, she met your wife in the market and they became friends. I don’t know much about it except that Helvise has a child and you know how Lady Francesca loves children.’

Tristan felt a twinge of guilt, he hadn’t known. ‘And?’

‘Lady Francesca was planning to visit Monfort.’

‘To help with the child?’

‘It is possible. Helvise is unwed,’ Sir Ernis said. ‘I also heard that Helvise has asked for advice over changing some of the domestic arrangements at Monfort. Lady Francesca has offered to lend her a hand.’

‘It sounds rather irregular.’

‘My lord, I do not think there is cause for alarm. I have met Helvise and she struck me as an intelligent, honest woman.’

‘That is something, at least.’

‘If you are concerned, mon seigneur, perhaps you had best speak to Lady Francesca. All I know is that about a week before the revel she asked for her travelling chests to be taken into her bedchamber. She and Mari have been packing for days. I would have told you about this in my next report to Sir Roparz, but since Lady Francesca hadn’t actually gone and might change her mind, I saw no reason to say anything.’

Tristan hooked his thumb over his belt. Francesca hadn’t mentioned having plans to visit Monfort. However, she and Tristan hadn’t been together long, and after he had told her about Count Myrrdin’s illness, doubtless everything else had been pushed from her mind. What was she up to? Planning to start a new life in Monfort or—Sir Joakim Kerjean’s face flashed into his mind—was she thinking of remarrying?

Dieu merci, at least the journey to Fontaine would get her away from Kerjean.

‘Thank you, Ernis, I shall be sure to ask her. Now, about your reports, you may send them direct to me from now on. We shall be riding to Fontaine, where we shall doubtless stay for a few days. After that you may reach me at Château des Iles.’

Sir Ernis smiled. ‘I should think you’ll be glad to remain in one place after so long in the train of the prince.’

Tristan murmured assent. ‘I can’t deny it, I’ve been living the life of a wandering knight and am heartily sick of it. It will be good to have the same roof over my head for more than a week.’ His smile faded. What the devil was he going to do with Francesca? With luck, he would soon prove her meeting with Sir Joakim had been mere coincidence.

And then? Back at the palace, Francesca had hinted that she expected an annulment, what would she do after that? If she wanted children, she would need to marry.

He grimaced, there was a bitter taste in his mouth—the idea of Francesca remarrying didn’t sit well with him. Why, he couldn’t say. She had walked out of his life and was no longer his responsibility. In truth, he’d long ago come to the conclusion that the feelings she stirred in him—so all-encompassing they bordered on the obsessive—lessened him. They clouded his judgement. They weakened him.

Except that now he’d seen her again he realised that he couldn’t simply wash his hands of her. This was Francesca, for pity’s sake. What was he to do, have their marriage annulled and forget her?

It wasn’t possible. He’d thought he could do it and that it would be relatively easy, but that was before he’d seen her with Kerjean, before that surge of jealousy had ripped through him. He couldn’t forget her. Not Francesca. He would always want her. The emotions she stirred in him, though unwanted, made him feel truly alive.

Impatiently, he shoved his emotions to the back of his mind. What mattered was that on their wedding day, he had accepted responsibility for her and he wasn’t one to shirk a duty. Tristan had felt that way before he knew of Count Myrrdin’s illness and now, knowing Francesca would shortly be on her own in the world, his resolve had strengthened. If Francesca wants to remarry, I shall have to ensure she marries well.

What would happen to her otherwise? She had no one else to watch out for her and clearly, despite the months that had passed, she remained an innocent. The softness of her lips under his, the way she had melted against him. Lord, it had been a grave error kissing her. He would have to ensure she married well. To a sensible, honourable man. Then, with Francesca safely remarried, he would see to his own nuptials.

It shouldn’t be difficult finding Francesca a husband. Yes, he’d find her a husband, it wouldn’t take long. After all, she was stunningly beautiful; she had a kind heart; and she was extraordinarily gifted in the bedchamber. Except...

Lord, that rendezvous with Sir Joakim was back in his head. He didn’t seem to be able to shake it.

‘Sir Ernis?’

‘My lord?’

‘Have you heard of a Breton knight, name of Joakim Kerjean?’

‘Can’t say that I have. Why?’

‘Sir Joakim was at the revel last night and I was wondering if he was a regular visitor to Provins.’

‘My lord, I have no idea. If you wish, I could make enquiries.’

‘I’d be glad if you would. Be sure to forward any intelligence about him to me at des Iles.’

‘Certainly, my lord.’

Tristan had sworn to protect Francesca, and if Kerjean thought to put himself forward as one of Francesca’s suitors after their marriage was annulled, it was Tristan’s duty to ensure the man was honourable.

In a sense, it was a pity Tristan couldn’t remain married to her himself, that way he could really keep an eye on her.

Of course, he would have to overlook the fact that she’d run away after the revelation that Lady Clare was Count Myrrdin’s true-born daughter. That didn’t present many difficulties, Francesca had been so young and the circumstances had been unfortunate in the extreme.

What rankled most was her lack of response to his letters. He’d agonised over it, telling himself that likely she was ashamed that the revelations about her birth meant that she brought him the most meagre of dowries. Yet to go on not answering—it was hard to set that aside.

He grimaced. The scales were starting to weigh against her. Had last night been the first time Sir Joakim had met her? He found it hard to believe otherwise, but he couldn’t stop wondering. How well do I know her? Has the charming girl become a calculating woman?

Tristan gripped his steward’s shoulder. ‘My thanks for your continuing loyalty, Ernis.’

‘You are welcome, my lord. I shall see to it the food is packed and given to Bastian.’

Tristan left Ernis and strode briskly across the yard. He wanted to see the main bedchamber before they set out. He’d not seen it in years and what Ernis had said about Francesca’s plans to visit Monfort had roused his curiosity.

As Tristan passed through the hall, he noticed for the first time the polished side-table and the smell of beeswax. He paused to take stock. There were changes since his last visit. Hundreds of miles from his county in Brittany, Paimpont was his most outlying manor. It had always looked rather run-down. Unlived in. Tristan’s father had neglected it and Tristan had always intended to make up for that. Yet events had conspired against him and somehow he’d never been able to give Paimpont the attention it deserved. Yet now—the floor was strewn with fresh rushes; the cloth on the trestle table was crisp and white; and a jug of wild flowers sat in the centre, next to a polished silver candle stand. The hall had never looked so welcoming. His mouth went up at a corner. This wasn’t the work of Sir Ernis. Clearly, Francesca hadn’t been idle.

Upstairs, Tristan pushed through the bedchamber door and blinked at the travelling chests lined up against the wall. They weren’t locked. Frowning, he flipped back the lid of one and peered in. Surely, these were her best gowns? Dropping to his knees, he turned them over. Here was the lavender gown she had worn on their wedding day. And this, surely this was the brocade cloak he had given her? Opening a cream leather pouch, he drew out a silver circlet set with amethysts. He’d given her this as his wedding gift.

Replacing the circlet where he’d found it, he shoved back another lid. Her Bible was tucked in between two other gowns; a coral necklace was wrapped in a woollen shawl. He recalled her telling him that Count Myrrdin had given her the necklace when she’d been a child. He opened the last coffer and found yet more of her treasures. A bone-handled eating knife; a beaded necklace; a scrap of finely worked embroidery. Francesca’s belongings, reduced to three travelling chests. His frown deepened.

The trip she’d been planning had been more than any visit, she’d been leaving for good.

Well, not if he could help it, not with so much unfinished business between them.

He rubbed his chin, struck by a strange thought. Perhaps he should shoulder some of the blame for Francesca’s disappearance from Brittany. He’d never told her how much he appreciated her. And in not wishing her to be frightened by the dangers posed by the conflict between King Henry and his sons, he’d not explained how vital it was that the duchy had his support.

He’d kept other things from her too, important personal matters. He’d never told her about Esmerée—his mistress before his marriage to Francesca.

Naturally, Tristan had ended his relationship with Esmerée before he’d met Francesca. Indeed, Esmerée was now happily married to Tristan’s greatest friend, Sir Roparz de Fougères. None the less, perhaps he should have told Francesca about her. His only excuse was that Francesca had been so young when they’d married. She’d been so innocent. And so adoring. Tristan had never had anyone look up to him in that way and he’d been afraid of destroying it.

Should he have told her about Esmerée? His relationship with Esmerée had been purely physical, there had never been that disturbing sense of recognition and belonging that he’d felt with Francesca. He’d not seen any reason to mention past liaisons to his innocent wife.

He grimaced, he’d been deceiving himself, there had been consequences to his relationship with Esmerée. Esmerée had given birth to Kristina—his daughter and only child—and the moment she had done so, he should have told Francesca.

I should have told Francesca about Esmerée and I should have told her that I have a daughter.

However, it wasn’t that simple. Tristan intended to acknowledge Kristina as his, but the continuing unrest in Brittany had been to blame for his silence. If the rebel alliance had got wind of the fact that the Count of the Isles had an illegitimate daughter, Kristina’s life might have been put in jeopardy. Thus far only three people knew the truth—himself, Esmerée and his friend Roparz.

However, with the alliance broken and peace more or less restored, the need for discretion regarding Kristina was no longer so urgent. He was free to tell Francesca about her.

Except what was the point in him telling her? With them both considering divorce, did it matter?

He closed the chest with a thud and swore under his breath. It mattered. For some unfathomable reason he wanted Francesca to know about Kristina.

Obviously, he couldn’t tell her immediately, she had enough on her mind with Count Myrrdin’s illness. Soon though.

Yes, he would tell her about his daughter after she had bid farewell to Count Myrrdin—Papa, as she called him.

Tight-lipped, Tristan pushed to his feet and went to the top of the stairwell. ‘Ernis, are you still in the hall? Ernis!’

Heavy boots sounded on the boards below. ‘My lord?’

‘Secure Lady Francesca’s coffers and have them sent on after us, will you? No need to send them to Fontaine, they can go directly to des Iles with your next report.’

Chapter Four

It was a glorious spring day as Francesca and Tristan clattered on to the highway ahead of Bastian and Mari. A handful of clouds meandered across the sky, the hawthorn bushes were bursting into leaf and the hedgerows were alive with sparrows.

‘You’re still riding Flint, I see,’ Francesca said, glancing at Tristan’s raw-boned grey.

‘He suits me.’ Expression softening, Tristan gestured at Francesca’s mare. ‘I see you kept Princess. I did wonder. Thought you might have left her behind.’

‘She’s perfect, I would have been mad to leave her in Brittany.’ Francesca folded her lips firmly together. In truth, Tristan had given Princess to her at their betrothal. She was a glossy black and much adored. Francesca was reluctant to reveal exactly how much the horse meant to her. Every time she rode her, which was often, she thought of Tristan.

Tristan gave her a brusque nod, leaving Francesca to wonder whether she had imagined the softness in his expression.

‘I’d like to make the most of this weather,’ he said, giving the heel to Flint. ‘It won’t stay dry for ever, and a dry road is infinitely preferable to having the horses slog through acres of mud.’

Francesca urged Princess on. Her heart was heavy. Count Myrrdin had played such a large part in her life. She hadn’t seen him in two years and yet he lived in her mind as though they’d spoken only yesterday. For eighteen years she had adored him as a loving and generous father.

The count had many eccentricities—the forgetfulness which seemed so at odds with the way he never failed to revere the memory of his beloved wife, Countess Mathilde; the wildness of his snowy-white hair and beard; his extraordinary mismatched eyes—one grey, one green. Each eccentricity merely served to point up what a quirky, lovable man he was. The day that Francesca had discovered that Count Myrrdin was not her father had been bleak indeed.

Her life had, quite simply, fallen apart. At a stroke, she’d lost a beloved father and she’d lost her place in the world. It had been well-nigh impossible to accept that she had no connections with Fontaine whatsoever. She was a changeling and her standing as a noblewoman was nothing but a lie. She cast a sidelong glance at Tristan—she’d lost the respect of her husband too. With not a drop of noble blood flowing through her veins, she had lost her purpose in life.

However, this was not the time to dwell on her disastrously inappropriate marriage. The man she would always think of as her father was dying.

‘Count Myrrdin is the kindest man I know,’ she murmured, eyes stinging. ‘I pray he isn’t suffering.’

She didn’t think Tristan had heard her, he was looking over his shoulder at Mari and Bastian. Bastian had a packhorse on a leading rein, other than that they were travelling light as Tristan had suggested.

Following Tristan’s gaze, it dawned on Francesca why Tristan had insisted that they wore practical, everyday clothing. No one would take them for the Count and Countess des Iles. The Count and Countess des Iles would surely ride through the land in bright silks and fine linen. They would have a grand entourage—guards and servants to fuss over their every whim. This way, with only Mari and Bastian and a solitary packhorse, they would pass through the towns and villages much faster. There would be no pomp and certainly no ceremony. They were riding incognito. With sackcloth covering Tristan’s shield, the three black cinquefoils were hidden from view.

Her gut tightened. Did Tristan want them to travel unobtrusively because he was ashamed of her? His low-born wife. With a shake of her head, Francesca pushed the thought aside. Tristan was a proud man, not a cruel one.

Tristan cleared his throat. ‘Your maid Mari is no longer young. Are you sure she can keep up?’

‘I’m sure. Mari is livelier than many women half her age, she never keeps still. And her father was a groom at Fontaine, she learned to ride at an early age.’

‘That’s good to hear. It’s safer if we keep together.’ Tristan set his face forward and urged Flint on. ‘Francesca, I don’t think you need worry about Count Myrrdin suffering. I have heard Lady Clare is very competent.’

‘Aye, so she is.’

Penetrating blue eyes met hers. ‘I wasn’t sure how well you knew her.’

‘Well enough to know that she wouldn’t withhold the poppy juice if Papa was in pain.’

Tristan held her gaze. ‘I doubt that poppy juice will be necessary. Knowing Count Myrrdin as we do, I think we may safely assume he is more likely to have fallen into one of his deep abstractions.’

Eyes misting, Francesca stared straight ahead. ‘I pray so.’

Leather creaked as Tristan reached across to briefly squeeze her hand. ‘Our main concern will be whether he is able to speak to you when we reach Fontaine.’

Francesca’s throat closed. Tristan meant well, bless him, he was warning her that they might arrive too late. Blinking hard, she nodded and Tristan lifted his hand from hers.

‘I shall do my best to ensure we get there as swiftly as humanly possible.’ He paused. ‘Francesca?’

‘Aye?’

‘What happened when Lady Clare came to Fontaine to claim her inheritance?’

Francesca felt herself go rigid. Shame. Hurt. Bitterness. However, Tristan’s blue eyes were kind. Thoughtful. ‘Tristan, I am sure you have already been given a full account.’

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