Mistaken for a Lady (15 page)

Then, somewhere near the eastern fringe of Brittany, the trees thinned and Francesca emerged from her abstraction to overhear two of the knights talking.

‘Journey's end is in sight,' one knight said. ‘The sea's just ahead.'

‘And not above time,' his companion replied. ‘I'm starved.'

The track became narrow. Through a thicket of hawthorn, Francesca caught her first glimpse of the ocean, a breathtaking expanse of heaving grey water. Filled with awe, her jaw slackened. She had never seen the sea before. She'd heard it was vast, and in her mind she'd imagined a large lake. This was—heavens—a world of water.

They slowed the horses and wound along the rim of a tall granite cliff in single file.

On the landward side, the path was edged with prickly clumps of gorse—the flowers flashed like gold in the evening light. The clifftop path looked safe, none the less the sea was so far below them that Francesca's stomach dropped to her toes whenever she looked down. The wind was keen, white-tipped waves were rolling onshore, she could hear them crashing in some rocky cove hundreds of feet below. A scattering of small islands sat out in the bay—dark and wooded. The air was heavy with salt.

Up here on the cliff, the wind flicked the horses' manes this way and that; it tugged strands of Francesca's hair free of her veil. Seagulls screeched and wailed as they sliced briskly through the air. The sound—mournful and edgy—tugged at her heart.

Esmerée.

Francesca wasn't looking forward to the next few hours.

‘There it is.' Tristan drew rein and pointed at the next promontory. ‘I brought you this way so you could see it at its best.'

Château des Iles.

Francesca stared. A curtain wall ran the length of the cliff—the easternmost end caught the last of the sinking sun and glowed in the fading light. Jutting up behind the merlons and crenels were the towers and turrets of a sprawling castle that would have been at home in any ballad. Château des Iles was huge—a complicated mass of masonry that dominated the skyline. Saints, Tristan's castle dominated the landscape. It looked completely impregnable. There were turrets and walkways and fortified towers. There were sloping roofs and conical roofs. It was hard to know where to look first.

‘It's magnificent.'

They rode on with Francesca trying not to gape. Tristan's castle was double the size of Fontaine, why, it was larger even than Count Henry's palace in Provins. It should have looked out of place here at the edge of Brittany, yet it did not. Francesca lifted her gaze to the white clouds pushing in from the sea, and for an instant it seemed that Château des Iles was a ship, setting sail through a foaming sea towards the islands in the bay.

‘Tristan?' Licking salt from her lips, she pointed at the islands. ‘Are those islands inhabited?'

Tristan's saddle creaked as he turned to look at her. ‘A hermit lived on one of them in my father's day, I am not sure if he is still there. There are a couple of fishermen's cottages. Otherwise, there are only birds.'

Francesca turned her attention back to the castle. Even though she'd heard of its grandeur, she'd had no idea it was so large.

The clifftop track widened out as they approached the castle on its rocky promontory, and as they neared the gatehouse, Tristan drew rein so that she might ride up beside him. He gave her a crooked smile and reached across to lightly touch her brow. ‘You are worrying about Esmerée. Don't.'

Francesca held her head high as they rode into the bailey.

* * *

Tristan took Francesca's hand. ‘I'll show you to our bedchamber and then I must beg your leave, I need to speak to Roparz.'

‘Of course. I am sure you have much to catch up on.'

Tristan was aware of Francesca taking everything in as he led her swiftly through the hall and past the curious gazes of his retainers. There would be time for introductions later. Hurrying along the corridor, he stopped at the foot of the stairwell.

‘I should warn you, there are a lot of steps. Our bedchamber is at the top.'

‘Very well.'

He hoped she had forgiven him for insisting that she missed Count Myrrdin's funeral. Her voice was quiet, far too polite, and her cheeks pale. Was she fretting about meeting Esmerée? He didn't want that, though in light of her reaction when she'd learned that Esmerée was living at des Iles, it seemed highly likely.

Yet what could he do? Tristan held in a sigh. His meeting with Roparz couldn't wait, they had an agreement, and he wasn't about to make changes without first consulting Roparz.

Francesca was out of breath by the time they reached the bedchamber. The sun was setting, and a shaft of fiery light blazed through the window. Dropping his hand, she made straight for the window embrasure.

‘A triple lancet facing the sea,' she murmured. ‘Heavens, you can see for miles.'

‘You like it?'

‘How could I not? Tristan, it's breathtaking.'

Tristan's chest tightened. Francesca was in his bedchamber at last. Her body—feminine and so beguiling—looked impossibly tempting with every curve limned by sunlight. Had he done the right thing bringing her here without first alerting Roparz? Lord, he hoped so.

He cleared his throat. ‘My father had the windows enlarged. This chamber is so high that there is no need for defensible window slits.'

She rested her hand on the window embrasure. ‘What's that booming noise?'

‘The waves.'

‘It sounds like thunder.'

Tristan went to stand at her side and covered her hand with his. ‘Aye.'

She was seeing the bay at its best. The sky was fiery, clouds were splashed with crimson and gold. Even as they looked, the rim of the sun nudged the horizon and the islands looked as though they were floating in a gilded sea. Waves rippled the surface as they rolled to shore.

‘Beautiful,' she murmured.

The sunset gleamed in her grey eyes, lighting up the silver and gold flecks he loved so much. It shone on her ebony braid and put colour in her cheeks.

‘Beautiful,' Tristan echoed.

Inhaling deeply, she turned and took stock of the bedchamber.

The ancient coverlet on the great bed was emblazoned with the des Iles colours, three large cinquefoils, sewn on to silver silk. The coverlet was worn in places, Tristan half-expected a comment on its age, but Francesca said nothing. She seemed transfixed as she stared at it, and he thought he knew why. The silver silk reflected the colours of the setting sun—gold, apricot, crimson.

Her keen gaze moved swiftly on. It lingered briefly on a side-table, on the door to the small chamber Tristan sometimes used as an office. She glanced at the pegs on the wall, at the travelling chests lined up by one wall. And she froze.

‘Those are my travelling chests.' Her eyes were puzzled. ‘You've had them carted from Provins.'

When she set her hands on her hips, Tristan knew he was in trouble.

She cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘You decided that I was coming to des Iles all that time ago? Even before I agreed?'

He stepped closer. Smiled. ‘I hoped to change your mind, yes.'

‘You presumed a great deal. Before the revel, I'd planned to leave Paimpont and go to Monfort.'

‘To stay with friends.'

Her face darkened. ‘Sir Ernis has been talking, I see.'

Tristan lifted his shoulders. ‘He mentioned you had friends there.'

‘I have one particular friend and she needs me. She asked for my advice.'

‘Oh?'

‘On running a manor. You wouldn't understand.' A wave of her hand took in the lancet window and the great bed with its silken bedcover. ‘Tristan, you were born to all this, my friend was not. She's expected to act as housekeeper at Monfort, but her origins are humble. She is anxious to please and has asked for my help. Sir Guy—'

‘Sir Guy? I thought Sir Eric held Monfort, the knight who married Lady Rowena de Sainte-Colombe?'

‘So he does. Sir Guy is Sir Eric's steward.' The anger faded from Francesca's expression as she looked earnestly up at him. ‘Sir Guy has been kind to Helvise. Tristan, Helvise is my friend and she has had a difficult time of it. She is happy at Monfort and doesn't want to lose her place there.' She touched Tristan's chest. ‘I offered to help—to teach her how to run a manor so Sir Guy will allow her to stay.'

Tristan nodded as though he understood, though in truth he was puzzled. ‘Why would Sir Guy cast her out?'

‘She's not been trained to run a manor. And she has a child.'

Tristan thought he understood. ‘She has no husband.' Unmarried women with babies were often shunned. Tristan didn't know Sir Guy, so he couldn't comment on whether the man might take exception to having Helvise in charge of the household.

‘Exactly. You know how judgemental people can be. I feel a certain kinship with Helvise, like her I don't have noble blood, although thanks to Count Myrrdin—' her face clouded and she swallowed hard ‘—thanks to Count Myrrdin I have been trained. I understand the workings of a manor. I can help her. I may not have aristocratic blood running through my veins, but managing a household is the one part of my training that has stood me in good stead.'

‘I don't doubt it. At Paimpont Sir Ernis mentioned you were a godsend when it came to the estate accounts. And that the storerooms have never been better stocked.'

Further, Tristan had seen for himself how the cobwebs had been banished from Paimpont. He'd seen the polished tables and the flowers, and the fresh rushes strewn on the hall floor.

‘Thank you, I did try to help.' Her expression brightened. ‘At least some of my training took.'

Tristan couldn't deny that she had wrought wonders at Paimpont. However, something in her tone felt wrong. He homed in on it. ‘
Some
of your training?'

Her eyes were frank. ‘I am not a noblewoman.'

‘Nobility is not defined by birth, it is defined by actions.' He lifted her hand and brought it close. ‘You, my heart, are every inch a lady. Always have been. Always will be.'

Her face softened. ‘You are just being chivalrous.'

‘Chivalry be damned, I mean it.' He looked her up and down and grinned. ‘You are every inch the lady.'

She gave him a shy smile, worryingly it was tinged with sadness. ‘Tristan, I see what you are about. You want to get me into bed again.'

Tristan didn't reply. Naturally, he wanted to get her into bed, but her smile—the sadness—was particularly concerning because he could see it had nothing to do with Count Myrrdin's death and everything to do with their marriage and her place in the world.

‘My lord, I am neither fish nor fowl, and your eagerness to bed me betrays it.'

He looked blankly at her. ‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Don't you see? I can't resist you and well you know it.'

If it hadn't been for the shadows in her eyes, Tristan would have smiled. ‘You seem to think that's a bad thing.'

She gave an emphatic nod. ‘It is, it proves my point.'

He waited.

‘I can't resist you. I've never been able to resist you. Tristan, you make me behave in the most unseemly fashion, you turn me into a wanton. When I'm with you, I hardly recognise myself.'

‘I'm your husband. That is as it should be.'

‘Is it?'

‘Of course it is! Think of Count Myrrdin. Everyone in Fontaine knows how he and his countess adored one another.'

She frowned at the front of his tunic. ‘It's true he never stopped mourning her.'

‘Exactly.' Tristan took in a deep breath. ‘It was the same with my parents. They only had eyes for each other, and when Mama died, my father was so full of grief he had little care for anyone else.'

Francesca's grey eyes filled with sympathy. Her fingers curled into his tunic. ‘Tristan, I am sure your father loved you.'

He drew back sharply. Lord, he was trying to comfort her, the last thing he wanted was her sympathy. ‘All I am saying is that our mutual satisfaction in the bedchamber does not name you wanton. You are a passionate, giving woman and I am blessed to have you as my wife. Francesca, I do not wish to hear such nonsense ever again.'

Holding down a rush of anger, he turned to the door. This was his fault. If he hadn't removed himself so completely from her life— No, he wasn't completely to blame, those letters had gone astray. None the less, he had failed in his duties as a husband.

Francesca had a warm heart. It was plain from what she had told him about her friend at Monfort that she needed to be needed. What she didn't need was a husband who married her and then dashed off in the service of the duchy. He'd been proud. Arrogant. He'd assumed too much and he'd not taken her youthfulness into account. She'd been sixteen when their marriage had begun. So young.

Those blasted lost letters had a lot to answer for.

Well, he would make up for it. He had to, he needed her too. His need for Francesca was a fire in his blood whenever he looked at her, it was an ache in his heart at the thought of losing her. He couldn't lose her. He had to convince her of her worth. He had to prove she could trust him and in order to do that he was going to have to tell her about Kristina.

Except he couldn't tell her about Kristina until he had warned Roparz that someone else was about to be let in on their secret. He must speak to Roparz without delay.

‘Francesca, we shall speak more of this later. By now Sir Roparz will have heard of our arrival. He will be waiting to give me his report.'

I need to ask Roparz about what might have happened to those lost letters. And then we shall have to discuss Kristina.

Mon Dieu
, would Francesca ever forgive him for keeping so large a secret? His stomach tightened. He must tell her. And as soon as he had spoken to Roparz, he would.

She was frowning in the direction of her travelling chests. Well, that was something he could help with.