Mistaken for a Lady, page 14
He drew up the hem of her undershift, removed it completely and dropped it over the side of the bed. He sighed as his palms closed on her breasts. His mouth was firm, tempting her in the old way, making her ache with want, making her writhe against him.
His scent, musky, masculine and heart-rendingly familiar, twisted through her consciousness. All she wanted was the feel of skin against skin. His skin against hers. The palms of her hands stroked up and down his flanks, seeming to drink him in. Emboldened by his groan, she wound her arms about his neck and kissed his chin, his cheek, his mouth. She kissed him everywhere she could reach. She had a lot of kissing to make up for, and for this night at least, she knew Tristan felt the same.
She gripped his buttocks. Her hands roamed hungrily over every inch of him. She sucked at his neck and won another sensuous groan.
He nudged her legs apart. His hands, it would seem, were as hungry to touch her as she was to touch him.
The bedchamber was lost. There was just Tristan and Francesca and a world of hot sighs and disjointed phrases.
‘Do you still like this?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘And this?’
‘Please. More, yes, more.’
Finally, when she was in a frenzy of want that had wound so tight she was sure she would explode, he pushed into her.
A moment of stillness fell upon them. Warm hands cupped her face. ‘Francesca.’ His voice went deep, to the core of her being. ‘I have missed this with you. Lord, how I’ve missed it.’
Heart too full for words, Francesca let her hands and body speak for her. She caressed his broad shoulders and kissed his neck. She slid her hand about his waist and hugged him to her. She gripped his buttocks and tilted her pelvis and the world exploded into movement again.
The rhythm hadn’t changed, they found it on an instant. It made her whole, it turned two into one.
It was over far too quickly. Tristan reached between them—one careful, knowing stroke, two—and a blinding flash of bliss sent her to heaven. An instant later, he was with her.
* * *
The mood in Fontaine Castle was understandably subdued. Francesca had agreed to spend the morning in the solar with Lady Clare, helping with the arrangements for Count Myrrdin’s funeral. Tristan didn’t expect her to find it easy. Lady Clare was a nice enough woman, but there was no denying that she was, in effect, standing in Francesca’s shoes. Whichever way you looked at it, it was an impossible situation.
Aware of the difficulties Francesca would face, Tristan had arranged for her to meet him by the stables at noon. When the hall door opened and she stepped out into the bailey, he breathed a sigh of relief. He was desperate to escape the confines of the castle and Francesca must surely feel the same.
She needed respite from the gloom and complexity. Had Château des Iles been reduced to this state of abject misery after his father’s death? Tristan grimaced, it was odd how he couldn’t remember. He pushed the thought away—what had happened after his father’s death had no bearing here.
Francesca’s face was strained as she walked towards him, though it was pleasing to see her eyes soften when she saw him. Tristan felt himself relax. The barriers between them were breaking down. All morning he had been reliving their love play, praying that she would not regret it. He could see no trace of regret, thank God.
Smiling, Tristan met her halfway across the yard as the portcullis lifted and a patrol clattered in. He was further heartened when she held her hand out to him. He bowed over it and kissed it. ‘All is well?’
‘As well as can be expected.’
‘The funeral arrangements?’
‘Papa’s funeral will be held in three days’ time.’ Francesca sighed and twined her fingers with his. ‘I probably shouldn’t say this—in some ways it is worse than I expected being here again. I...I hardly know how to behave and my presence confuses the servants—they don’t know who to defer to, me or Lady Clare. It’s very awkward.’
This was exactly what Tristan had feared might happen. ‘You need fresh air,’ he said. ‘Bastian is saddling the horses. I thought you’d like to ride out to St Méen, we might inspect your manor. If all is in order, we could stay there until after the funeral. It might make things easier.’
Her fingers squeezed his. ‘Thank you, that sounds like an excellent idea.’
They had mounted up and were clattering towards the gate with Bastian when a groom ran up, a bundle under his arm. ‘Lord Tristan?’
Tristan drew rein. ‘Good day. Conan, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, my lord.’ The incoming patrol were milling about near a water trough, Conan jerked his head towards it. ‘I was in that patrol, my lord. I think you should know I found this in a ditch by the gatehouse.’
He passed the bundle up to Tristan. Fabric of some kind, it was heavy with damp, as though it had been gathering dew all night. Mindful not to startle Flint, Tristan opened it out and his eyes widened. He was staring at his coat of arms, carefully embroidered on what had once been a wall-hanging. Several slashes cut right across his shield. His gut tightened and swiftly he rolled it up again. He wasn’t swift enough.
With a gasp, Francesca reached across. ‘That is my work! Let me see.’
Silently, Tristan passed it to her.
‘Tristan, I made this after our wedding. It hung on the solar wall in St Méen.’
‘I remember.’
Her brow knotted as she looked at Conan. ‘Where did you find it?’
‘In the ditch by the road, my lady. A few yards beyond the gate.’
‘You saw nothing else?’
‘No, just the hanging. Count Tristan’s colours caught my eye.’
Francesca folded the wall-hanging. ‘Thank you, Conan. Would you please show it to Sir Arthur and ask if he will permit a troop of household knights to accompany Lord Tristan and myself to St Méen? We shall wait here for his reply.’
We? Tristan’s muscles tightened. Francesca could not be allowed to go to St Méen, not now. Clearly, the place wasn’t secure. He frowned at the wall-hanging. He was loath to alarm her, but this had to be Kerjean’s handiwork. Their monkish escort might have prevented Kerjean and his cronies attacking them on their way here, but clearly it hadn’t prevented him from following them to Fontaine.
Kerjean had broken into Francesca’s manor. Who else could it be? By leaving the tapestry in the ditch outside the castle, where he surely knew it would be found, Kerjean was sending Tristan a message. No, not a message, a threat. Sir Joakim was telling him that Francesca wasn’t safe, not even in Fontaine.
Kerjean had to be attempting to revive the rebel alliance. It’s a message. A message for me.
Francesca bit her lip as she tracked Conan’s progress towards the great hall. ‘Someone has broken into St Méen.’
‘So it would seem.’
‘Papa promised that it would not be left unguarded.’ Her fingers tapped Princess’s neck. ‘Where are those knights?’
Tristan could have groaned aloud. He didn’t want to put their fragile, reawakened passion at risk by upsetting her, but Francesca had to be made to see that she could not go to St Méen. ‘Francesca, I agree someone has to go to St Méen. You must understand that it cannot be you.’
She stiffened. ‘It’s my manor, it’s my responsibility.’
‘No one is disputing that it is your manor. My heart, someone has broken in and there is no telling what we may find. I will not permit you within a mile of the place until I know it is safe. It needs to be secured.’
Her eyes grew stormy. ‘You bar me from visiting my own manor?’
‘When I know it is secure, you may visit it then.’
Her gaze sharpened. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me.’
Tristan hesitated, he was certain the theft of the wall-hanging was Kerjean’s handiwork, but admitting as much would surely be a mistake. Francesca had enough to deal with without learning that a band of outlaws had decided to use her to further their cause.
Damn Sir Joakim Kerjean, damn him to hell. Francesca wasn’t safe in Fontaine. And if she wasn’t safe in Fontaine...
‘Francesca, until I have assessed the state of St Méen for myself, you’re not going anywhere near it.’
* * *
At St Méen, Tristan stood in the solar with the manor steward at his side, examining the marks on the whitewash and the empty hooks on which Francesca’s carefully wrought work had hung.
‘Sir Nicolas?’
‘Mon seigneur?’
‘You knew this tapestry had gone?’
Sir Nicolas ran his hand round the back of his neck. ‘Yes, my lord.’
‘And you didn’t think to inform Sir Arthur that my lady’s manor had been broken into?’
Sir Nicolas flushed. ‘I only noticed the tapestry was missing this morning. My lord, I don’t check the solar every day. As you know, we’re off the beaten track. It is quiet here. We keep only the minimum of retainers and there had been no sign of a break-in.’
Tristan lifted an eyebrow. ‘None?’
‘None.’
Tristan stared at the empty hooks. Despite the fact that he was looking at a faint outline—like a shadow—of where the tapestry had been, the hanging was bright in his mind. It was a wonderful, clever work—knights and ladies feasting in a woodland setting. Great oaks arched over a damask-covered table; hunting dogs played among the flowers. Francesca had given the wall-hanging a silver border, like the field on his shield, and she had emblazoned the margins with black cinquefoils. And now it was a soggy mess, slashed beyond repair. ‘I liked that tapestry.’
‘Yes, my lord. I am very sorry.’
‘Why the devil didn’t you report the break-in as soon as you had discovered it?’
‘I was going to, mon seigneur, except it didn’t strike me as urgent,’ Sir Nicolas said. ‘We had only just received word of Count Myrrdin’s death, God rest him.’
Tristan ran his hand over his face. ‘Yes, I can see the loss of a tapestry pales into insignificance beside that.’
‘Quite so. And in any case, nothing else has been touched, my lord.’
‘You’re certain?’
‘Lord Tristan, when I saw the hanging had gone, you may be assured I checked St Méen from vault to roof. A full inventory has been done and everything else is as it should be.’
Tristan ran his fingers over the plaster and homed in on some marks—slight indentations, as though something had been scratched on the wall. He bent to take a closer look and swore under his breath. ‘Sir Nicolas?’
‘My lord?’
‘What do you make of this?’
Sir Nicolas squinted at the wall. ‘Mon Dieu, I didn’t notice that. It’s very faint, but it looks like a knight’s shield.’
‘So it does. Do you recognise the insignia?’
‘I am not sure. It could be a cauldron or a kettle, my lord. I think it’s a kettle.’ Sir Nicolas rubbed his chin. ‘I can’t call to mind a knight who uses a kettle as his device.’
‘I can,’ Tristan said grimly. Sir Joakim Kerjean had a kettle on his shield. If there had been any doubt in his mind that the theft of the tapestry had been intended as a warning, seeing this shield dispelled it.
Kerjean had been poking about in Francesca’s manor. He had then walked out entirely unscathed. St Méen wasn’t safe for her any more.
Tristan rubbed his forehead. What did Kerjean think he was doing? Surely he must realise that by threatening Francesca directly, Tristan would simply redouble his attempts to keep her safe? Did he think to wring money out of Tristan by threatening Francesca? Money that would rebuild the alliance? If so, the man was a fool. He must know that I can’t let this slide, Sir Joakim’s manor must be watched. I shall ask Sir Arthur to lend a few men—men capable of discretion. I have to know what Kerjean is up to.
Tristan glowered at the marks on the wall. He must alert Baron Rolland—outlaws were at large and there was a strong possibility that the rebel alliance was not a spent force. It looked as though a second set of envoys would shortly be setting out for Rennes.
A pair of long-lashed grey eyes filled his mind. Where do we go from here?
Without question Francesca would have to accompany him back to des Iles. For her safety, she was going to have to miss Count Myrrdin’s funeral.
It was far from ideal, she would be devastated when he told her. Lord, what a mess.
On first seeing Francesca in Provins, she had mentioned annulling their marriage. Back at St Michael’s Abbey, Tristan had got her to confess that she had never actually wanted an annulment. It was progress of a sort, but until Francesca abandoned the idea that he would be better off making a dynastic marriage, he couldn’t let his guard down. What was in her heart? After what had happened last night, Tristan couldn’t be sure.
He’d ridden to Provins on a mission of mercy, to collect Francesca so she could pay her last respects to the man she had known as her father. This morning, he’d had it in mind that after the journey had come to its sad and inevitable conclusion, he and Francesca would either be reconciled or he would leave Francesca at St Méen and return to des Iles.
This morning, reconciliation seemed a real possibility and Tristan was wary of rushing her. He had thought to win her back gradually. He had hoped that if they lived together at St Méen, they might recapture some of the early magic. Last night had been promising, but Francesca had been grieving, and he couldn’t be sure that he’d been more than a distraction. They might have come to a fuller understanding of each other if they’d been able to live quietly together at St Méen. Sadly, Kerjean’s interference meant more drastic measures were needed.
Francesca couldn’t be allowed to return to her manor, she wouldn’t be safe. It wasn’t practical for Tristan to watch her every moment, and even if he put her under guard, he couldn’t be sure Kerjean would be kept at bay. Tristan’s skin chilled. No, St Méen really was out of the question. Kerjean had broken in once, he could do so again. Tristan wouldn’t have a moment’s peace for worrying about her.
He must take her to Château des Iles, she would be safe there.
Des Iles—bounded by the sea on three sides—was practically impregnable. An outright attack—particularly by a lone knight and a disreputable band of outlaws—was out of the question. Kerjean couldn’t field enough men. Yes, Francesca would have to go to des Iles, and the sooner the better. Tristan scowled at the shield scratched into the limewash.
It wouldn’t be easy. At des Iles there were serious obstacles to any reconciliation—Esmerée being the most obvious.
How would Francesca react when she discovered that the woman who had once been his mistress was living there? Would she demand that Esmerée be sent elsewhere?
As to any further confessions, revealing his deep and most precious secret—his daughter—that would have to wait. He had no option but to take this step by step. Tristan rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had no idea what to expect if Francesca discovered that he and Esmerée had a daughter. Heaven help him, only Esmerée and Roparz knew that Kristina was Tristan’s child. Tristan had hoped to confess all to Francesca, but with the alliance apparently reforming, his hands were, once again, tied.
Hell burn it, last night’s truce between Francesca and himself was far too fragile to be put to the test, yet for Francesca’s safety, that was exactly what he must do.
Francesca must be taken to des Iles, he had to get her out of harm’s way. And whilst he might be able to delay telling her about Kristina, she would have to know about Esmerée.
Tristan nodded at Sir Nicolas and made for the door. On the threshold he looked back. ‘It’s clear you need reinforcements.’
Sir Nicolas shuffled his feet. ‘I am truly sorry, my lord.’
Tristan waved the apology aside. ‘Lady Francesca and I will be returning to des Iles shortly. As soon as I get there, I’ll send you extra guards. In the meantime, I shall ask Sir Arthur for his assistance.’
Sir Nicolas bowed his head. ‘Thank you, my lord.’
* * *
‘Go back with you to des Iles? Heavens, Tristan, when?’ It was later that evening and Francesca was sat up in bed, combing her hair.
Tristan leaned his shoulder against a bedpost. ‘We’ll be leaving in the morning.’
Francesca felt herself go still. ‘Are you mad? We must wait until after Papa’s funeral.’
Tristan studied the toe of his boot. ‘I’m afraid that is no longer possible, we leave for Château des Iles at first light tomorrow.’
‘Be reasonable, Tristan, I can’t possibly go tomorrow.’ Francesca fought for calm. I can’t miss Papa’s funeral! She shoved her comb on a shelf by the bed. ‘If urgent business is calling you to des Iles, you will have to go alone. Everyone will understand if you miss the funeral. You must see that I can’t miss it.’
He set his jaw. ‘You’re coming with me.’
‘Tristan, I will attend Papa’s funeral.’
Blue eyes looked her way, so hard and determined they were almost unrecognisable. ‘No, you won’t.’
Francesca found herself scowling at the torn tapestry which was folded neatly at the bottom of the bed. The tapestry had been aired and the worst of the mud had been brushed off, ready for later inspection. If it hadn’t been damaged beyond repair, she intended to mend it.
Glancing back at Tristan, she met that hard, unrecognisable gaze. He is worried. ‘Tristan, what happened at St Méen? What did you find?’
‘Nothing, it is as I have already told you. A minor break-in. Sir Nicolas assured me that nothing was disturbed save the wall-hanging.’
‘It seems very odd that someone should steal into a manor and only take a tapestry. Which they then leave by the side of the road. Tristan, there has to be more to it than that. Once again, there’s something you’re not telling me.’
