Carol Townend - Mistaken For A Lady

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.