Mistaken For A Lady. Carol TownendЧитать онлайн книгу.
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