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