Mistaken for a Lady by Carol Townend Page A

and, given how Francesca had pulled her hand from his when she’d realised he was caressing it, Tristan was concerned. Hoping to forestall an argument, he’d taken the precaution of asking the landlord to escort her upstairs as soon as she’d pushed her empty plate aside. That had been a good half hour ago. If she had been going to object about sharing a bed with him, she would surely have done so.
    Tristan could have asked for a pallet to be brought in. He hadn’t, he wanted to sleep with her. Nothing would happen, he was determined on that. He wanted her close, he enjoyed her company. It was undoubtedly a weakness, Francesca was his Achilles’ heel. He’d enjoyed holding her hand before supper. Until she had noticed. It had been oddly warming to watch those large grey eyes fill with fellow feeling as he told her about his mother’s death. Lord, his own eyes had prickled. More weakness. Sympathy always made him uncomfortable. It was such a novelty, he hardly knew how to react. As he had told Francesca, he’d been with Lord Morgan so long he barely remembered his mother. He couldn’t account for that prickle of tears. Francesca got under his guard in a way no one ever had. She was his weakness.
    He knocked on the bedchamber door and waited.
    â€˜Tristan, is that you?’
    â€˜Aye.’
    â€˜Come in.’
    She was sitting in bed with the bedcovers drawn up tightly under her chin. Her expression was wary and it seemed safe to assume she was wearing an undergown as she had on the previous night. Not that he should be thinking of that. Nothing was going to happen between them.
    Calmly, he set the candle on a wall shelf. ‘There’s no need to look at me like that,’ he said softly. ‘I won’t take advantage of you.’ He placed his sword by the bed, knowing from experience it was best to have it to hand when sleeping in an unfamiliar place.
    Under the bedcovers her breast heaved. ‘It doesn’t seem right, our sleeping together, Mari agrees with me.’
    Tristan had had nothing from her maid except scowls. He swallowed down the reply that Mari loathed his guts, so naturally she would disapprove of their sleeping together, and said, ‘We sleep together until I am sure of you.’
    Her chin went up. ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’
    With a shrug, he turned away and began to strip. He heeled off his boots and hung his clothes on a wall peg—leather gambeson, shirt, braies...
    â€˜Tristan, if you are sharing this bed with me, you ought to put that shirt back on.’
    There was an edge of panic to her voice. Tristan’s lips curved, he knew she didn’t fear him. ‘Afraid you won’t be able to resist me, my heart?’
    She made an exasperated sound. ‘It’s not seemly when we don’t intend to stay together.’
    Fully naked, he turned to face her.
    With a squeak, she dived beneath the bedcovers. ‘For heaven’s sake! Tristan, blow out the light.’
    Pinching out the candle, he felt his way to the bed, climbed in and gave a languorous sigh. ‘Goodnight, my heart.’
    â€˜You shouldn’t call me that,’ she said, in a muffled voice. ‘It’s not appropriate.’
    â€˜Is it not?’ Folding his arms behind his head, Tristan smiled into the dark. The mattress wasn’t large and by rights he should feel her lying beside him. He couldn’t, which had to mean that she was balanced on the edge of the mattress. He wondered how long she would be able to perch there without falling out of the bed. ‘Sleep well.’
    Francesca huffed. She lay still for some time and then shifted. And shifted again. Each time she shifted, her body worked its way inexorably closer to his. It wasn’t long before he could feel her body heat.
    â€˜Relax, Francesca,’ he murmured. ‘We slept in the same bed last night. What harm can another night together