Mistaken for a Lady by Carol Townend Page B

do?’
    Finally, she lay still. When her breathing evened out, Tristan allowed himself to close his eyes. Really, he felt astonishingly content. The lamb had been tender and plentiful and his belly was full. He hadn’t felt so at ease in years. He yawned, he was pleasantly tired—not exhausted as he had been the previous night. Tristan had enough self-awareness to know that his contentment had nothing to do with the exercise he had taken or the tenderness of the lamb. It was Francesca. Being in her company again was an unexpected blessing.
    Realising that she had written to him during their separation changed everything.
    Rolling on to his side, Tristan breathed in her scent. He was smiling when sleep claimed him.
    Some while later, a loud thud woke him. He snatched at his sword. The door rattled, faint light was shining through a crack at the bottom—someone was stumbling about on the landing. A man gave a choked laugh and hiccoughed and the noise moved off.
    Francesca sat up. ‘What’s happening?’
    â€˜Someone with a jar too many inside him is falling up the stairs, I imagine,’ Tristan said, replacing his sword under the bed. ‘You are quite safe, such things are to be expected in a tavern like this.’
    Francesca scooted back under the bedcovers.
    Tristan was wide awake and so, it seemed, was she. The mattress rocked as she shuffled this way and that. The bed ropes groaned. She pushed the covers away. She dragged them up again.
    It was full dark in the chamber. It made no difference, Tristan didn’t need light to visualise her. Silken skeins of night-black hair would be working loose; her undergown would be slipping off one shoulder; her legs...
    Mon Dieu. Tristan gritted his teeth against the urge to draw her into his arms and stroke her hair. She used to like him holding her in that way. Soon , he told himself. Not tonight. He ought to tell her about Esmerée and Kristina first, and much as he longed to, it didn’t seem right when she was worrying herself sick over Count Myrrdin.
    Francesca had much to come to terms with. If he wanted to win her, he had some rough ground ahead of him.
    â€˜Can’t sleep?’ he murmured.
    The bedclothes rustled and he felt warm breath on his arm. ‘I am sorry, Tristan, I know I am disturbing you. I can’t help wondering how Papa is.’ Her voice cracked. ‘I should be with him. I love him so much, and if we arrive too late, I won’t be able to tell him. I didn’t thank him for looking after me so well and I should have done.’
    â€˜You were planning to return?’
    â€˜Yes.’ She paused. ‘No.’ Another pause. ‘Saints, Tristan, I don’t know. I was confused when I left Brittany, the world had turned upside down and every instinct was screaming at me to get away.’
    â€˜You wanted to discover who you were away from the trappings of Fontaine. It’s understandable.’
    â€˜Is it? It was a mistake to stay away so long. It was selfish. I know Papa loves me, whoever I am—’ She broke off and a heavy sigh filled the air. ‘It was just— I didn’t feel I belonged there any more. I wanted to know who I was, who I truly was.’
    The words slipped out before Tristan realised. ‘My wife?’ My weakness.
    â€˜We hardly knew each other. You told me you wanted an heir and we worked most diligently to that end, in truth we did little else.’ She gave a soft sigh. ‘I failed you there too. I came to you empty-handed and I failed to give you an heir.’
    Tristan grimaced. He never would have imagined that their sensual compatibility would come back to haunt him, yet that was what seemed to be happening. He wasn’t about to deny the pleasure they took in each other though—not when they had scandalised half the Fontaine household with their reluctance to leave the bedchamber. ‘Francesca, don’t speak of yourself as a