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 nothing more than a bundle of nerves, and the next she gave a small sigh and her body fell against his as it had done in the early days of their marriage. The ache inside him intensified, it became actual pain. Mon Dieu, he had missed this—she had him in flames with a touch. He’d never known anything like it.
A couple of heartbeats later, small hands took firm hold of his shoulders. She eased back and her soft murmur reached him through the dark. ‘Tristan.’
Triumph flooded every vein. The cracks of light edging round the door were thin, the dark almost absolute. If she was little more than a shadow, then so was he. ‘My heart.’ The old endearment slipped out before he had thought. And his hand slid round her head, he was unable to stop himself urging her mouth back to meet his. They fell into each other’s arms in the old way and went on kissing. The kissing got deeper. Wilder. It was as though Tristan had been dragged back in time and they were newly wed. While they were kissing, Tristan could almost imagine that he had never felt guilty for keeping secrets from her. He could almost imagine that they had never separated, and there had never been this silence between them. His blood pounded in his ears. It was impossible to breathe. There was so much to resolve, but it was drowned by the need to kiss and touch.
With difficulty, he eased back. He had to tell her about Count Myrrdin. Talking was the last thing he wanted to do, he was hard as iron. He wanted to go on touching her; he wanted to keep her close; he wanted to kiss her until they both lost their senses. He was halfway there already. Lord, he would never let her go.
His thoughts blurred and despite his resolution—I must tell her Count Myrrdin has summoned her to Fontaine—all he could think was how much he wanted her. He fought the impulse to press himself against her and caught himself wondering if an annulment might, after all, be a mistake. Then the old bitterness stirred. She never came to des Iles, she deserted me. She never replied to my letters.
He heard her swallow, her breathing was unsteady. ‘Tristan, it is marvellous to see you, but should we be kissing with so much unresolved between us?’
It was on the tip of his tongue to reply that she was his wife and he had every right to kiss her. He had to remind himself that she had fled Brittany and never looked back. ‘Probably not. Francesca, I bring news from Fontaine.’
Damn the gloom, he couldn’t read her expression, all he could see was her shape. Her very feminine shape, temptingly outlined by the light creeping round the door. Desire coiled inside him, dark and angry. Francesca wasn’t the woman he’d thought her to be and their life together had disintegrated into an utter shambles. He needed a titled lady with a spotless reputation. Despite that, he’d never wanted a woman more than this one and he had no words to tell her.
Blindly, he reached for her, but his arms closed on thin air.
