style="font-size:15px;"> ‘Why the hurry?’
She gave a quiet laugh and felt the happiness slowly ebb away until there was only the familiar uncertainty. What were his intentions? ‘Why the hurry? Tristan, it’s been two years since we have been in each other’s company, that is hardly a hurry.’
A loud knocking made her start.
The door rattled and Tristan groaned. ‘Holy hell.’
Another bang had the door jump on its hinges. ‘Who’s in there?’ It was a man’s voice, edged with impatience. ‘Open up!’
Tristan made for the door.
‘Tristan, a moment, if you please.’ Cheeks scorching, Francesca straightened her gown. Heaven help her, she had lost her veil and dropped her mask and the lack of light meant she had no hope of finding them.
‘Open this door!’
‘Gervase, is that you?’ Tristan asked.
‘Aye, open up. Open up at once.’ The door shook. ‘Hurry, or I’ll have the guard smash their way in.’
‘Calm down, man. It’s Tristan, Tristan des Iles.’
‘Who?’
‘Tristan des Iles.’
‘What in Hades are you doing here? I thought you were in Brittany.’
Tristan gave a curt laugh. ‘I’ll be out shortly. Then you’ll understand.’
Francesca dropped to her knees and groped around on the floor, desperate to find her mask and veil. Nothing. The cool flags, the edge of the chamber, the wooden desk leg—it was hopeless. With a sigh, she straightened and smoothed her hair. She could hear more rustling. Tristan was doubtless tidying himself too. She had an unsettling recollection of dragging his tunic free of his belt so she could run her hands over his chest.
Why had he kissed her? He hadn’t denied that he needed an annulment. He would need a more propitious marriage. He shouldn’t have kissed her!
And she should not have responded.
‘Ready, Francesca?’
‘Aye.’
The bolt scraped and the latch clicked. Light filled the chamber as Sir Gervase crossed the threshold, a lantern in hand. Glancing over his shoulder—half the palace seemed to be congregated in the corridor—Sir Gervase pulled the door firmly shut. His mouth curled into a knowing grin.
Francesca’s heart ached and her cheeks were on fire. It was obvious what she and Tristan had been doing. In truth, it looked as though they had done far more than kiss—her veil and mask lay in a corner and Tristan was adjusting his belt.
Sir Gervase’s eyes danced. ‘Tristan, you devil.’ He gave Francesca a puzzled look. ‘Who is this lady?’
‘This, Gervase, is my wife, the Countess Francesca des Iles.’
* * *
By the time they left the chamber, Francesca had put on her veil and her mask was firmly in place. Tristan’s appearance had her mind in a shambles. Not only that, she was mortified, it was obvious that Count Henry’s steward thought he had interrupted a passionate tryst. Grateful that the mask would hide the worst of her blushes, she let Tristan take her hand in a firm grip and march her through a boisterous and nosy crowd. Grinning onlookers stood aside to let them pass.
Tristan didn’t trouble to replace his helmet, everyone knew exactly who he was. There were several sniggers and, out of the corner of her eye, Francesca saw a lewd gesture.
Someone hissed. ‘Tristan le Beau.’
‘Aye, but who’s the woman?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
Francesca didn’t want to hear the rest. It was plain the entire palace thought they’d been making love in Sir Gervase’s office. It was beyond embarrassing. Determined not to catch anyone’s eye, she stared at the floor as she was swept along the passageway. Only when they neared the entrance to the great hall did she lift her head. And there, leaning against the doorpost, was the yellow-haired knight who had tried to kiss her. He’d removed his mask and was watching Tristan, mouth thin, eyes cold.
Tristan’s 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
