Mistaken for a Lady by Carol Townend Read Free Book Online Page A

throat. Francesca loved Count Myrrdin, she’d always hoped to return to Brittany and she had assumed that he would be there to greet her. From what Tristan had said, it looked as though she’d best pray for a miracle.
    Quietly, she rose from the bed and turned her back on her husband as he finished his meal. She placed her mask on a side-table next to a jug of water and a basin. She unpinned her veil and began to undress.
    After their marriage, Francesca and Tristan had slept naked, that wasn’t going to happen tonight. She was conscious of Tristan’s eyes on her as she pushed her shoes under the bed and drew off her gown. She left her undershift on.
    She washed quickly, flicked back the bedcovers and got into bed. Rolling on to her side, she presented Tristan with her back and waited.
    She heard the clack of a knife being dropped on to the platter. She heard a splash—wine being poured?—no, he was using the water in the ewer. She waited some more.
    Clothing rustled. The bed dipped.
    â€˜Goodnight, Francesca.’
    â€˜Goodnight, my lord.’
    Tristan yawned, shifted on the mattress, and the room went quiet.
    The hours crept by.
    Francesca could scarcely believe she was lying in bed next to the husband she had never expected to see again. One who apparently trusted her so little that he wasn’t prepared to allow her to sleep in the solar. She fixed her gaze on a candle, watching as it slowly burned down to a stump before flickering out. The shadows moved in. Tristan was surely asleep, his breathing was low and even and he hadn’t moved in an age.
    She sighed, carefully rolled on to her back and stared into the darkness. Wary of touching him, she was trying desperately to lie still. He had looked exhausted and was plainly in need of rest. His face was leaner than it had been, and there was a drawn look to it that she’d never seen before.
    Sleep came and went in fractured snatches. One moment she was staring into the darkness, listening to Tristan’s breathing, and the next a heavy weight was resting on her shoulder. Tristan’s head. They had moved together in sleep. His foot was hooked about her calf and his hand was warm on her waist. He was naked. At least she thought he was. She couldn’t be sure and exploration was simply out of the question.
    Softly, she eased away. More of the night drifted by with her listening to his breathing.
    The second time she woke, she was on her side facing him and his breath was warm on her face. This time his hand was on hers, almost as if he were holding it.
    With a slight huff, she freed herself and rolled away from him.
    On her third awakening, light was creeping round the shutters and the shadows were retreating. She was on her side with Tristan’s body wrapped tightly around hers as though he would protect her until the end of time. Yes, he was definitely naked.
    Half-asleep, she lay there unmoving. Her undergown had ridden up and she could feel the rough brush of his legs against hers. She could smell him, a musky masculine scent that brought back bittersweet memories—legs tangled in rumpled bed linens; lingering kisses; warm caresses that sent fire shooting through every vein.
    Heavens, what was she doing? Their marriage was over.
    She knew it, and so too did he.

Chapter Three
    L eaving Tristan to sleep off the rigours of his journey to Champagne, Francesca dressed with a heavy heart and slipped down to the great hall to find Mari. The tables were up for breakfast and Mari was sitting with a group of women at one of the long benches. The peacock mask lay on the table next to a basket of bread, it was a little the worse for wear with the longest feather bent out of true.
    â€˜Good morning, Mari.’
    Mari jumped to her feet with the energy of a woman half her age. ‘Good morning, my lady. I’ll fetch some fresh bread.’
    â€˜There’s no need. Mari, I need to speak to you. I take it you received my