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distinctly queasy. It had certainly been ill-advised of Francesca to allow Kerjean to lead her away from the safety of the crowd in the great hall. Perhaps what Tristan had witnessed had simply been a mild flirtation on her part, one that had got out of hand.
    A far more disturbing possibility was that Kerjean had set out to entrap her into becoming his mistress. What were the man’s long-term intentions? Marriage? If Kerjean believed Francesca was alone in the world, he might consider her easy prey.
    Think, Tristan, think.
    Francesca had slapped Sir Joakim’s face. She had been turned away from Tristan, she couldn’t have known Tristan was about to interrupt them, yet she had slapped the man’s face. Tristan ached to believe that slap was proof of her innocence. Kerjean, on the other hand, had been facing Tristan’s way, Kerjean had seen him coming. Suppose the man had told Francesca to slap him to make their meeting appear innocent?
    Tristan shoved his hand through his hair. What was wrong with him? He felt as though he was losing his mind. This only ever happened with Francesca. She clouded his thoughts in a way no one else ever did. In truth, after they were married, Tristan had feared that he was coming to be ruled by his emotions. He’d feared his judgement was at risk, and when the council had summoned him to Rennes to help contain the rebels, it had almost been a relief. He’d hoped that a separation from Francesca would clear his mind.
    And here he was, after scant moments in her company, as confused as ever. It was profoundly unsettling.
    Could he be jealous? If so, he was letting it get the better of him. No more. This was Francesca, she would never take a lover, not whilst she was still married. She would never betray him in that way, it wasn’t in her nature.
    Swearing under his breath, Tristan pushed Kerjean to the back of his mind. I must tell Francesca about Count Myrrdin and I should tell her without delay. Tristan wanted to break the news of Count Myrrdin’s illness to her kindly. The count had been a father to her and she loved him—news that he was on his deathbed was bound to distress her.
    â€˜Francesca?’ Tristan gave her a guarded look. ‘You’d best brace yourself, I bring ill news from Fontaine.’
    Grey eyes met his. Candid grey eyes. Wary eyes that had silver and gold flecks in them. Tristan had been attracted to her eyes from the first, surely she could not look at him in such a way if she was hiding some deceit?
    â€˜From Fontaine?’ She lost colour. ‘What’s happened?’
    Tristan took a deep breath. ‘With your permission, I’ll tell you straight. There’s no prettying this.’
    She swallowed and clasped her hands. ‘Please do.’
    â€˜It’s Count Myrrdin. He is sick, Francesca, mortally sick. He’s asked that you and I attend him.’ A hand reached towards him and fell back. Swearing softly, Tristan reached for it and enfolded it in his. It was icy, she was in shock. He took her other hand.
    â€˜Papa—the count—is dying?’ Her voice was faint, a whisper of pain.
    â€˜I’m afraid so.’ Gently, he stroked her hand.
    â€˜How did you hear? Lady Clare?’
    â€˜Aye, she sent word to my steward Sir Roparz, it was waiting for me when I arrived at Château des Iles. Francesca, the count is fading fast and it is his dying wish to see you.’
    She bit her lip, dragged her hand from his and started to pace. ‘I have to go to him. Tomorrow.’ Agonised grey eyes held his. ‘He wants to see you too?’
    â€˜He does.’
    â€˜Are you planning on escorting me to Fontaine?’
    â€˜Of course, we shall go together.’
    â€˜Thank you.’ She walked to the bed, stared down at it and heaved a great sigh. ‘So this was why you came to Provins. To tell me Count Myrrdin is dying.’
    â€˜That is one reason, yes.’
    She nodded and