“You tempt me, my lady. Too much.”

Elysia did not want him to go. She knew they would not speak again before his departure. Now she couldn’t bear to see Conon leave. Forever.

“But—”

He sealed her protests with one calloused finger laid over her lips. “I will not fail you, Elysia. I promise.” He cupped her cheek in his palm.

It required all her strength not to close her eyes and lean into that strong palm. “God speed, my lord.” She straightened, needing to escape the temptation of his touch. “And thank you.”

Elysia burrowed more deeply into the folds of his surcoat as she watched him walk away, praying he possessed the deep sense of honor she’d glimpsed in him.

By granting Conon her favor, Elysia had also given him a dangerous weapon—all the power he needed to break her heart…!

Praise for Historical author Joanne Rock

“Charming characters, a passionate sexual relationship and an engaging story—it’s all here.”

—Romantic Times on Girl’s Guide to Hunting & Kissing

“Joanne Rock’s talent for writing passionate scenes and vivid characters really sizzles in this story. Even the hot secondary romance has chemistry!”

—Romantic Times on Wild and Wicked

The Wedding Knight

“The Wedding Knight is guaranteed to please! Joanne Rock brings a fresh, vibrant voice to this charming tale.”

—New York Times bestselling author Teresa Medeiros

The Knight’s Redemption

“A highly readable medieval romance with an entertaining touch of the paranormal…. The plot is pleasantly complex, the setting well developed, the heroine and hero traditional and romantic and the ending happily interesting.”

—Romantic Times

My Lady’s Favor
Joanne Rock

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Catherine Cavanaugh, Anne Sheehan and Hollis Seamon, fantastic professors at the College of St. Rose who helped me recognize my love of writing and literature through their support and encouragement. Thank you so much for making English classes such a rich and exciting experience.

And for RoseMarie Manory, who helped history come alive for a non-major. I can’t thank you enough for infusing those lectures about European history with plenty of drama and intrigue!

Also, with loving appreciation to Dean, who appears in some small facet in every hero I’ve ever created, but most especially in Conon St. Simeon.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Chapter One

Brittany, France

Spring 1345

T he garden looks more promising than the groom. Elysia Rougemont stood outside Vannes Keep, admiring the profusion of plants in well-tended rows, hoping to distract herself from thoughts of her upcoming marriage. Thyme and rosemary stood shoulder to shoulder with more frivolous herbs like lavender and sweet marjoram.

Elysia had little use for lavender or marjoram.

The fragrant patch of earth signified the only redeeming feature Elysia could discern about Vannes, the monstrous château that would officially be her home by nightfall—when she would marry the ancient Count of Vannes, Jacques St. Simeon.

She peered back at the keep, a massive structure of stone that went far beyond a simple fortified manor house. Nay, her new home could only be called a fortress, built for war and defense with its abundance of gates and projected fighting galleries that dominated the walls. Her future husband had told her he was a man of peace, but his home did not seem to uphold his words.

Swiping a slipper-clad foot through the warm earth, Elysia tried to concentrate on the pleasing quality of the fertile soil and not her aging sot of a future husband.

She could almost pretend she was back at her own keep in England. No matter that she and her mother had been subject to the will of their overlord since her father’s death six years ago, Elysia had enjoyed their way of life. She’d built a small but thriving linen trade with the help of her mother, a venture she took both pleasure and pride in, a way to distinguish herself in a world that held little appreciation for the feminine arts.

And although now Elysia’s wealth rivaled the most sought-after heiresses on the continent, she could not touch a farthing of it. That right belonged to her overlord, the Earl of Arundel, and would soon pass to her husband.

If her brother hadn’t died last fall before arranging a marriage for her, Elysia might have been home reviewing the progress of her flax fields instead of contemplating the uses of Vannes’s fanciful herbs.

Her wishful vision vanished at the sound of a deep masculine voice.

“Be of good cheer, my somber lady. You are quite fortunate the count is but two steps from the grave.”

Whirling around with a start, Elysia sought the speaker of the callous words. A fragrant gasp of air caught in her throat. Surely the speaker was not the golden vision of a man across the boxwood hedge.

“Excuse me?” Elysia managed, certain she must have misunderstood.

“With any luck, chère,” he continued, “you will be rid of the count before the year is out.”

Of all the foul, crude things to say. She might not desire the marriage, but that did not mean she would wish any man dead. She searched her mind for the most cutting set-down she could give the intruder until he stepped over the boxwoods to stand before her, looking infinitely more intimidating at close range.

Tall and imposingly built, the newcomer was a warrior in his prime. He dressed in deference to the wedding day except for a sword at his waist. The sun shone on his tawny hair and crisp white shirt, lending him the luminous glow. Limned in bright light he appeared a favored son, smiled on by God and nature.

Elysia took a step back, wondering at the wisdom of loitering in the garden alone with a strange knight, no matter how intriguing his intense blue eyes. A niggle of fear forced her to clamp down the retort that rose to her lips. “Please excuse me, sir, I really do not think—”

He drew his knife and Elysia’s heart stopped. There was nowhere to run from a man twice her size and no doubt twice as fast.

Bending, he applied the blade to the stem of a pink rose blooming on a low trellis. Exuding perfect courtly manners, he extended the blossom to her.

“I mean only to compliment your auspicious marriage.” His scornful blue eyes contradicted the deferential air of a brief bow. “It seems a fair bet your husband will leave you a very wealthy widow by Yuletide.”

Appalled at his audacity, Elysia could only stare at the insincere token he’d given her. “What wealth can any woman truly claim, sir? Widow or not, I will forever be ruled by one man or another.”

The knight reached toward her. An inner voice screamed at Elysia to move away from him, but he possessed some compelling quality that left her rooted to the spot.

His fingertip grazed the egg-size emerald dangling from a necklace her betrothed had presented to her as a wedding gift. She could almost fancy that she felt the heat of his hand through the impassive stone.

His eyes were alight with an emotion Elysia could only guess at. Perhaps it was wistfulness she spied as he stared first at the jewel, and then at her. “You stand to inherit a centuries-old dower property, my lady. I shouldn’t think you are too disappointed in this match.”

The news of it had almost killed her, in fact, but what would this coarse man understand of her dreams?

“And the rewards would be even better,” the stranger continued, fingering a fragrant blossom, “if you can only manage to bear an heir—”

“Enough.” She barely whispered the sentiment, anger robbing her of her voice. It did not matter that his words mirrored those of her overlord, the Earl of Arundel, when he had announced she must wed the lord of Vannes Keep a scant two moons prior. Elysia threw the rose at his feet, but not before one of its sharp thorns tore her thumb.

“You think I purposely sought the lord of Vannes for a husband?” Ever since her father died, she had told herself she would only wed a man who recognized a woman’s true worth and not just the size of her bridal portion. Her parents had found the fulfillment of true love, and while it hurt to lose her father while she was naught but a girl, she’d consoled herself that at least he had been happy. “As if I were so eager to trade every shred of pleasure I’ve ever known. How dare you?”

“No, lady, there will be some gossips who whisper how dare you, when you walk away with a lucrative property after a scant year at the count’s side.” His grin remained as disarming as the first moment she saw it, at odds with his scathing remarks. “But not I.”

She considered fleeing, but some part of her feared offending her husband’s wedding guest, no matter how discourteous. She was no longer mistress of her own actions—she had a husband to answer to now. A husband who had seen naught but her bridal portion when he looked at her.

So much for the idle dreams of her girlhood.

The stranger lifted her hand to examine the small cut on her thumb. Blood trickled down to her knuckle in a crimson stream against her pale skin. Wiping the red trail away with his finger, he stepped closer still.

Never had anyone dared to touch her in so brazen a manner. She became aware of the heat of his body, her own racing pulse.

He retained his hold, lifting his gaze to hers. “The bride has my complete and heartfelt best wishes.”

The slight lift at the corner of his lips mesmerized her. He loomed nearer as he bent over her hand and kissed the soft pad of her injured thumb.

Her flesh tingled under his lips for one frozen moment, and then indignation reared through her at his impudence. She wrenched her fingers from his grasp.

He bowed with mocking reverence. “Good luck, chère.”

Infuriated by his disrespect, more upset by her own inaction, Elysia could no longer hold her tongue. Who was this man? And why did he seem so intent on piercing her with his disdain, his words finding their mark as effectively as the rose’s thorny stem?

“You can be certain the count will hear of your taunts, sir.” Thankfully, her voice did not quaver the way her insides did. Although his words stung and his kiss was meant to be insulting, Elysia could not help wondering why her future husband could not look more like this man, whom she guessed to be some ten years older than her eighteen summers. “May I tell him whom among his guests thinks so little of him that they would accost his bride and insult the sacred nature of his wedding vows?”

His smile came as easily as it had before, as if the man was long accustomed to charming his way out of trouble.

“Tell him his nephew, Conon St. Simeon, has been kind enough to welcome our English guest on this momentous day.” He made a curt bow. “I am certain he will approve.”

“Are you, my lord?” Recklessness crashed through her in time with her anger. She ignored the discomfiting thought of this imposing creature as her nephew by marriage. “I am not so certain he will appreciate your speculation on his demise. Perhaps you would be wise to keep your distance.”

The golden-haired stranger quirked a brow. “Perhaps you would be wise to hold your tongue with my uncle. I assure you he will not find your wayward mouth half as…entertaining as I do.”

Bowing again, the knight turned on his heel and left, disappearing into a grove of yew trees on the garden’s south end.

The cad. Oddly, they had agreed on one thing. The younger St. Simeon opposed this marriage as adamantly as she did. Elysia bent to retrieve the flower he’d given her. She caressed its soft petals, telling herself the bloom should not be wasted merely because it had been presented by a churlish knave.

Did he stand to lose his position in the family now that she would wed his uncle? Perhaps that’s why he’d been rude. Didn’t he realize he could follow his dreams? He was not dependent upon a man as she was. No matter how successful her linen trade had grown, she’d known the day would arrive when her overlord would steal it out of her hands and make her wed. Now that the day had arrived, she had little patience for Conon’s taunts when he had the world at his feet.

She grazed the rose across her cheek, reminding herself that resentment would not alter the outcome of this day. She was fated to become the next Countess of Vannes, to wed a man older than her father would be now.

God have mercy on him. She thought of her father and smiled, knowing that if he were alive, she would not be forced to wed the count. Or if she had wed someone last fall, before her brother, Robin, died, she might have had some choice in the matter. But she had put the matter off, happy to immerse herself in pleasant labor, consumed with running the linen trade. Now she would pay the price for failing to choose a husband.

Only one thing could halt the wedding to Jacques St. Simeon today, and she planned to try it right away.

Father in Heaven, she prayed, please, please, let it all be a dream. May I wake up any moment in my bed at Nevering, ready to face a day of linen weaving and flax growing….

But as more wedding guests arrived and the day passed in a blur of preparations, Elysia lost all hope for divine intervention.

The fresh wound on her thumb continually reminded her of her new role as Countess Vannes. Oddly, the kiss that young, virile Conon St. Simeon had placed there seemed to linger as much as the thorn’s sting.

What the hell had he been thinking to kiss her?

Conon cursed his actions as he stomped through the winding stone passage to his Uncle Jacques’ chambers. The convoluted corridors and mazelike interior of Vannes Keep did nothing to clear Conon’s mind as he trudged upward. His uncle had spared no expense to build this elaborate fortress with its passages that led to nowhere and its wealth of private rooms—a luxury unheard of in all but the newest defense structures. He had only intended to introduce himself to the future countess, to look her over as his uncle had commanded.

She was beautiful, despite her rigid posture and the cool reserve she wrapped about herself like a cloak. Her long dark curls and heart-shaped face struck him as romantic features out of place on such a serious woman.

Still, something about Lady Elysia’s proud defiance had made him want to touch her, taste her. He had seen the flash of fear in her eyes when he’d neared her, yet she’d stood her ground and defended herself. The warrior in him admired her backbone.

Besides, what self-respecting Frenchman wouldn’t kiss the hand of a woman new to his acquaintance? Conon’s time at court had taught him the excessive gallantry expected of a nobleman, even though Conon lacked the title and wealth that normally accompanied such chivalry. He’d earned respect with the accurate slash of his sword in battle.

He reached the door to the count’s private chambers and paused. Conon dreaded meetings with his uncle, but it seemed even more awkward to face Jacques after the encounter with his future bride. Ruthlessly, Conon thrust thoughts of Elysia from his mind.

Best to dispatch the visit quickly. He knocked twice before a slurred voice bade him enter.

The master quarters were richly appointed with tapestries and woven mats, yet the chamber perpetually smelled of strong drink and stale air. Jacques reclined in his bed, a cup of ale perched haphazardly on his generous belly.

“Welcome, Conon!” His kinsman’s attempt at a hearty greeting lacked warmth. The vibrance that surrounded him in youth had vanished after his first wife died. “Care to join me?” Ale sloshed from the cup as he lifted it in question.

“No, thank you, my lord.” He could not imagine choking down a drink of any sort in the fetid room. “I have come to inform you I visited your bride.”

“A beauty, isn’t she?” A feral grin crossed Jacques’s flushed face. “All that money and a luscious young body to go with it. I have done well, have I not?”

Conon was unprepared for the wave of jealousy that assailed him. The thought of Elysia Rougemont beneath his uncle’s corpulent form filled Conon with an unwelcome surge of protectiveness. “She is indeed attractive.”

Laughing, the count reached for the pitcher at his bedside and filled his cup again. His gaze turned dreamy and unseeing. “She has hips fit for bearing children.”

Conon fought the urge to slam his fist into something. In Jacques’s eagerness to produce an heir, he no longer remembered his vows to gift Conon with a small keep for loyal service. Years of drink and dissolution had worn away the count’s memory along with his sense of decency.

“I am sure she will provide you with the heir you seek, my lord. Although I must say she seemed about as warm and welcoming as an English winter.” Conon clenched his jaw to staunch further comment. “If that is all?”

“Nay.” Jacques huffed for breath as he struggled to rise.

From long habit, Conon moved to help the older man.

The count stood, though not without considerable wavering. He grinned and clapped Conon on the shoulders as he steadied himself.

“I have a gift for you, son, one which I’m sure you will enjoy.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Conon felt the disgrace of his status as a poor relation even as the words kindled a wary hope in him. With the Vannes wealth at his disposal, Uncle Jacques’s gift might be enough to bolster Conon’s finances until he put his sword arm in service to the highest bidder.

The Count of Vannes laughed again, his hearty guffaws jiggling his cup. Ale spilled onto Conon’s surcoat, staining his best garment.

“Thank me you will, son, when I tell you that I have brought the fair widow Lady Marguerite here for you. Such a liaison ought to please even a man of your notorious reputation, Conon.”

Jacques’s laughter echoed hollowly in Conon’s ears. Conon knew liaisons were all he could allow himself, since he couldn’t provide for a family. Still, he resented the implication he was little more than a wastrel.

Disappointment choked him as he managed a stiff bow before departing the stale chamber. His gift would be no monetary prize or valuable token of his uncle’s affection, but a lusty young widow who had chased Conon all over the French court. Unbidden, an image of his uncle’s haughty future wife came to mind. Conon was willing to bet Lady Elysia wasn’t the kind of woman to have a liaison.

Amid the arriving wedding guests and preparations for the evening feast, Conon sought his chamber. What had he expected from Uncle Jacques? That after a lifetime of assuming Conon to be naught but an entertaining table companion, the count would suddenly realize new respect for his nephew?

Inside his chamber, Conon scrubbed his stained surcoat. Despite noble birth, he was all too familiar with menial labor. He counted himself fortunate to have come this far. At least he had a reputation for his sword arm in France and beyond. With any luck, he’d find lucrative work as a mercenary, preferably somewhere far from Brittany.

After wringing out his garb, he brought the material toward the only source of light in the room, a narrow arrow slit that looked down upon the keep’s gardens.

The matter of the surcoat went forgotten as Conon spied Lady Elysia idly picking her way through the rows of herbs and flowers. Her white linen gown gave her an ethereal air among the colorful blooms. An odd sensation clutched at his chest as he realized she carried a wilting pink rose in one hand. Surely, it was not the same one he had picked for her.

He couldn’t help wondering if she was truly the money-grubbing wench he’d accused her of being, or if she, too, had unfulfilled dreams.

The lovely vision she presented only further convinced Conon of the need to leave Vannes. Let Jacques enjoy his English heiress with the childbearing hips. Conon could finally leave France now that his ailing uncle would be cared for by Lady Elysia. As he rifled through his sparse belongings for a fresh garment, Conon determined he couldn’t possibly get away from Vannes Keep fast enough.

Chapter Two

E ven though the sun had not fully set, Jacques St. Simeon’s wedding guests carried candles to welcome Lady Elysia to the Vannes family chapel. Conon admired the whitewashed stone tower standing apart from the rigid symmetry that marked the rest of the keep. A small building designed as an afterthought, the little chapel revealed the scant interest Uncle Jacques paid the church.

Studying the boisterous, ornamented crowd that gathered there, Conon wondered how the bride would react to his uncle’s idea of a wedding. There would be little entertainment this eve, but much drink. Nobility from far and wide attended the event, not so much to see the bride, but to pay their respects to one of the region’s most powerful lords.

Conon swatted a bug that flew about his neck while he waited for the bride to appear. Hot wax dripped on his finger.

“Damn,” he muttered, peeling the soft wax off his skin.

Marguerite’s sultry voice purred over his shoulder. “Shall I kiss it, my lord?”

He had almost forgotten she posed, pouted and flaunted beside him. No matter that Marguerite had a body made for sin and an appetite to use it, Conon had been plagued with thoughts of proud Elysia Rougemont all day. The rose-washed taste of her skin, the slightly metallic tang of her life’s blood, haunted his lips.

“Aye, chèrie,” Conon responded, forcing himself to notice Marguerite’s lush curves and daringly low-cut gown. With silky dark hair and a flirtatious manner, the young widow remained most sought after since her first husband left her a profitable estate. But she seemed content to indulge her independence, purchasing extravagant gowns of velvet, silk and beads as if she’d poured her entire fortune into an elaborate effort to showcase her natural beauty.

She leaned close, swirling her tongue around his finger in an effort to soothe his burned skin. Conon scarcely noticed her moist ministrations, but he heard the bridal party approach long before anyone else on the chapel steps.

His focus narrowed to Elysia as she rode by. She sat atop Uncle Jacques’s best white palfrey, her green gown a vivid contrast to the mare’s pristine coat. The brown hair that scarcely peeked out from her veil earlier in the day now cloaked her in sable silk. A chaplet of violets crowned her like Persephone in her glory.

Conon watched her descend from her mount with the help of two squires. She would be married on the chapel steps in a few more moments. Did she appreciate the fact that she achieved lifelong security with the simple exchange of vows? Did she long for children, as Conon did, or did she look at Jacques and see only his gold?

The emerald necklace glittering about her neck answered that question clearly enough. His uncle’s betrothed might have intrigued him, but she was no doubt as greedy as every other minor heiress that had traversed Vannes’s threshold the last five years. Women of all ages were willing to wed a drunken old man for the security of his money. Why would Elysia be any different? Tonight she would assure her future while Conon questioned his own, but for love of his uncle, Conon vowed he would harbor no malice. Tomorrow he would obtain freedom from Vannes forever. The niggling of temptation Elysia presented would be easily ignored once Conon was on the other side of the continent.

As he watched the dignified woman in green wend her way through the crowd to join Uncle Jacques, Conon knew he had to thank her even as he resented her. She might be effectively ending any hopes for inheritance, but she would also provide him with the only extended independence he’d ever known.

If he used that freedom wisely, perhaps he would be the one greeting a breathless bride on the chapel steps in a few years’ time.

Heaven help him, he hoped his bride welcomed him more warmly than the aloof Lady Elysia.

Heaven help her, Elysia hated being a bride.

The wedding had passed in a blur of Latin and rice, until at last she and the lord of Vannes were seated at their banquet table.

She perched beside her new husband in the glow of the evening’s torchlight and watched him down the contents of his cup for at least the tenth time. After he called for a refill, Elysia pretended not to notice as he pinched the wine bearer’s backside. Although she resented having to marry such an odious creature, Elysia would not allow her dignity to crumple because of him.

The count was a huge man. He was reputed to have been a formidable warrior in his day, but it had been many years since he gave a care to his health. His jeweled sword belt did nothing to hide his girth, one of many indications that he indulged himself too freely. His ruddy nose and the high color in his cheeks suggested that he consumed great amounts of wine along with his ravenous appetite for food.

For this, Elysia did not condemn him. His penchant for ogling every woman under fifty, however, gave her a sense of impending doom.

Shuddering, she turned away from him to sweep the great hall with her gaze. She tried to ignore her husband’s arrogant nephew. Conon St. Simeon sat at the table closest to the dais, a giggling beauty wrapped about him. The younger St. Simeon displayed none of the defects of the elder. Strong, handsome, articulate, he held the crowd at his table in thrall with some tale or another, his animated face and wild gestures bespeaking only good humor, not drunkenness.

Elysia knew from his behavior in the garden this morning that he was not the angel among men he appeared. His lingering kiss and forward manner proved his lack of chivalry.

She did not mention Conon’s behavior to the count. Nor did she have any intention of doing so. She spoke little to her husband, who seemed just as happy to immerse himself in good food and abundant wine.

Elysia’s overlord, the earl of Arundel, leaned close on her other side. “You must admit, Vannes Keep is far more sophisticated than your little stone tower at Nevering.” The earl smiled benevolently, as if ready to forgive her for not wanting to come to France.

“Nevering is far more than a little stone tower, my lord, and we are both well aware of it.” Elysia could not help the edge to her voice since she had striven for years to make Nevering a strong keep as well as a gracious home. Besides, fear about the night ahead knotted her belly.

“Ah, but here you will be a lady of leisure,” her former overlord countered. “The count will provide well for you, and you will not have the worries associated with the linen trade. You can rest easy knowing Sir Oliver Westmoor will take good care of Nevering and watch over your mother.”

He will soak up all the profits until he runs the holding into the ground. She mustered a tight smile that hurt her face to bestow. Did he expect her to thank him for reminding her of the greedy neighboring lord back home who coveted Nevering and its modest wealth?

A tall knight approached them, bowing deeply before the dais table. “My lord,” the newcomer addressed the count, though he wore Arundel’s colors on his sleeve. “Might I hope for an introduction to the bride?”

The count leaned close to Elysia. “My dear, this is Sir John Huntley, Arundel’s right arm in battle.”

Elysia took in the looming height of the tall knight, his angular features and sandy brown hair pleasant enough, though his eyes held a lingering familiarity that uneased her. Her new husband draped a heavy arm about Elysia’s shoulders to draw her near to him, his bejeweled surcoat scratching her skin through her fine silken garment. The informality of his manner announced his drunkenness to the entire hall while the attending knight bowed again.

Arundel leaned over to whisper, “He is as important to me on the field as Sir Oliver is to me back home.”

Even if John Huntley had not been looking at her as a cat eyes a caged bird, the comparison to Sir Oliver would have put her on guard.

“Huntley,” Jacques continued. “The new Countess of Vannes, Elysia St. Simeon.”

She had no choice but to offer her hand, which the well-favored warrior quickly kissed.

“I am pleased to meet you, sir.” She smiled so as not to offend her husband, but her fear and apprehension of the coming night grew to painful proportions as the count squeezed her to him in a proprietary gesture.

“It is the greatest of honors, my lady.” Huntley straightened. “I beg you to consider me your champion and protector should you ever be in need of one.”

“Gallant words, son.” The count laughed, allowing his touch to stray down Elysia’s hip. “But I daresay she has all the man she needs.”

The lavish jewels on the count’s fingers snagged in her gown. His rotund body radiated warmth as if she were seated near a brazier. Elysia tilted her head to one side to escape his pungent breath on her cheek.

Bowing, Huntley departed, though Elysia felt his eyes upon her at all times.

Through the count’s uproarious mirth, Elysia heard a persistent ringing in the hall. As others became aware of it and quieted to listen, all eyes turned to Conon St. Simeon, banging his knife against his silver cup for the guests’ attention. Elysia edged away from the count, eager to put as much distance between them as possible.

“Ladies and gentleman,” Conon called, rising to his feet as the hall paused in its merrymaking. “A toast to the count and his bride.”

“Conon is my nephew,” the count whispered, wrapping one heavy arm about her waist and pulling her close to him once again. Elysia tried to mask the shudder that went through her at his touch. His breath nauseated her while his sweaty hands left damp imprints on the silk layers of her gown’s overskirt. Apparently his drunken state had robbed him of all sense of propriety.

Conon approached the table and raised his glass to the new couple. Elysia found it impossible to meet his gaze, as if he might be able to guess she had been thinking about him all day.

Intellectually, Elysia knew it did not matter whether she wed a handsome young man or an elderly lord. Marriage signified the end of a woman’s limited freedom, and a lifetime of domination by a man. Yet she couldn’t help but look at the count and wish fate had presented her with a more desirable groom.

“I wish you health and happiness and many babes to share your joy.” Conon’s voice rumbled through the hall as he made his pledge.

Elysia’s face flamed.

“May you make our name one to be feared and respected,” he continued. “And may your children be stalwart guardians of Vannes for another generation. To that end, I will faithfully serve you and your family.”

For the first time since she and the count had exchanged vows, Jacques St. Simeon’s expression grew serious as he looked upon his nephew. “Thank you, son.”

Cheers went up all around and in that moment, she braved a glance at Conon to find his gaze upon her, serious and contemplative. Perhaps her attention called him from his thoughts, because a grin suddenly stole over his face.

“Lady.” He raised his cup to her alone, then downed the rest of his wine in her honor. After slamming the vessel on the table, he crossed the room as if he could not wait to put distance between them. He pulled his dining companion into his embrace and headed toward the gathering dancers.

Elysia found her gaze would not stray from him. He wrapped the other woman in strong arms outlined by his narrowly cut tunic. Although Conon possessed the broad shoulders of a warrior, his step was light as he whirled his partner around the floor. The woman tossed her head back and laughed.

What would it feel like to be so carefree?

Elysia’s fanciful thoughts scattered as the count attempted to lean close to her and lost his balance, pitching forward. She buoyed him up with her arms, but he remained oblivious to her effort. He gestured to the dancing couple. “They make a beautiful pair, do they not?”

Elysia affected a smile in response. She had never found much to recommend beauty.

“She is a widow, you know.” The count nodded in the direction of Conon’s companion. “In our country a widow is allowed a bit of freedom to seek what company she wishes.”

In my country, too, Elysia reflected, wondering if she would ever know a time in her life when she was not bound to answer to a man. For a moment, she envied the woman. But it was certainly because of the widow’s autonomy and not her proximity to the dynamic presence of Conon St. Simeon.

Her husband flashed her a knowing grin. “’Tis why my nephew seeks out the grieving widows. They are mistresses of their own hearts—and their own bedchambers.”

He gave a loud guffaw at his joke, his fit of laughter soon turning into a fit of coughing. When his face turned red, Elysia feared for him.

“My lord, perhaps you should rest.”

“Rest?” He spluttered, apparently incensed at her choice of words. After another round of coughing, he rose to his feet with slow deliberation. His eyes issued a distinct challenge.

“Perhaps we should retire for the night and you will learn what your lord is made of.” His voice boomed with the complete lack of awareness of a drunkard. The entire hall stopped to turn wide eyes on the bridal couple.

“We retire!” the count shouted, yanking Elysia roughly to her feet beside him.

The crowd fell silent, until one lone clap broke the quiet. Elysia did not need to turn around to know which bold wedding guest instigated that noise. No matter how opposed Conon might be to his uncle’s wife, he supported the marriage in public. Elysia couldn’t deny a flicker of admiration for his family loyalty. Thunderous applause and whistles broke out amongst the well-wishers, who quickly followed Conon’s suit.

Fear, cold and still, choked her. She tripped behind the count as he pulled her through the hall, stumbling up the stairs leading to the sleeping quarters. She hadn’t prepared herself for this yet. Not that she would ever be fully prepared, but the count dragged her to bed hours before she’d thought they would retire.

Tomorrow she would wake up defiled by a lecherous old man, with nothing to look forward to in her life but more of the same, night after night. Arundel told her the count wanted to have another child, as his two children from his first marriage had died in infancy.

The fact that Elysia’s mother had told her exactly how babes were conceived only added to her anxiety. Knowing what her husband expected of her filled her with panic since Jacques St. Simeon did not seem to be a gentle man.

By the time they reached the lord’s chambers, Count Vannes appeared winded, his ire from the hall vanished in an effort to gasp for air. He looked much older than his fifty years. Elysia had a sixty-year-old tenant at Nevering who displayed twice the energy and health of her new husband.

Elysia watched his breathing slow, and he seemed to collect himself. Opening the chamber door, he smiled with some of the mocking self-deprecation she had seen in his nephew. “After you, beautiful one.”

Stepping hesitantly into the opulent chamber, she gasped when he wasted no time pulling her backward against him.

“After tonight, you will never again suggest your husband is some kind of invalid who needs to rest.” When he ran his hands possessively over her hips and down the fronts of her thighs, Elysia fought the urge to shove them away.

How would she get through the night? She was accustomed to being her own mistress, to managing her own life. How would she lie submissively beneath this drunken cad when she longed to run from him?

“There will be so much delight for you tonight, innocent one. I will be very gentle with you, I promise.” His words slurred together as he swayed on his feet and leaned against his wife, mashing her with his bulk.

Unable to support him for long, she stepped toward the room’s one chair, hoping to convince the count to sit down.

“Please, my lord.” She strained under his weight as she maneuvered him around the huge bed to the high-backed seat next to it.

Not in all her years as a starry-eyed girl did she envision this debacle for a wedding night. When she dared to dream of it, she imagined a man gazing upon her with adoring eyes as he initiated her into womanhood. An incredibly handsome man.

Like Conon.

Tripping over a protruding claw foot of the monstrous bed, Elysia lost her balance. The count fell into the linens, his arms still wrapped about her midsection, dragging her down with him.

The oaf.

“Please my lord, I—” Wriggling away from him, she stiffened when he seemed to regain control of himself.

“This is very nice, Lady Elysia.”

Pinning her body against his own, he rolled with her until he lay atop her. Her back bent at an awkward angle as her feet remained on the floor.

The count kissed her and ran groping fingers over her breasts. Elysia squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could close down all her other senses.

Muttering incoherent words in her ear, he pulled at her clothing in all directions—yanking her gown from one shoulder, tearing the fabric at her neck, hoisting up her skirt.

Elysia froze. The count grinned down at her, eyes glazed and unseeing. His hands fumbled with his clothing, pawing between their bodies to loosen his braies.

And then the pain came.

Sharp and heart-stopping it felt like a dagger, jabbing into her with considerable force. Her mother had said it would hurt but a moment….

“Damn!” The count looked down between their bodies in dismay. “I forgot to sheathe my eating knife, love.” With a tipsy lack of grace, he slid the blade clumsily from her thigh. “Does it hurt overmuch?”

Blood poured from the wound, staining her dress and the bedclothes.

“I will be fine.” Grateful for the reprieve despite the pain, Elysia pressed her kirtle to the wound. “I need some wine to bathe it, however, my lord.”

“I am so sorry.” Like a chastened young squire, Count Vannes hurried across the room to retrieve the flagon.

“Damn clumsy of me.”

After cleaning and bandaging the small gash, Elysia helped Vannes remove his eating knife from its place at his waist.

“Perhaps I have gone about this all wrong, my dear.” Grinning sheepishly, he tugged her torn tunic sleeve back over her shoulder. “I think instead, you should disrobe for me.”

He cannot be serious.

“A sweet young girl like you is unused to the careless hands of a man. It will go easier for you if you do it.”

I pray he is not this careless all the time. His conquests must be fortunate to survive the night in one piece.

He settled himself upon the bed, glassy eyes looking close to sleep. Perhaps if she took her time about it, he would pass out before she finished.

Heartened by her new plan, Elysia pulled her slippers from her feet, then slowly ungartered her hose and slid them from her legs.

Still awake.

Unwinding the ties from each sleeve was a painstaking job, but it did not take long enough to lull the count into unconsciousness. In fact, his eyes widened in anticipation.

Elysia slipped the gown from her shoulders and it pooled at her feet, leaving her clad in only her sheer linen tunic.

The count’s eyes grew huge. Elysia thought it peculiar she would engender such a response. The man surely had vast experience with women. Did he find her so terribly different? Fear and embarrassment gripped her, but it was now or never.

Lifting the hem, she pulled the slim-fitting tunic over her head, baring her body to a man for the first time.

Shyly, she glanced up to see his face…convulsed in agony.

Chapter Three

“M y lord?” Panicked, Elysia rushed to the count’s side where he sat, his body twisted to one side and frozen in place. “Are you all right?”

His glazed eyes were unseeing. He did not breathe.

Her heart dropped in her chest.

“Please, my lord, you must lie down. Catch your breath.” She eased him back to recline on the bed. “I will get help.” Yanking the linen duvet from the bed, she clutched it to her breast and ran to the door.

“Help!” she shouted the plea, but she need not have yelled. Conon St. Simeon strolled down the corridor, the voluptuous widow from dinner still clinging to his arm.

Elysia reached for him, needing him far more than the widow did. “Your uncle is unwell, sir. Please—”

Conon shoved past her into the bedroom without hesitation. “Wait for me down the hall, Marguerite,” he called over his shoulder.

For good measure, Elysia shut the door to the young woman, not wanting anyone else to witness the shambles of her wedding night.

“Unwell?” Conon turned accusing eyes to her from the count’s bedside, where he clutched his uncle’s wrist. “He is dead.”

“My God.” The room swirled, and for a moment she thought she would faint. She gripped the blanket to her like a lifeline.

“What happened?” His harsh tone forced her to think clearly.

“I do not know.” Still reeling, she sank into the chair beside the bed, recalling how she had struggled an hour ago to help the count into that very seat. “He seemed out of breath all evening, but I assumed it was because of the wine. He drank so much at dinner—”

“What happened after he brought you up here?”

Elysia felt the heat rise in her cheeks, but she knew it was sinful to think of her modesty at a time like this.

“I helped him to the bed and then…” She could not tell him about the incident with the knife. It was too embarrassing and had no bearing on the count’s death anyway. “And we…lay together until he bade me to rise and disrobe.”

“And?” His face betrayed no hint of the charm she’d spied at the wedding feast. Blue eyes bored into hers in their search for the truth.

Her face flamed. She prayed she did not have to relate the details of this night to anyone else.

“And he grew…amorous. His eyes widened and—” This was awful. “I thought…well never mind what I thought. I did not realize he was unwell at first. Feeling a bit shy, I could not meet his gaze again until it was too late. When I glanced back up at him he seemed frozen, like that.” She nodded to the still form of the count.

Conon wiped a gentle hand over his uncle’s face, shuttering the dead man’s vacant stare. Closing his own eyes at the same time, Conon kneeled beside the bed for a long moment, whispering words of prayer.

The scene, so gentle, flooded Elysia with guilt. It had not occurred to her to pray, and she was the count’s widow. She should be on her knees begging God for forgiveness that she had not saved her husband, that she had come to the marriage bed full of dread and selfishly pining for a husband who wanted more in a marriage than a house full of heirs.

“I am so sorry.”

As she intoned her own supplication for the count’s soul, Conon found his feet once again, detached and matter-of-fact.

“The union was consummated then?” He did not look at her as he asked, thank goodness, but appeared to focus on the bloodstains on the bed.

The creak of the chamber door startled them before she could speak.

“You did not lock it?” Conon rushed toward the entry, but not before his widow friend stepped through the portal.

And screamed Vannes Keep to the ground. “He’s dead!” she shrieked.

Answering footsteps resounded in the hall.

The woman stared at Elysia in openmouthed horror. “You killed him, you greedy witch.”

Conon wrapped restraining arms about his paramour and covered her mouth with his hand, speaking softly into her ear. “No one has killed anyone, Marguerite.”

Elysia’s maid appeared at the door amid a growing number of curious wedding guests. Every avid gaze fixed upon her deceased lord, and beside him, the bloodstained sheets.

“Belle, take your mistress to her chamber and help her dress.” Conon’s brusque tone rang with authority.

“Dear God!” Arundel burst through the small crowd to gape at the dead man before Elysia could escape the scene. “What has happened here?

He turned accusing eyes to Elysia.

With shock, she noticed everyone else in the room shifted their attention to her in that same, peculiar way. Awkward and self-conscious, wrapped in the bed linen, Elysia wished she could disappear.

Conon stepped in front of her, shielding her from the chamber full of wedding guests with his body. “My uncle is dead, Arundel. No doubt helped to his grave by his foolish notion to take a young bride and start another family.” Conon did nothing to hide his frustration, though he directed it more toward the earl than Elysia at the moment. “His health proved too weak to support his fancies, I fear.”

“Hah!” The woman called Marguerite stepped forward. “She probably hastened him to his death.” The widow nodded in Elysia’s direction. “I hear she stands to inherit her own lands whether or not she bears an heir.”

“I do not need anything from the count,” Elysia murmured, pulling the duvet more tightly around her. “I never have.”

“Though you will benefit.” Conon turned to glare at her, still blocking her body from the view of the rest of the room. “As my uncle thought he would from this marriage.”

“It was your uncle’s idea to wed, Conon.” The earl’s voice held a note of warning. “He came to me with the notion.”

Elysia grew more uncomfortable by the moment.

“After you paraded your prize morsel before his nose when he came to England last fall,” Conon muttered darkly.

“He fell in love with her,” the earl countered.

Conon made no response, and it seemed to Elysia that every observer heard the false ring of the words.

“He wanted her,” the earl amended. “Who am I to say nay to the girl for making a good marriage?”

“I’ll say it was a good marriage,” Marguerite huffed. “The English heiress has but to spread her legs once and—”

Elysia flinched, not so much from the woman’s crude accusation, but from the fury that came to life in Conon’s expression.

“Get out, Marguerite.”

“But it is true—”

Seeing Conon’s rigid stance, Elysia silently urged the woman out the door.

“Out.” The word was not shouted, but the fierceness of it sent the young widow hurrying from the bridal chamber.

Arundel wandered over to the count as she left, peering at the man’s body and the bedclothes. Elysia gauged the distance to the door and wondered if she could sneak out before the conversation turned back to her. She wanted to wash and dress and escape the nightmarish scene.

“Too bad the marriage was consummated,” the earl observed.

“But—” Elysia intervened, preparing to explain the matter, no matter how embarrassing it might be. With no consummation, she could not call herself a true widow.

Either Arundel ignored his former ward, or else he did not hear her, for he continued to speak. “She would bring more wealth as a virgin.”

His words shut her mouth. For him to speak of her as if she were no more than an object for sale to the highest bidder…the notion galled her.

How could he think about marrying her off to someone else already? Was he that unfeeling? She had yet to bury this husband.

Perhaps Conon had heard Elysia’s attempt to speak, for he suddenly looked hard upon her. “It was consummated, was it not, Lady Elysia?”

If it had been consummated, she would be considered a true widow to the count, and safe from marriage for at least another year. Maybe longer.

She would be free. Her life would be her own again, and she could return to Nevering. To her linen business. She would not attempt to take a farthing from Vannes, no matter what Conon thought to the contrary.

Yet she could not force the lie past her lips. “I am sorry, my lord but—”

“Jesu, Conon.” Arundel strode to Elysia’s side and put a protective arm about her. “How can you humiliate the girl in front of the whole keep? ’Tis obvious the deed was done.”

Conon stared at her bare shoulders and the linen duvet wrapped carelessly around her body.

“Belle, get her dressed, please.” His voice held a gruff edge. “There will be little sleep for any of us this night.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Elysia felt like a child, but saw the wisdom of clothing herself. It frustrated her, however, that Conon just stepped in and assumed control. The men, she knew, would decide her fate without her. By the time she returned, Arundel and Conon would probably have the rest of her life planned without so much as a glance in her direction.

She needed to tell them the truth of the situation before they began discussing her future. Elysia looked back to the chamber, weighing her options.

But she did not want to return and bring up the awkward situation in front of a crowd of gossipmongers. She would go to the earl later, when he met privately with Conon, and tell them what really had happened.

Belle hustled Elysia down the hall and to a private chamber. She scarcely noticed what garments Belle chose for her as the maid dressed and groomed her with expert thoroughness.

Elysia focused on the upcoming meeting with the earl and Conon. She would tell them she would not marry again unless forced. Tonight’s experience surpassed humiliation, and for all she knew, it was because of her ineptitude as a wife that her husband died.

“Do not fret, sweeting,” Belle soothed. The French maid had served at Vannes prior to Elysia’s arrival, and Elysia had liked her from the moment they met.

“It had nothing to do with you, you know,” the servant continued. “The lord has been drinking with no care for his health for as long as I have been here, and from what I hear, for twenty years before that. No man can abuse his poor body that way and expect to escape unscathed.”

“Perhaps I hastened him to his grave.” Elysia hid the knife wound on her thigh as Belle helped her into a fresh gown. Elysia would tell Arundel what happened, but she didn’t want the servants to hear the news first. “The excitement of the marriage and the strain of the wedding day. It was too much.”

“If so, he has no one to blame but himself. If you had not consented to wed, he would have found another young woman half his years.”

But guilt racked her. Guilt because the count died. Guilt because she let his nephew and Arundel think her wedding night left her a widow.

The whole mess required unraveling. She would proceed immediately to the earl’s chamber and tell them what happened—and hope with all her heart Arundel did not immediately marry her off to some other unfortunate soul.

After giving instructions to the staff for moving the count’s body and cleaning the master bedchamber, Conon sent for his fellow knight, Leon de Grace, to oversee the movement of the count while Conon met with Arundel.

A trusted friend, Leon had fought beside Conon during Conon’s first battle. Some odd command of the Fates had left them standing when hordes of other men had died all around them. They’d stuck together after that, neither one willing to turn his back on a partnership that seemed somehow preordained. Neither man had a family, but for ten years, they’d counted on one another as if they’d been born brothers.

De Grace arrived immediately, offering his condolences by clapping Conon on the shoulder. “He is at peace now, my friend.”

Conon nodded, heartened by Leon’s presence. Ten years older than Conon, de Grace would handle everything with his usual efficiency. The man was endlessly capable.

“You are to meet with the girl’s overlord now?” de Grace asked, peering around the room as the maids removed the linens to clean the chamber.

“Arundel will want every facet of the bridal contract enforced, of course,” Conon remarked, trying unsuccessfully to keep the bitterness from his voice.

“As is his right, of course.” The voice of wisdom returned as he tore off a bit of bread from the food on the sideboard.

“And I will honor it.” Conon swiped a hand over his face, weary of the day. “I am a man of honor if not wealth.”

“’Tis a better recommendation for a man anyhow,” de Grace reminded him between bites of bread. “If only your uncle had possessed a bit more of the former, you would now be possessed of a bit more of the latter.”

“Aye.” Conon knew his friend meant no insult. “He was a good man once.”

De Grace gazed upon Jacques’s bloated body and nodded. “You lost that man long before tonight, Con. Just remember his bride knows naught of his empty promises to you. ’Tis not her fault he did not keep them.”

Conon thought of Elysia’s frightened eyes tonight, the way she had looked when she’d realized the count was dead. Had that been sorrow he’d read in her expression? Or relief? “Nay, but it is her fault I cannot leave Vannes now. I will need to stay here a bit longer while matters are settled.”

If Elysia carried his uncle’s heir, Conon would need to make arrangements for the child’s care and protection. For that matter, he would be honor-bound to protect the child’s mother.

“We will leave when you are ready. I am in no hurry,” de Grace assured him.

Of course Leon was in no hurry to find work as a mercenary. He had a modest fortune stashed somewhere on the continent thanks to more wars fought than Conon. This new delay was a blow to Conon’s coffers.

They parted company then. Conon traversed the dimly lit corridors toward Arundel’s chamber, preparing himself to face the earl and discuss the fine points of his uncle’s marriage contract. No doubt, Conon’s fears would be confirmed—he would learn his grandmère’s dower property would indeed fall into Elysia’s hands. Before Conon could knock at the earl’s door, it was flung wide by Arundel’s squire.

“Very good, then, St. Simeon,” Arundel muttered, waving him inside the sparsely appointed chamber. “We can proceed now.”

Conon wondered what had become of the furnishings. The last time he had been in this room, rich tapestries adorned the walls and woven mats covered the floors. Now there was little to recommend the cold chamber except the fire that crackled merrily in the hearth.

Ten men crowded in the earl’s small solar, all Englishmen loyal to the earl. The only one Conon recognized was Huntley, Arundel’s crass second in command.

“Sorry about your uncle, St. Simeon. He was a good man.” The earl shook his head in sympathy as he clapped a hand on Conon’s shoulder. “An honorable man, too. ’Twas one of the reasons I consented to wed my ward to him.”

Shaking off Arundel’s grip, Conon did not care to be wheedled. “I will honor the bridal contract. Let us go over it in detail.”

Although the earl nodded politely at Conon’s acquiescence, Huntley had the gall to grin, as if he were solely responsible for winning a great battle.

“But I would see him—” Conon addressed Arundel as he jerked his head in Huntley’s direction “—and his disrespect out of the room before I do so.”

Huntley would have protested, a black look marring his face, but Arundel stepped in. “Perhaps that would be best.” He nodded to Huntley and the other knights. “Excuse us, please.”

Chain mail clinking, the knights filed out of the room with Huntley muttering under his breath. Conon did not care. He turned to the earl, ready to discuss the specifics of Jacques’s agreement with Elysia and her overlord.

“I understand Lady Elysia will inherit the Vannes dower lands, even if there is no heir?” The dower property represented a small fraction of the Vannes holdings, but its worth was immeasurable to Conon. His happiest childhood memories revolved around the nearby keep and time spent there with his grandmother. He had inherited his grandmère’s family pride while a boy at her knee.

“Aye. But she inherits much more if she has conceived.”

Pacing the length of the solar, Conon rubbed his temple in a futile attempt to relieve the pounding in his head. He didn’t want to ask for clarification, but he had to know.

“All of it?”

Arundel pulled the contract parchment from his surcoat and allowed the scroll to unravel onto the chamber’s only table. “Everything. At least until her eldest son comes of age.”

Conon should have expected this. Hell, hadn’t his uncle practically told him as much? Still, he had hoped Jacques would realize how unfair that would be. Conon would be left with nothing, unable to afford a noble marriage and family. He schooled his features in spite of the knife his dead uncle had just twisted in his back.

“It is unlikely there will be an heir after such a brief marriage.” Conon glared at the words upon the scroll, willing them to be different.

“Perhaps,” Arundel agreed, stroking the tuft of beard at his chin. “In which case I will send her home to Nevering until I have found another suitable match for her.”

Conon paused in his pacing. “She would not live on the Vannes dower lands?”

“Nay. She is a wealthy heiress in her own right, and a prize I must safeguard. Her bridal portion is worth almost as much as the Vannes fortune. Many a man would lay claim to her.”

For a moment, Conon envisioned himself wed to the English woman. Although her slender form had looked enticing as hell wrapped in naught but a linen blanket, Conon guessed she was cold as a hard frost. The curves he had detected beneath her impromptu robe didn’t soften her perpetually stiff spine or proud bearing.

Yet her skin had been soft enough beneath his lips, a contrary part of his brain reminded him.

“If she is so damn wealthy, why does she need the dower lands?” Conon asked, not expecting an answer. He should have found a way to ensure the inheritance Jacques had promised him long ago. Conon didn’t care about the money. He cared about his family seat.

“’Tis the politics of marriage.” The earl rolled the bridal contract with brusque efficiency and returned it to a pouch at his waist. “I knew you would be difficult about this.”

“What if she killed my uncle?” Conon inquired. It was entirely possible. Heaven knew it had been the first thing Conon thought when he entered the bedchamber tonight and saw the count lying on the bed. How many young maids would go eagerly to the bed of a lust-ridden, aging knight?

“How?” Arundel scoffed. “By being too damn beautiful for an old man’s heart to bear? Surely you jest.”

“I have heard she has knowledge of herbs.” Even though Elysia struck him as proud, Conon did not truly think she had killed his uncle. She had looked too genuinely horrified at the sight of Jacques’s face in death.

“Flax plants for linen, but I assure you that is all. Elysia is no wisewoman.”

“Mayhap she contacted one to be rid of an unwanted groom,” Conon pressed, wondering why he bothered. Some part of him seemed to want reassurance she could not have committed such a crime.

“You impugn the honor of your countess, St. Simeon.”

“I say nothing the whole keep has not secretly thought already. But I will give her my protection as my uncle’s widow until it is known whether or not she is breeding. Once it is proven she is not, I want her out of Vannes.” And then Conon would be rid of the unwanted temptation she posed.

“I cannot afford to wait that long. I will leave Huntley here to protect my interests and a few men to guard the countess until that time.” The earl scooped up the parchment, making it obvious he wanted Conon to leave. “Keep in mind, St. Simeon, if Elysia carries the next Count of Vannes in her belly, ’twill be you who is ousted.”

“Aye.” Conon raised a brow in the earl’s direction as he stepped into the corridor. “Unless, on top of being a fortune-hunting opportunist, your ward proves to be a murderess.”

The earl made no reply, despite the furious blue pulse that leaped in a thick vein down his forehead.

Conon departed the guest tower for his own quarters in the family wing of the keep. His door was one removed from the Countess of Vannes, the only other occupant of the wing.

He lingered in front of Elysia’s chamber for a moment, noting the light that still shone brightly under her door. Was she upset by the count’s death and unable to sleep? Or was she privately celebrating her success in ridding herself of an unwanted bridegroom? A cynical thought, mayhap, but Conon could not dismiss the sense that the countess had been hiding something about her wedding night.

Perhaps she would think him rude to interrupt her in the middle of the night, but she was evidently not sleeping anyway. “Lady Elysia?” He rapped on the heavy barrier.

Silence answered him for a long moment until the door creaked open to reveal his uncle’s widow illuminated in the glow of a blazing fire. She blinked slowly, as if surprised to see him.

Unrepentant for his late intrusion, Conon shoved the door open the rest of the way and invaded the bright chamber.

Candles wreathed the room as if it were a church. Conon shook his head at the blatant extravagance. Since leaving the comfortable household of his father almost fifteen years ago, Conon had not wasted so much as a drop of wax or a skinful of wine. His frugal existence forbade it. Lady Elysia, on the other hand, was evidently used to indulging herself.

“Do not answer your own door,” Conon admonished, pushing his way into the room before someone saw into her chamber. “Where is Belle?”

The temperature soared as hot as midsummer in the chamber, and Elysia was wrapped in a jumble of blankets.

“I am afraid the heat made her sleepy, though she fought to stay awake by me.”

His eyes found the maid, sprawled across Elysia’s rumpled bed. This was not the chamber the countess had briefly shared with Jacques, but the smaller, private quarters she had been appointed upon her arrival a fortnight ago.

“You should be abed, as well.” He worked his way around the room, pinching candles as he went. “It is almost dawn.”

“I have been worried. I was denied entry into the guest tower, let alone the earl’s solar. I wanted most urgently to speak in my own behalf—”

“Denied entry?” Conon hovered over a candle, focusing on Elysia for the first time since entering. Her hair hung in a shimmering black mass down her back, rumpled and out of place. She had the delicious look of a woman who had just rolled out of bed—an enticing contrast to her usual stiff posture and cool reserve.

Her eyes, however, were sunken and dark; her skin pale. She seemed to shiver right through the pile of blankets that covered her.

“Who denied you entry?”

“Sir Huntley.” Her tone conveyed her distaste for the man. They agreed on one thing, anyway.

“Huntley is an arrogant son of a—”

“I know.” She put her hand up as if to ward off his forthcoming curse. “He is a vulgar man, and my words with him topped off an already horrifying day.” Voice breaking, she crumpled to the bench by the fire. “Please excuse me, sir, if I am not myself.”

For a long moment, she did not speak. Seeming to collect herself, she fixed him with her gaze, chin high and proud in spite of her nearness to the breaking point. Un-shed tears glittered in her eyes, refusing to fall.

A wave of pity tempered by admiration washed over Conon, surprising him with its force. Perhaps there was more to this woman than he had anticipated.

“But I have to know.” She took a deep breath, as if frightened of his response to her words. “What did you discuss with the earl? What is to be my fate?”

His pity dissolved when he recalled the discussion with Arundel. “You mean how much of Vannes will you walk away with?”

All signs of weakness vanished from Elysia’s expression as she stood, though she kept the blanket wrapped about her. Conon tried not to remember how unsettling it had felt to view her with nothing but bedclothes to cover her earlier tonight.

“Nay, sir.” Her voice cold and controlled, she sounded at odds with her vulnerable appearance. “I am not concerned with the Vannes fortune, but with my person. Because you are a man, you cannot possibly understand the frustrations of being unable to control the most basic decisions of your life.”

“As a man who stands a good chance to be disinherited, chère, I can tell you exactly how frustrating it is to have no control over your life. And to be undermined and outmaneuvered by a woman is especially insulting.” Crossing the room to stand toe to toe with her, he willed her to be intimidated.

Stubbornly she stood her ground, though she was forced to look up at him. “How could my marriage possibly disinherit you? Do I look like a successful candidate for Count of Vannes?”

“Nay, lady, you do not.” She looked more like a petulant child in need of sleep, but he was not cruel enough to say that.

Some surge of protectiveness moved Conon to tuck a stray strand of her midnight hair behind one ear. The dark, rumpled locks felt as soft as they looked. Softer. He recalled the impetuous kiss he had given her earlier that day. Her skin had been warm and smooth, too. Now, she stiffened at his touch, though she did not pull away.

“However, you might carry the future count within your womb. If that is the case, you have dispossessed me of much.”

“No.” Stepping back from him, she walked toward the fire and gazed in its heated depths. “That will not be the case. I am certain of it.”

“You cannot be sure, Countess.” He forced her new title past his lips. “That is why the earl and I thought it best you remain here until such time it may be proven one way or another.”

Her gaze flew to his, revealing a depth of vulnerability Conon would not have thought her capable of, before returning to the safety of the fire.

“As you will,” she responded with quiet assurance, indicating no hint of the anxiety he had seen in her countenance. “Yet I am certain I will carry no babe. Am I free to leave once that is…established?”

She spoke with such quiet conviction, Conon wondered about the events of her sordid wedding night. Of course the blood on the sheets told the story anyhow, but the countess spoke as confidently as if she knew no heir would result.

“Aye. You may leave.” With the deed to Grandmère’s dower lands as a prize for her virginal sacrifice.

Perhaps one day she would allow him to buy it back from her. Surely she would exchange a fortune for a plot full of memories.

His gaze flitted over the countess’s rumpled hair and pink cheeks. Despite her more approachable disheveled state, Conon could not imagine the stiff-necked Elysia Rougemont knew anything of love or sentiment.

“And if that is the case,” Conon continued, backing toward the door, “your time in France will have been more brief than either of us could have imagined.”

By month’s end, he could well possess the security he had longed craved, but he would never see the fair lady again.

Chapter Four

S he had lied.

The knowledge ate away at Elysia long after Conon’s departure, keeping her awake into the morning hours. Although she’d never actually told a lie, her failure to correct the popular misconception that her marriage had been consummated was as good as an outright falsehood.

Brooding as she stared into the cold ashes of her bedroom hearth, she regretted her continued silence. She had every intention of revealing the truth to the earl last night when she went to meet with him and Conon.

But she hadn’t been allowed to see them.

Although unaccustomed to such treatment, Elysia knew such was most women’s lot. At Nevering, she had ruled the keep. Even while her brother lived, Elysia had been the one to oversee the linen trade and issue orders. How galling to go from a position of importance—one which she enjoyed immensely—to being treated with open disrespect.

Recalling Huntley’s rude treatment the previous evening riled her all over again. She had assumed the earl instructed Huntley to keep her out of their private meeting, though Conon seemed genuinely surprised when she mentioned she had been denied entry. Perhaps it was only the earl who wanted her kept in the dark.

In her anger, she decided if the earl did not want to share his plans for her, she would not bother to confide the truth to him. This morning, when she had calmed down and realized she had a moral obligation to tell him the truth no matter if she had to fight Huntley to do it, she discovered Arundel had already departed.

Since first light she had paced the floor, fearing for her soul with so grave a sin to hang upon it. She thought, too, of Conon and his fear that an heir would usurp his fortune. But how could she tell him the truth? The matter was most delicate.

She would have to live with his anger for another couple of weeks until it was proven she would not bear the next Count of Vannes. Surely, once she displayed no signs of being enceinte, she would be allowed to go home. She would simply confide the truth to her overlord when she saw him once again.

Who would it hurt if she kept the truth to herself at this point? After all, she would take nothing from Conon’s inheritance except a small dower property, and that could be returned to him as soon as she spoke with her overlord. It wasn’t as if she would be dragging the French estate home on horseback. Besides, Conon had an enormous estate to live in now, so he wouldn’t miss the deed to a minor keep for a few weeks.

Somewhat appeased by her plan, Elysia donned her old gardening kirtle to work among the flowers she’d spied the previous day. She hated idle hands. In the garden she would escape the oppressive keep, with its reminders of the horrible night before, and soothe her frayed nerves with a healthy dose of weeding.

Scarcely aware of the departing wedding guests, Elysia lost herself in the mundane task of tending an unused section of the garden, visualizing the seeds she would have planted to best utilize the space.

The male voice startled her.

“The garden seems to be a common hiding place for you, Countess.” Conon appeared out of nowhere as he had the day before.

When his kiss upon her hand had seared her flesh.

Although he was as incredibly handsome as the previous day, Elysia noted the shadows under his eyes, the sadness that lurked within. Guilt nagged at her.

As Conon helped her to her feet, she tried not to wince at the pain in her thigh from the count’s knife wound.

His eyes narrowed as he assessed her, obviously seeing the hurt.

“What is it?”

Embarrassed and guilty, she could not look at him. “It is nothing, I—”

“You should not be out so soon after a wedding night, Elysia.” His voice was as rough as the hand that still gripped her arm.

“I am fine, truly—”

“There will be talk all over France about the beautiful young English woman who came to Brittany to wed a rich count, poisoned him on his wedding night, then flaunted herself about the gardens the next day as if nothing were amiss.” His words might be accusing, but his tone was merely tired.

Ignoring the unwelcome warmth that still tingled where he touched her, she stepped out of his grasp. “Poisoned? Is that the verdict this morning?”

“Aye.” He smiled halfheartedly. “Though that verdict is subject to change several times by the end of the day and will no doubt become more embellished as the tale travels to all corners of France and England.”

“Do you believe I had a hand in the count’s death?” She brushed the soil from the worn linen kirtle she favored for gardening.

“Your refusal to stay in your chamber like a proper grieving widow today does nothing to ease my mind regarding your possible guilt.”

“What does staying shut up in my chamber have to do with how much grief I feel?” Elysia was surprised at the sting of tears in her eyes.

“You cannot convince me you mourn his loss.”

“Just because I was not overly eager to wed him? By all the saints, that does not mean I wished his demise. I imagine at least half the brides who have ever sought the altar have feared and regretted the choice of husband made for them. That does not make them bloodthirsty killers.”

“Aye. But their husbands do not end up dead on their wedding nights.”

“Very well then, my lord.” How dare he accuse her of something so foul? “Your uncle was poisoned.”

Conon’s eyes widened, a flicker of shock and disappointment crossing his expression.

“Poisoned by drink and self-indulgence,” she snapped.

“And mayhap by uncaring relatives who closed their eyes while he had been slowly killing himself for heaven knows how many years.”

“Touché, chère.” The wind caught his hair and gentled him with unseen fingers. “However, I assure you my lack of interference in my uncle’s life was not the result of indifference. Had he been my father, perhaps I would have felt I had the right to….” He paused in thought, far away from the garden and Elysia. “Yet it does not matter. He is gone.”

“I am sorry.”

“So you say. I merely came to inform you that Arundel departed, and he has left John Huntley to be your guardian while you are in residence here.”

“Sir Huntley?” She could not imagine a more loathsome protector.

“Everyone else is leaving except for Leon de Grace and myself.”

“De Grace is loyal to you, I gather?” Elysia wished she had an ally here. She did not relish the thought of spending any more time at Vannes, but it seemed a small price to pay for her freedom.

“He is his own man, and he seems to think I will need his help in the coming weeks.” A wry smile tugged at the corner of Conon’s mouth. “I could not get rid of him if I tried.”

“You are fortunate to have such a friend.”

“Fortunate with no fortune. But you are right, Countess.” Bowing, he turned toward the stables. He was but a few steps from her when he looked back. “Elysia.”

“Aye?”

“While I understand the need to lose oneself in activity during a crisis, most of our remaining guests do not.” He nodded in the direction of the road, where a small party of knights rode away from Vannes, casting curious glances toward the scene in the garden. “Would it hurt to smother any more wagging tongues?”

“Certainly.” Duly chastened, Elysia nodded, sorry she had not thought to stay within the keep for that very reason. “I will retire to my solar.”

Dusting off her small shovel, she had to admit Conon St. Simeon possessed a quiet wisdom she had not expected in so carefree a man. His frivolity at her wedding, his open liaison with a wealthy widow, had made her regard him as an insubstantial man, but now she doubted such was the case.

Thrusting aside disturbing thoughts of the enigmatic new count, she hurried to Vannes and found Belle tidying her large wardrobe. The maid curtsied when Elysia arrived.

“Morning, mistress. Perhaps you would like to change?” Belle’s pointed look at Elysia’s dusty clothes conveyed her disapproval.

“Aye.” Elysia sighed. “I do not know what I was thinking to work in the garden this morning, Belle. The count’s nephew is annoyed about it.”

“’Tis easy for a girl to forget what is expected of her when she has been through all that you have, my lady.”

Elysia shook her head sadly as she finished washing with the fresh, cold water Belle brought. “My husband has not even been properly buried. I must plan a mass for him. It was selfish for me to think of my own needs at such a time. My mother taught me better than this.”

With quick efficiency, Belle had Elysia dried, dressed and seated, ready to begin the monotonous task of brushing and braiding her hair.

“You miss your mother then, my lady?”

“Aye.” Elysia thought of Lady Daria Rougemont at Nevering. Was her mother immersed in sewing and stitching to keep up with the linen orders? Or was she reveling in the freedom of escaping from her taskmaster daughter who had ensured everyone at Nevering did their share of work? “She and I grew close when my father died. Closer still when my brother, Robin, died. It hurt very much to leave her.”

“Does she tend your linens now that you are gone?”

Elysia smiled at her thoughtful maid. “I do not know if she will try to run things or not. She does not like to be plagued by details. My mother’s greatest contribution has always been her fine needlework.” Much as Elysia adored her mother, Lady Daria made no pretense that she enjoyed the labor involved in maintaining Nevering’s trade.

“If your mother does not oversee the business, who will?”

Who indeed? That very question had been the biggest deterrent to Elysia’s marriage. Of course the earl had not cared. He did not understand the finer points of the linen trade, and assumed that anyone, even his dolt of a vassal, Sir Oliver, could take the reins once Elysia left.

“Our esteemed neighbor to the north, Sir Oliver Westmoor.”

“You do not care for this man, Countess?” Belle pulled one braid over the crown of Elysia’s head and fashioned it into a slender circlet.

“Envision a less bulky, more insipid version of Sir Huntley.”

“Not a pleasing picture.” Belle secured the final braid and stood back to admire her handiwork. “How will your mother handle such a man?”

“I admit the thought has frightened me.” Stepping to the window, Elysia looked down into the courtyard to watch the latest wedding guests depart. “She should be fine until I return. Oliver cannot possibly have found reason to interfere in the scant moon since I left.”

“What if you cannot return, Countess? If you are with child, my lord Conon will not permit you to leave.”

Guilt nipped her once again, a familiar companion since the moment the whole household assumed she was no longer a maiden.

“I am not with child,” she whispered, more to herself than to Belle. Elysia’s hand strayed to her flat belly, and for the first time wondered what it would be like to carry a babe.

The thought held appeal if only she could wed an honorable man who was interested in a true partnership between husband and wife. Did such a man even exist?

Elysia warmed at the vision of herself cradling an infant with an impish twinkle in its bright blue eyes. Realizing with dismay that she’d given her baby Conon’s eyes, she turned away from the window view and tamped down the yearning for things that could never be.

For the next several days, Elysia did little more than think and brood in the confines of her room. Although Conon encouraged her to enjoy the weather and roam about the keep after the wedding guests departed, Elysia felt cruel and uncaring to go on with daily life as if nothing had happened.

Her husband was dead.

At least he had been honored and buried now. She saw to every detail of his mass and memorial gathering.

“My lady?” Belle called to her through the fog of her gloomy reverie.

“Aye?” Elysia turned from her needlework, an elaborate tunic she planned to give Belle with an embroidered bee hovering over a delicate flower.

“Your guardian is at the door, my lady. He wishes to see you.”

She had not even heard Sir Huntley knock. It was past nightfall, an unseemly hour for her to receive guests in her solar. “He must know better than to—”

“Good evening, Countess.” He suddenly stood in the middle of the solar floor, not appearing to mind that no one had admitted him. He wore a surcoat trimmed with ermine and a weighty gold medallion adorning his thick neck. A lock of damp hair fell across his forehead, suggesting he had recently bathed.

He was handsome enough, Elysia supposed, but his looks did nothing to mitigate her impression of him as a cruel man.

“Sir Huntley, really, I beg your pardon, but—”

“Nay, lady.” He bowed, smiling wolfishly. “It is I who should be begging yours for intruding so late, but I could find no other way to speak with you. You have been a bit of a recluse this past sennight.”

“I am in mourning.” What coarse manners to intrude upon a widow a scant few days after her husband’s death. Anger brewed inside her, drawing her out of the gray depression that had hung over her all week. “What is it you wished to speak with me about, sir?”

Kneeling with respectful courtesy before her, he stared at her with an impudent gaze. “Marriage.”

Elysia reeled. She heard Belle gasp behind her.

“Really, sir—”

“Call me John.”

It upset Elysia enough that she had no say in her life anymore. But now Huntley did not even give her the courtesy of speaking without interrupting.

“Nay. I could not,” she assured him. “Sir Huntley, I have only just lost my first husband. My devotion to his memory forbids me to even consider—”

Grabbing her hand in both of his, he yanked her a step closer to where he knelt. “You knew him less than a night, Elysia.”

What manner of man thought he could woo a woman by not ever letting her finish a sentence? The same kind who would attempt to court a new widow, apparently. She balked at Huntley’s familiarity and withdrew her hand. “Nay, I—”

“I will be a good father to your son, should you bear one.”

He looked reverently toward her belly, and Elysia got the sneaking suspicion he had rehearsed this speech. No wonder he would never allow her to speak. Her commentary would probably confuse his practiced words.

“I must mourn my husband, sir, and even then it is up to the earl.” Part of her longed to give him a stern set-down for his crudeness, but instinct warned her John Huntley would not take such a slight with good grace. He was a dangerous man, lacking the restraint Conon possessed.

Conon. Strange how he came to mind at the oddest times.

“The earl will give his consent if you agree, Elysia. I am his most trusted knight. He owes me much.”

“But he does not owe you me, Sir Huntley, and I am not ready to wed again.”

He looked offended, and dispensed with his courtly guise to address her in a more serious fashion. “You need a strong knight to guard your considerable wealth, Elysia. And if you bear the heir to Vannes, you’ll have all the more need of me.”

“I will not bear a child.” Elysia’s face flamed at her blatant mention of the situation, but she became more annoyed by the moment. Exasperated, she gave in to the urge to send him away. “Now I must ask that you take your leave, sir. I am overwhelmed by your proposal, and I am still in mourning. Pray speak no more of it.”

With admirable discretion, Belle opened the solar door and cleared her throat.

Huntley looked back and forth between the women, obviously wondering how far he should push his luck. “Very well then, Countess. I will leave you, for now.” He smiled graciously, though his eyes remained lust filled and greedy. “My offer still stands, however. I would have you think on it.”

With a curt nod, he vacated the solar, leaving Elysia irritated but enlivened. If nothing else, Huntley’s visit helped dissipate her sadness.

Soon she would go home. If her moon cycle proved as well timed as usual, she would have less than a fortnight to remain in Brittany, and then she would leave all remnants of her ill-fated marriage behind.

“You say Huntley departed her chamber well after nightfall?” Leon de Grace asked Conon for the second time, as if oblivious to Conon’s desire to speak no more of it.

“Aye.” Conon swung his sword in a wide arc, narrowly missing de Grace’s head as they practiced in the vast courtyard outside Vannes Keep the following morn.

“Did he look well pleased?” De Grace darted a blow and backhanded Conon’s blade, relieving him of his sword.

A string of unholy curses erupted from Conon’s throat as he stood at his friend’s mercy. “What do you mean by your question?”

Grinning, Leon stood back, his once vicious sword becoming a harmless staff in his hand. “You are obviously annoyed to think Huntley had some sort of tryst with your uncle’s widow. Are you not?”

Conon stalked to retrieve his blade, angry with himself for allowing de Grace to best him. Conon was ten years younger. And faster. And stronger. But he would never find wealth on the battlefield with that kind of performance. He had to focus on something besides Lady Elysia, damn it. “Not annoyed. Just insulted for my uncle’s memory.”

“Well you need not be if the man did not look well pleased, you see? A man who leaves a beautiful young woman’s room past nightfall is only having a tryst if he has a very self-satisfied look upon his face.”

Dusting the dirt from his blade, Conon tested it in a series of quick swings. “He did not look pleased, but neither did he look like a man rebuffed. Perhaps he is making headway with the countess.”

Conon waited for his friend to respond. When he received no answer, he turned to look upon him, and witnessed a troubled countenance. “What is it?”

De Grace stared down at the wildflowers and grass at his feet. “It is nothing, only—”

“What?” Conon felt a chill in his soul, anticipating an unwelcome answer.

“It merely occurred to me how much Lady Elysia has to gain by having a child to show for her marriage. I hope she has not taken it into her head to conceive one at all costs, even if it means taking Huntley as…”

Leon’s words died as a feminine voice swirled through the air on a musical note, light and sweet. Both men turned to see Countess Elysia Rougemont St. Simeon stroll out the keep gates and onto the wide path that led to the garden. She had a flat basket slung over one arm, the cutting knife inside it bouncing carelessly in time to her step. Her dark hair was caught midway down her back with a limp green ribbon. She wore a matching linen surcoat, richly embroidered with all manner of flowers and bees.

“Morning, Countess,” Leon called, halting her in her tracks along with her song.

With a polite curtsy, she waved away a raven tendril that escaped the rest of her hair and blushed a soft shade of pink. Her quiet song, her light step, softened her usual cool reserve.

Something contracted painfully inside Conon’s chest just to look at her. Could one so lovely be ruthlessly plotting against him?

“Good morning.” Her voice sounded breathless and warm, as alluring as her sweet song.

Not bothering to consider his actions, he approached her, watching her eyes grow wider with each step he took. “How long have you been receiving late-night guests in the privacy of your chambers, Countess? Only since your husband died, or has this been an ongoing indulgence?”

All signs of pleasant charm evaporated at his words. Spine straightening, she transformed into a worthy adversary before his eyes.

“I’ll thank you to give me a key to my room, my lord, so I can prevent fortune-hunting knights from forcing their attentions upon me at will.” The voice that had sounded so melodic and sweet stung him with its sharp bite. “As long as I am under your roof, it is your duty to protect me.”

As if she needed protection. Conon had never met a more capable woman. He found it difficult to believe she could not fend off one boorish knight while in the safety of her own home. “Of course, my lady. It must be difficult to stave off so many poor men.”

His barb found its mark. He could see the wound flash briefly in her eyes before she recovered herself, but not before he felt a moment’s regret for his temper.

“I hold you responsible if he gets in again.” In a swirl of skirts and swinging basket, she marched down the path to the garden.

Leon emitted a low whistle through closed teeth. “Tougher than she looks, is she not?”

“Almost makes you wonder if she is not tough enough to poison a lecherous old man to spare herself a life beside him.”

“It is a challenge to read the quiet ones,” Leon observed as they stared after her.

“You are an expert all of the sudden?”

“Aye. I know plenty about women. Why do you think I’m not a married man?”

“No luck, perhaps?” Conon watched Elysia bend toward a crop of flowers and apply her cutting knife to the stems with forceful swipes.

Leon ignored his words and pointed in Elysia’s direction instead. “You see what I mean? She is imagining that poor bloom is your head at this very moment. Women are dangerous creatures.”

Conon scraped a protective hand over his throat. Perhaps the countess warranted a bit more of his attention. What did he really know about her other than that she had strolled into his uncle’s life and convinced him to wed, and now she would benefit tidily for her efforts? Despite what Leon said, Conon also knew she didn’t have much trouble speaking her mind. And she had a talent for making money wherever she went.

But he needed to know more. The future of Vannes might rest in her hands. In her womb.

Yes, he’d do well to keep a better eye on this woman. And damn the consequences, the idea pleased him.

Chapter Five

T he moon had risen in nearly all its phases since her wedding, and still Elysia remained at Vannes. She had passed the days by working in the garden and the herb-drying room. Her most recent project had been to refresh the latter, and now Elysia allowed herself a moment to enjoy the restored order.

All forms of plants and flowers hung in neat rows from overhead beams that ran the length of the room. The mortar and pestles were spotless, carefully positioned at regular intervals along the plank table. Swept clean of leaves and debris, the floor was covered with sweet-smelling rush mats woven with dried herbs.

As the satisfaction of a job well done faded, however, she realized there were no more tasks left that required her tending. She had gone through the keep systematically over the past two weeks, lending eager assistance wherever she could.

Elysia hated idle hands.

Now her only choices for activity were reading or sewing, both of which were too passive for the nervous energy that danced through her these last few days.

Her flux had arrived.

She had possessed the proof that she would not bear the future Count of Vannes for three days, but found she could not delicately broach the matter to Conon. Though she longed to return to Nevering and her linen trade, she decided she would have to wait another fortnight or so until he brought up the topic once again. Her monthly courses were too private a subject for polite conversation.

And, oddly enough, she had mixed feelings about leaving Vannes and its new lord. As much as Conon could make her angry, Elysia had also seen hints of his quick wit and clever mind. After their disagreement about Sir Huntley, Conon had wordlessly provided her with a key to her bedchamber, allowing her to lock herself inside each night. In doing so, Conon had become more of a protector than her assigned guardian.

Opting for a quick walk around the courtyard to enjoy the warm spring day, Elysia hurried out of the drying chamber. The courtyard buzzed with other people spending the day out of doors. Too late, she spied the one person she had been avoiding.

“The gods must smile upon me today, lady,” John Huntley greeted her a moment after she stepped into the bright sunshine.

Fighting the urge to hide in the cool darkness of the drying room, Elysia hugged her arms around herself and calculated the distance to her rooms at the keep.

Too far.

“There is but one God, sir,” she murmured distractedly. “And He smiles not upon those who say otherwise.”

Undeterred, he plucked up her hand to plant an impudent kiss upon the palm. “He sends me you to guide my erring foot onto the true path, lady, so I am grateful.”

Elysia yanked her hand away, not bothering to hide her disgust. “I have not been sent to you, Sir Huntley, I assure you. Now if you will excuse me, I must—”

She made a move to sidestep him, but he blocked her path with the breadth of his body.

“Perhaps you should give a thought to your future, Lady Elysia, and anger me no further.”

He backed her into the trunk of a lofty oak and narrowed his gaze, daring her to gainsay him. Yet this was no idle challenge. Elysia read the threat in his eyes.

“Have I angered you?” Rethinking her approach, Elysia struggled to adopt a more pleasant demeanor, idly plucking a nearby daisy as if his answer were of no consequence. “I only mean to return to my duties. I must say I find you a rather intimidating companion, Sir Huntley.” Forcing a smile, she tried to peer around Huntley to search the courtyard for Conon. A small quake of fear tripped through her when she saw no sign of him.

Huntley grinned in appreciation. “Intimidation is what being a knight is all about, Countess. Now if only you’d grant me one last favor, I’d be on my way.”

Elysia waited, her dislike for the man growing with every breath she took.

Without warning, he seized her arms and pulled her against him, planting wet lips upon hers. The scent of toil, horse and man burned her nostrils. His tongue probed her lips for entry.

Elysia fought back the wave of nausea that roiled, and pushed at him with all her might.

Oblivious, her attacker bent her backward more forcefully, increasing the pressure of his thumbs into the softness of her upper arms. Though her determination to keep her mouth shut prevented her from screaming, she pounded on his shoulders with as much force as her paralyzed arms would allow.

“Huntley.” A sharp male voice gave her captor pause.

Leon de Grace called across the courtyard, where several other onlookers gawked, greedy for morsels of gossip. Where had they been moments ago when she needed assistance?

Fear, grown sharp and unreasonable, propelled Elysia’s hand forward to connect with stinging clarity upon Huntley’s cheek before she ran across the courtyard, stumbling over a jutting tree root on her way to the stable.

Heart pummeling the walls of her chest in a jerky rhythm, she threw a saddle on the small beast designated for her use. Impervious to the heavy leather or the dirty stain it made across her gown, she struggled to tighten the strap around the horse’s lean girth.

From the courtyard, she could hear de Grace calling her name. She ignored him. Nothing would make her face John Huntley or his odious advances now.

Tearing from the stable with the mare partially bridled and as nervous as her rider, Elysia traveled west from Vannes with all the speed the horse could muster. She rode until the erratic drumming of her heart settled into a more even rhythm, eventually keeping time with the horse’s hoofbeats.

Huntley wanted to wed her for her money. As the late Count of Vannes had. As other men most certainly would. She was a rich woman with a fat dowry, and would no doubt be a target for greedy males across England and throughout Europe. Once again, she would have no say in her husband, but would be pawned off like any other valuable battle prize.

The horse cantered through unfamiliar countryside, carrying Elysia from a place of fear to an exhilarating view of the sea. Blue waves sparkled in the late-spring sunlight, beckoning Elysia closer to the rocky beach.

Slowing her horse’s pace, she allowed the little mare to pick her footing over the final crest before the shore. Calmed by the time and distance between her and Huntley, Elysia realized the foolishness of her actions.

She should not have run. Confronting him would only be more difficult now. It would have been better to contend with him boldly and accuse him to his face. Leon de Grace would have spoken to the knight about his aggression.

Now, Huntley would probably weave a false tale about her in her absence, perhaps saying she ran off because she was embarrassed at being discovered.

The swine.

It occurred to her that she wasted no time slapping Huntley after his advances today, but she never thought to raise her hand against Conon the day he kissed her in the garden.

Why was it the man was never far from her thoughts? He lurked in the corners of her mind like a shadow in the twilight. It seemed he followed close behind her at all times.

Perhaps it was merely a matter of his good looks. Despite his penchant for thinking the worst of her, there was no denying the fact that the man was physically beautiful. Elysia had played hostess to vast numbers of knights in two countries, and Conon outshone them all.

But surely she was not so shallow of thought that Conon’s uncommon handsomeness caused her to permit his kiss when she viciously repelled John Huntley’s? Conon possessed some sense of honor, at least, though she did not know that the first day in the garden. And Conon did not maul her with his hands, as Huntley did. Conon was—

Right there. Not even a league distant from her.

Out of nowhere, Conon St. Simeon now stood beside his horse ahead of her, strolling companionably along the shoreline with the dappled gray mare.

“Elysia?” he shouted from his spot on the shore.

Waving her hand, she tamped down a sudden eagerness to join him. She told herself it was merely because she knew she would be safe in Conon’s company. Carefully, she picked her way down the last rise to the sea, all the while assuring herself this man was no different than any other man. He craved wealth and power above anything else.

She would do well to remember that.

“Good day, Countess.” His grin disarmed her.

“You needn’t make a pretense of respect to me, sir, and there is no one else around to impress with your noble attempt at courtesy. You may call me by my given name.”

“I couldn’t.”

She laughed at his feigned expression of shock. “You did when you saw me on the hill just now.”

“A slip of the tongue.” He reached to help her from the mare. “Although perhaps you could be equally disrespectful and call me Conon.”

She slid from the horse and into his arms. “Perhaps I will, Conon.” She only meant to rankle him with the bold familiarity, but instead the name hung heavy and warm in the air between them before he released her.

Taking in her rumpled gown and disheveled hair, he frowned. “What is this?”

He brushed from her sleeve a dirty mark the heavy saddle left when she’d hoisted it over her horse’s back. The warmth of his fingers pierced the light layers of linen. “Nothing, I—”

“You ride too far by yourself, lady. I thought you were cleaning the herb room today. What brings you here?”

The cold grip of anger tightened her throat as she recalled the embrace that sent her running from home like a scolded child. Huntley’s actions humiliated her. “Nothing I wish to speak of.”

She could feel Conon’s assessing gaze upon her as he secured her horse to a nearby tree.

“Very well, Countess. You are here, and so am I.” He bowed low before her and Elysia saw him transform from shrewd observer to carefree courtier before her eyes.

“Let us make the most of this glorious day, shall we?” He offered her his arm and gestured to the path before them. The beach.

Ignoring the proffered arm, she hesitated. “You and I?”

“You would rather return to Vannes?”

The thought made her stomach pitch. “Nay.”

“Then I will share with you the magnificent view.” He pulled her forward despite her indecision.

A gust of wind rippled through her veils, lifting the light linen from her hair.

“But what will we do?” Elysia reached to secure her wayward head covering, but Conon beat her to it.

He snatched the circlet from her head and carelessly tucked the fabric into the waist of his braies. “Why do we have to do anything? Do you always start an adventure with a plan in mind, Elysia?”

She shrugged, fumbling to secure her wind-tossed locks into a small braid Belle had plaited around her head. “The one adventure I can recall having in my life is my trip to France. And yes, it was well planned.”

Conon gathered her busy hands and held them still, slowly folding them to his chest.

Elysia felt the slow, heavy beat of his heart. Heat radiated through his surcoat and tunic. The layers of clothing did nothing to conceal the solid strength of his body.

Her pulse quickened at the intimacy, the stroke of his fingers over her hands. She warned herself not to be swayed by his touch. She knew nobles of Brittany were simply much more physical than English lords. Yet Jacques’s touch had never affected her thus.

“Today, let us have an adventure that requires no plan.” His blue gaze held hers, willing her compliance.

Her late husband’s nephew had his shortcomings, but the man’s smile was incredibly persuasive. “It is beautiful here.”

“So you accept my offer for the view and not the man.” Conon laughed, pulling her along the rocky path toward the water, where they let the surf chase their feet. “Perhaps you will surprise yourself and enjoy them both.”

Warmth unfurled somewhere inside her. There was a careless charm about him, a determination to enjoy himself that Elysia found difficult to resist.

The notion gave her pause as the wet sand squished beneath her feet. Maybe Conon was popular with young widows for just that reason. She would do well to remember his reputation.

Perhaps sensing Elysia’s lingering nervousness, Conon pointed out Vannes Keep in the distance and distracted her with talk about the defensive advantages and disadvantages of a coastal keep. Elysia soon found herself engaged in the topic, contributing bits of discussion and questions that carried their talk over a long stretch of beach and well into late afternoon.

“What will you do with the defenses when you become count?” Elysia picked her way through sharp rocks that lined the sand in the surf. The hem of her gown was wet, but she didn’t mind. Just this once she would allow herself to have fun in the carefree way Conon seemed to.

He stiffened at the question, making Elysia regret her impulsive words. “Can I take that as an admission your wedding night was not a fruitful one?”

Elysia felt the flush rise to her cheeks. Once she admitted the truth, she would leave Vannes forever. She would not see Conon again. It took her a long moment to speak the word that would send her home. “Aye.”

His face hidden as he reached for a seashell, Elysia could not guess if he meant to ignore her initial question, but after a thoughtful study of the pearlescent prize in his hands, he gestured toward a high rocky outcropping. “Ideally, I would add a tower down here and man it at all hours.”

Elysia was relieved not to have to speak any further about future counts and wedding nights. Even if she did find herself wondering what her life might have been like if she’d come to France to marry the count’s successor rather than Jacques. What kind of wedding night would she have shared with a man such as Conon? Judging from his gentle touch, she doubted she would have been stabbed in the thigh. For that matter, his reputation gave her the impression he pleased women immensely. Surely it had been the gossip she’d heard that had made her so curious about him.

Shaking off wayward thoughts that made heat rise to her cheeks, she struggled to focus on Conon’s words.

“Though we can see the water from Vannes, we cannot detect activity among the trees that line the shore. It is a potential weakness.”

“Sounds sensible.” Disturbed by the breathy quality of her voice, Elysia shifted her wet slippers from one hand to the other, surprised Conon paid so much attention to matters of defense. Perhaps he was not as frivolous as he appeared.

Elysia began to wonder if she had misjudged Conon when a sharp pain pierced her foot.

Hopping forward with a yelp, she lost her balance and half pitched into the shallow surf. Strong arms plucked her up before she fell, though her skirt was soaked to the knee from the cold sea.

Elysia experienced a brief impression of sun-warmed linen over hard male muscles against her cheek before Conon plunked her down on a sea-worn boulder. Though her foot ached with the sting of whatever lanced her skin, the pleasant sensation of being held to Conon’s chest remained.

Stooping at her feet, he tossed the skirts of her wet gown almost to her knees in his haste to examine her injury. She smoothed the fabric back down with nervous fingers and distracted herself from the pain by allowing her eyes to wander over Conon’s muscular shoulders, the movement of his muscles beneath his tunic.

Her foot stung with whatever she’d stepped on, but not so much that she didn’t notice the smooth play of his warm fingers over her feet.

He muttered a rapid-fire French diatribe under his breath. Though the words were uttered too quickly for her to understand, she gathered he cursed her carelessness.

“I should not have removed my shoes—”

He cursed again, this time loudly enough for her to discern. “I should have never let you in the water with bare feet. It is my fault.”

It made her feel marginally better to think he cursed his own carelessness and not hers. His concern prompted her to wonder what exactly she’d stepped on.

“What is it?”

But he was across the beach and to his horse before the words left her lips. She watched as he rummaged through a saddlebag and returned with a skin of wine.

“This will hurt.” He knelt before her, handling her foot with infinite care.

She tried to ignore the path of tingling skin in the wake of that gentle touch. She focused on the pain. At least that was a sensation she understood.

“Try to be still.”

“What is—” Her skin ripped farther as Conon extracted the cause of her agony and held up the offending object for her to see.

A fishhook.

“Sweet Mary, what do they fish for here?” She fought back tears. Her foot throbbed in fiery rhythm with her heart, but she bit the inside of her lip and concentrated on the tool of her torture. The hook seemed impossibly large for any fish Elysia had ever seen.

“I believe this is a symbolic hook.” Conon tucked it safely inside the leather pouch with his wineskin before ripping a section of his tunic to fold into a bandage. “Some of the local fishermen protect themselves from sea monsters by baiting a large hook and leaving it as an offering. I have told the Vannes villeins they are not to use such monstrous hooks, but I guess old superstitions die hard.” He cursed again as he bandaged her foot. “It is a popular tradition.”

Work-hardened hands brushed over her skin as he adjusted the wrappings, piquing her curiosity about how a nobleman of means developed so many calluses.

The pain subsided a bit now that the hook was out. Elysia gladly submitted to Conon’s care, surprised at the smooth efficiency of his healing work. Accustomed to taking care of every facet of her life and her linens herself, it seemed strange to let someone else care for her.

And not altogether unpleasant.

She shivered as his hands skimmed her ankles, tying the ends of the linen together to secure it.

“You are cold?” He looked up, frowning.

“Nay.”

“You are soaked to the skin, Elysia.” His brows knit together.

“It is warm out.”

“The water is freezing.” He stripped off his light surcoat and dropped it over her head.

“Conon, honestly.” Realizing how distorted and undignified her protests must sound through the folds of the garment that swam around her face and shoulders, she reluctantly pulled it on.

Conon grinned down at her, his torn tunic flapping in the spring breeze.

“What?” Elysia asked suspiciously.

Sinking beside her on the large rock, he smoothed a wrinkle from the surcoat’s collar, grazing her neck with his fingers as he did. “You called me Conon.”

He looked so pleased she found it difficult to argue. “It is hard to be formal with someone who smothers you with his garments.”

The wind molded his tunic to his chest as he grinned. “Or mayhap you are growing more fond of your new family.”

Fond? Of Conon? She had never made friends easily, and certainly had never shared a sense of “fondness” with anyone outside her family. It surprised her to realize she had conversed more with Conon that afternoon than she had with any other living soul, save her mother.

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