My Lady's Favor

“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.