My Lady's Favor

“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.