Читать книгу My Lady's Favor - Joanne Rock - Страница 11

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.