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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.
