My Lady's Favor. Joanne Rock

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.