My Lady's Favor. Joanne Rock

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.