“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