“I mean only to compliment your auspicious marriage.” His scornful blue eyes contradicted the deferential air of a brief bow. “It seems a fair bet your husband will leave you a very wealthy widow by Yuletide.”
Appalled at his audacity, Elysia could only stare at the insincere token he’d given her. “What wealth can any woman truly claim, sir? Widow or not, I will forever be ruled by one man or another.”
The knight reached toward her. An inner voice screamed at Elysia to move away from him, but he possessed some compelling quality that left her rooted to the spot.
His fingertip grazed the egg-size emerald dangling from a necklace her betrothed had presented to her as a wedding gift. She could almost fancy that she felt the heat of his hand through the impassive stone.
His eyes were alight with an emotion Elysia could only guess at. Perhaps it was wistfulness she spied as he stared first at the jewel, and then at her. “You stand to inherit a centuries-old dower property, my lady. I shouldn’t think you are too disappointed in this match.”
The news of it had almost killed her, in fact, but what would this coarse man understand of her dreams?
“And the rewards would be even better,” the stranger continued, fingering a fragrant blossom, “if you can only manage to bear an heir—”
“Enough.” She barely whispered the sentiment, anger robbing her of her voice. It did not matter that his words mirrored those of her overlord, the Earl of Arundel, when he had announced she must wed the lord of Vannes Keep a scant two moons prior. Elysia threw the rose at his feet, but not before one of its sharp thorns tore her thumb.
“You think I purposely sought the lord of Vannes for a husband?” Ever since her father died, she had told herself she would only wed a man who recognized a woman’s true worth and not just the size of her bridal portion. Her parents had found the fulfillment of true love, and while it hurt to lose her father while she was naught but a girl, she’d consoled herself that at least he had been happy. “As if I were so eager to trade every shred of pleasure I’ve ever known. How dare you?”
“No, lady, there will be some gossips who whisper how dare you, when you walk away with a lucrative property after a scant year at the count’s side.” His grin remained as disarming as the first moment she saw it, at odds with his scathing remarks. “But not I.”
She considered fleeing, but some part of her feared offending her husband’s wedding guest, no matter how discourteous. She was no longer mistress of her own actions—she had a husband to answer to now. A husband who had seen naught but her bridal portion when he looked at her.
So much for the idle dreams of her girlhood.
The stranger lifted her hand to examine the small cut on her thumb. Blood trickled down to her knuckle in a crimson stream against her pale skin. Wiping the red trail away with his finger, he stepped closer still.
Never had anyone dared to touch her in so brazen a manner. She became aware of the heat of his body, her own racing pulse.
He retained his hold, lifting his gaze to hers. “The bride has my complete and heartfelt best wishes.”
The slight lift at the corner of his lips mesmerized her. He loomed nearer as he bent over her hand and kissed the soft pad of her injured thumb.
Her flesh tingled under his lips for one frozen moment, and then indignation reared through her at his impudence. She wrenched her fingers from his grasp.
He bowed with mocking reverence. “Good luck, chère.”
Infuriated by his disrespect, more upset by her own inaction, Elysia could no longer hold her tongue. Who was this man? And why did he seem so intent on piercing her with his disdain, his words finding their mark as effectively as the rose’s thorny stem?
“You can be certain the count will hear of your taunts, sir.” Thankfully, her voice did not quaver the way her insides did. Although his words stung and his kiss was meant to be insulting, Elysia could not help wondering why her future husband could not look more like this man, whom she guessed to be some ten years older than her eighteen summers. “May I tell him whom among his guests thinks so little of him that they would accost his bride and insult the sacred nature of his wedding vows?”
His smile came as easily as it had before, as if the man was long accustomed to charming his way out of trouble.
“Tell him his nephew, Conon St. Simeon, has been kind enough to welcome our English guest on this momentous day.” He made a curt bow. “I am certain he will approve.”
“Are you, my lord?” Recklessness crashed through her in time with her anger. She ignored the discomfiting thought of this imposing creature as her nephew by marriage. “I am not so certain he will appreciate your speculation on his demise. Perhaps you would be wise to keep your distance.”
The golden-haired stranger quirked a brow. “Perhaps you would be wise to hold your tongue with my uncle. I assure you he will not find your wayward mouth half as…entertaining as I do.”
Bowing again, the knight turned on his heel and left, disappearing into a grove of yew trees on the garden’s south end.
The cad. Oddly, they had agreed on one thing. The younger St. Simeon opposed this marriage as adamantly as she did. Elysia bent to retrieve the flower he’d given her. She caressed its soft petals, telling herself the bloom should not be wasted merely because it had been presented by a churlish knave.
Did he stand to lose his position in the family now that she would wed his uncle? Perhaps that’s why he’d been rude. Didn’t he realize he could follow his dreams? He was not dependent upon a man as she was. No matter how successful her linen trade had grown, she’d known the day would arrive when her overlord would steal it out of her hands and make her wed. Now that the day had arrived, she had little patience for Conon’s taunts when he had the world at his feet.
She grazed the rose across her cheek, reminding herself that resentment would not alter the outcome of this day. She was fated to become the next Countess of Vannes, to wed a man older than her father would be now.
God have mercy on him. She thought of her father and smiled, knowing that if he were alive, she would not be forced to wed the count. Or if she had wed someone last fall, before her brother, Robin, died, she might have had some choice in the matter. But she had put the matter off, happy to immerse herself in pleasant labor, consumed with running the linen trade. Now she would pay the price for failing to choose a husband.
Only one thing could halt the wedding to Jacques St. Simeon today, and she planned to try it right away.
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.