LITMIR.BIZ

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the man growing with every breath she took.

      Without warning, he seized her arms and pulled her against him, planting wet lips upon hers. The scent of toil, horse and man burned her nostrils. His tongue probed her lips for entry.

      Elysia fought back the wave of nausea that roiled, and pushed at him with all her might.

      Oblivious, her attacker bent her backward more forcefully, increasing the pressure of his thumbs into the softness of her upper arms. Though her determination to keep her mouth shut prevented her from screaming, she pounded on his shoulders with as much force as her paralyzed arms would allow.

      “Huntley.” A sharp male voice gave her captor pause.

      Leon de Grace called across the courtyard, where several other onlookers gawked, greedy for morsels of gossip. Where had they been moments ago when she needed assistance?

      Fear, grown sharp and unreasonable, propelled Elysia’s hand forward to connect with stinging clarity upon Huntley’s cheek before she ran across the courtyard, stumbling over a jutting tree root on her way to the stable.

      Heart pummeling the walls of her chest in a jerky rhythm, she threw a saddle on the small beast designated for her use. Impervious to the heavy leather or the dirty stain it made across her gown, she struggled to tighten the strap around the horse’s lean girth.

      From the courtyard, she could hear de Grace calling her name. She ignored him. Nothing would make her face John Huntley or his odious advances now.

      Tearing from the stable with the mare partially bridled and as nervous as her rider, Elysia traveled west from Vannes with all the speed the horse could muster. She rode until the erratic drumming of her heart settled into a more even rhythm, eventually keeping time with the horse’s hoofbeats.

      Huntley wanted to wed her for her money. As the late Count of Vannes had. As other men most certainly would. She was a rich woman with a fat dowry, and would no doubt be a target for greedy males across England and throughout Europe. Once again, she would have no say in her husband, but would be pawned off like any other valuable battle prize.

      The horse cantered through unfamiliar countryside, carrying Elysia from a place of fear to an exhilarating view of the sea. Blue waves sparkled in the late-spring sunlight, beckoning Elysia closer to the rocky beach.

      Slowing her horse’s pace, she allowed the little mare to pick her footing over the final crest before the shore. Calmed by the time and distance between her and Huntley, Elysia realized the foolishness of her actions.

      She should not have run. Confronting him would only be more difficult now. It would have been better to contend with him boldly and accuse him to his face. Leon de Grace would have spoken to the knight about his aggression.

      Now, Huntley would probably weave a false tale about her in her absence, perhaps saying she ran off because she was embarrassed at being discovered.

      The swine.

      It occurred to her that she wasted no time slapping Huntley after his advances today, but she never thought to raise her hand against Conon the day he kissed her in the garden.

      Why was it the man was never far from her thoughts? He lurked in the corners of her mind like a shadow in the twilight. It seemed he followed close behind her at all times.

      Perhaps it was merely a matter of his good looks. Despite his penchant for thinking the worst of her, there was no denying the fact that the man was physically beautiful. Elysia had played hostess to vast numbers of knights in two countries, and Conon outshone them all.

      But surely she was not so shallow of thought that Conon’s uncommon handsomeness caused her to permit his kiss when she viciously repelled John Huntley’s? Conon possessed some sense of honor, at least, though she did not know that the first day in the garden. And Conon did not maul her with his hands, as Huntley did. Conon was—

      Right there. Not even a league distant from her.

      Out of nowhere, Conon St. Simeon now stood beside his horse ahead of her, strolling companionably along the shoreline with the dappled gray mare.

      “Elysia?” he shouted from his spot on the shore.

      Waving her hand, she tamped down a sudden eagerness to join him. She told herself it was merely because she knew she would be safe in Conon’s company. Carefully, she picked her way down the last rise to the sea, all the while assuring herself this man was no different than any other man. He craved wealth and power above anything else.

      She would do well to remember that.

      “Good day, Countess.” His grin disarmed her.

      “You needn’t make a pretense of respect to me, sir, and there is no one else around to impress with your noble attempt at courtesy. You may call me by my given name.”

      “I couldn’t.”

      She laughed at his feigned expression of shock. “You did when you saw me on the hill just now.”

      “A slip of the tongue.” He reached to help her from the mare. “Although perhaps you could be equally disrespectful and call me Conon.”

      She slid from the horse and into his arms. “Perhaps I will, Conon.” She only meant to rankle him with the bold familiarity, but instead the name hung heavy and warm in the air between them before he released her.

      Taking in her rumpled gown and disheveled hair, he frowned. “What is this?”

      He brushed from her sleeve a dirty mark the heavy saddle left when she’d hoisted it over her horse’s back. The warmth of his fingers pierced the light layers of linen. “Nothing, I—”

      “You ride too far by yourself, lady. I thought you were cleaning the herb room today. What brings you here?”

      The cold grip of anger tightened her throat as she recalled the embrace that sent her running from home like a scolded child. Huntley’s actions humiliated her. “Nothing I wish to speak of.”

      She could feel Conon’s assessing gaze upon her as he secured her horse to a nearby tree.

      “Very well, Countess. You are here, and so am I.” He bowed low before her and Elysia saw him transform from shrewd observer to carefree courtier before her eyes.

      “Let us make the most of this glorious day, shall we?” He offered her his arm and gestured to the path before them. The beach.

      Ignoring the proffered arm, she hesitated. “You and I?”

      “You would rather return to Vannes?”

      The thought made her stomach pitch. “Nay.”

      “Then I will share with you the magnificent view.” He pulled her forward despite her indecision.

      A gust of wind rippled through her veils, lifting the light linen from her hair.

      “But what will we do?” Elysia reached to secure her wayward head covering, but Conon beat her to it.

      He snatched the circlet from her head and carelessly tucked the fabric into the waist of his braies. “Why do we have to do anything? Do you always start an adventure with a plan in mind, Elysia?”

      She shrugged, fumbling to secure her wind-tossed locks into a small braid Belle had plaited around her head. “The one adventure I can recall having in my life is my trip to France. And yes, it was well planned.”

      Conon gathered her busy hands and held them still, slowly folding them to his chest.

      Elysia felt the slow, heavy beat of his heart. Heat radiated through his surcoat and tunic. The layers of clothing did nothing to conceal the solid strength of his body.

      Her pulse quickened at the intimacy, the stroke of his fingers over her hands. She warned herself not to be swayed by his touch. She knew nobles of Brittany were simply much more physical than English lords. Yet Jacques’s touch had never affected her thus.

      “Today,

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