LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Very good, then, St. Simeon,” Arundel muttered, waving him inside the sparsely appointed chamber. “We can proceed now.”

      Conon wondered what had become of the furnishings. The last time he had been in this room, rich tapestries adorned the walls and woven mats covered the floors. Now there was little to recommend the cold chamber except the fire that crackled merrily in the hearth.

      Ten men crowded in the earl’s small solar, all Englishmen loyal to the earl. The only one Conon recognized was Huntley, Arundel’s crass second in command.

      “Sorry about your uncle, St. Simeon. He was a good man.” The earl shook his head in sympathy as he clapped a hand on Conon’s shoulder. “An honorable man, too. ’Twas one of the reasons I consented to wed my ward to him.”

      Shaking off Arundel’s grip, Conon did not care to be wheedled. “I will honor the bridal contract. Let us go over it in detail.”

      Although the earl nodded politely at Conon’s acquiescence, Huntley had the gall to grin, as if he were solely responsible for winning a great battle.

      “But I would see him—” Conon addressed Arundel as he jerked his head in Huntley’s direction “—and his disrespect out of the room before I do so.”

      Huntley would have protested, a black look marring his face, but Arundel stepped in. “Perhaps that would be best.” He nodded to Huntley and the other knights. “Excuse us, please.”

      Chain mail clinking, the knights filed out of the room with Huntley muttering under his breath. Conon did not care. He turned to the earl, ready to discuss the specifics of Jacques’s agreement with Elysia and her overlord.

      “I understand Lady Elysia will inherit the Vannes dower lands, even if there is no heir?” The dower property represented a small fraction of the Vannes holdings, but its worth was immeasurable to Conon. His happiest childhood memories revolved around the nearby keep and time spent there with his grandmother. He had inherited his grandmère’s family pride while a boy at her knee.

      “Aye. But she inherits much more if she has conceived.”

      Pacing the length of the solar, Conon rubbed his temple in a futile attempt to relieve the pounding in his head. He didn’t want to ask for clarification, but he had to know.

      “All of it?”

      Arundel pulled the contract parchment from his surcoat and allowed the scroll to unravel onto the chamber’s only table. “Everything. At least until her eldest son comes of age.”

      Conon should have expected this. Hell, hadn’t his uncle practically told him as much? Still, he had hoped Jacques would realize how unfair that would be. Conon would be left with nothing, unable to afford a noble marriage and family. He schooled his features in spite of the knife his dead uncle had just twisted in his back.

      “It is unlikely there will be an heir after such a brief marriage.” Conon glared at the words upon the scroll, willing them to be different.

      “Perhaps,” Arundel agreed, stroking the tuft of beard at his chin. “In which case I will send her home to Nevering until I have found another suitable match for her.”

      Conon paused in his pacing. “She would not live on the Vannes dower lands?”

      “Nay. She is a wealthy heiress in her own right, and a prize I must safeguard. Her bridal portion is worth almost as much as the Vannes fortune. Many a man would lay claim to her.”

      For a moment, Conon envisioned himself wed to the English woman. Although her slender form had looked enticing as hell wrapped in naught but a linen blanket, Conon guessed she was cold as a hard frost. The curves he had detected beneath her impromptu robe didn’t soften her perpetually stiff spine or proud bearing.

      Yet her skin had been soft enough beneath his lips, a contrary part of his brain reminded him.

      “If she is so damn wealthy, why does she need the dower lands?” Conon asked, not expecting an answer. He should have found a way to ensure the inheritance Jacques had promised him long ago. Conon didn’t care about the money. He cared about his family seat.

      “’Tis the politics of marriage.” The earl rolled the bridal contract with brusque efficiency and returned it to a pouch at his waist. “I knew you would be difficult about this.”

      “What if she killed my uncle?” Conon inquired. It was entirely possible. Heaven knew it had been the first thing Conon thought when he entered the bedchamber tonight and saw the count lying on the bed. How many young maids would go eagerly to the bed of a lust-ridden, aging knight?

      “How?” Arundel scoffed. “By being too damn beautiful for an old man’s heart to bear? Surely you jest.”

      “I have heard she has knowledge of herbs.” Even though Elysia struck him as proud, Conon did not truly think she had killed his uncle. She had looked too genuinely horrified at the sight of Jacques’s face in death.

      “Flax plants for linen, but I assure you that is all. Elysia is no wisewoman.”

      “Mayhap she contacted one to be rid of an unwanted groom,” Conon pressed, wondering why he bothered. Some part of him seemed to want reassurance she could not have committed such a crime.

      “You impugn the honor of your countess, St. Simeon.”

      “I say nothing the whole keep has not secretly thought already. But I will give her my protection as my uncle’s widow until it is known whether or not she is breeding. Once it is proven she is not, I want her out of Vannes.” And then Conon would be rid of the unwanted temptation she posed.

      “I cannot afford to wait that long. I will leave Huntley here to protect my interests and a few men to guard the countess until that time.” The earl scooped up the parchment, making it obvious he wanted Conon to leave. “Keep in mind, St. Simeon, if Elysia carries the next Count of Vannes in her belly, ’twill be you who is ousted.”

      “Aye.” Conon raised a brow in the earl’s direction as he stepped into the corridor. “Unless, on top of being a fortune-hunting opportunist, your ward proves to be a murderess.”

      The earl made no reply, despite the furious blue pulse that leaped in a thick vein down his forehead.

      Conon departed the guest tower for his own quarters in the family wing of the keep. His door was one removed from the Countess of Vannes, the only other occupant of the wing.

      He lingered in front of Elysia’s chamber for a moment, noting the light that still shone brightly under her door. Was she upset by the count’s death and unable to sleep? Or was she privately celebrating her success in ridding herself of an unwanted bridegroom? A cynical thought, mayhap, but Conon could not dismiss the sense that the countess had been hiding something about her wedding night.

      Perhaps she would think him rude to interrupt her in the middle of the night, but she was evidently not sleeping anyway. “Lady Elysia?” He rapped on the heavy barrier.

      Silence answered him for a long moment until the door creaked open to reveal his uncle’s widow illuminated in the glow of a blazing fire. She blinked slowly, as if surprised to see him.

      Unrepentant for his late intrusion, Conon shoved the door open the rest of the way and invaded the bright chamber.

      Candles wreathed the room as if it were a church. Conon shook his head at the blatant extravagance. Since leaving the comfortable household of his father almost fifteen years ago, Conon had not wasted so much as a drop of wax or a skinful of wine. His frugal existence forbade it. Lady Elysia, on the other hand, was evidently used to indulging herself.

      “Do not answer your own door,” Conon admonished, pushing his way into the room before someone saw into her chamber. “Where is Belle?”

      The temperature soared as hot as midsummer in the chamber, and Elysia was wrapped in a jumble of blankets.

      “I am afraid the heat made her

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