He left to save his family...

Now he’s back!

Nicholas of Mei Solis swore to do anything to protect his home—even going away to fight for it. This meant leaving beautiful Matilda, too. Now Nicholas has returned briefly to lay to rest the ghosts of his past. But one look at Matilda, now widowed and with child, changes everything. Suddenly Nicholas is compelled to stay...and to take back the future they both thought they’d lost...

Lovers and Legends miniseries

Book 1—The Knight’s Broken Promise

Book 2—Her Enemy Highlander

Book 3—The Highland Laird’s Bride

Book 4—In Debt to the Enemy Lord

Book 5—The Knight’s Scarred Maiden

Book 6—Her Christmas Knight

Book 7—Reclaimed by the Knight

“Locke’s latest entry to her Lovers and Legends series is a beautifully written tale of loss, faith and the magic of love between a scarred maiden and the deadly mercenary she rescues.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Knight’s Scarred Maiden

“Locke doesn’t disappoint. Her Christmas Knight is empowering and romantic with a darker undercurrent... I absolutely recommend. It’s just so good!”

—Goodreads on Her Christmas Knight

NICOLE LOCKE discovered her first romance novels in her grandmother’s closet, where they were secretly hidden. Convinced that books that were hidden must be better than those that weren’t, Nicole greedily read them. It was only natural for her to start writing them—but now not so secretly.

Also by Nicole Locke

Lovers and Legends miniseries

The Knight’s Broken Promise

Her Enemy Highlander

The Highland Laird’s Bride

In Debt to the Enemy Lord

The Knight’s Scarred Maiden

Her Christmas Knight

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Reclaimed by the Knight

Nicole Locke

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07405-6

RECLAIMED BY THE KNIGHT

© 2018 Nicole Locke

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to the wonderful, brilliant,

marvellous editors who have helped me along the

journey in the Lovers and Legends series. For

Linda Fildew, who took a chance on me, for

Nicola Caws, who shared her friendship and

showed me the ropes, and for Ann-Leslie Tuttle,

who welcomed me on my transition to the US.

But especially this book is dedicated to Laurie Johnson,

who stuck by me this troublesome year. Nicholas,

Matilda and I wouldn’t have our happily-ever-after

without your unfailing encouragement. I thank you

with all my heart and with all my fingers, finally…

and happily…dancing across the keyboard once again.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

September 1295

The baby kicked low in her belly and Matilda gasped.

‘What is wrong?’

She looked at Bess, who was still gleaning the fields and finding any grain that might have been missed in the late harvest. They couldn’t spare any food, but even so Matilda was always deeply satisfied when her bag was full. As if she’d been on a treasure hunt and could now feed her family and friends.

‘She’s kicking me again.’

‘It’s a girl today?’

Matilda thought about the sharp pain when she’d climbed out of bed that morning, the constant turning of the baby inside her, so that she’d barely been able to get bread down during breakfast, and now the deep thumping, like a rabbit in the woods.

‘Unquestionably, the baby is a girl.’ She pushed herself off the ground and pressed one hand to her lower back.

It wasn’t the first time she had been punched on the inside today, and she knew it wouldn’t be the last. The gleaning forced her to remain in the same position, and the baby demanded that she stretch. Her giving in to the kick was a compromise she happily made, though the reprieve wouldn’t last long.

There was more work to be done, and the fields were full of families who were stuffing their sacks. Nearby Agnes, the cordwainer’s only daughter, was crawling on the ground. Unlike the other children, however, she was taking the wheat shafts and stacking them like houses. Matilda wondered which of her brothers would ruin her creations first.

Bess stood and stamped her feet. ‘If your reasoning holds true, the baby will be a girl.’

‘You think my certainty is ridiculous?’

‘Unlike you, I listen to our healer, Rohesia, who insists you’re carrying too low in your belly for a girl. Plus, the only reason you hold this belief is because of your own mischievous past and Roger’s temperament—’ Bess clamped her mouth shut.

‘Do not worry,’ Matilda said.

There was only one reason why worry ever crossed Bess’s face, and that was if she believed she’d hurt another. Matilda did hurt, but not because her friend had remarked on her husband. She hurt because he was gone.

‘Forgive me.’ Bess clapped her hands to her cheeks. ‘I keep forgetting.’

Matilda saw Bess’s dismayed face and felt her own emotions turn inside her again. She was familiar with it. Grief that she hadn’t dared release.

‘There is nothing to forgive,’ Matilda said. ‘It’s been barely two full moons.’

She’d hurt more if no one mentioned Roger at all. That man, her childhood friend and her husband, deserved to be remembered. He had certainly deserved more than her as a wife. But there was no wishing for that now.

Bess exhaled and shook her head. ‘I’ve made it worse.’

Only for a moment. The least Matilda could do, was give her daughter her father’s even temperament. To that end, she was determined her daughter would know no sorrow, and that included her mother’s.

Swallowing hard, Matilda said, ‘As usual. Now all I have to do is wait until you say something truly grievous.’

Bess’s lips twisted wryly. ‘Give me a few moments.’

Matilda clasped her friend’s hand. ‘I’m gladdened that you forget he is gone. It will keep him alive when the baby comes.’

Bess’s eyes softened as she glanced at Matilda’s swollen stomach. ‘Anything you wish.’

‘Good. Though I try to be calm, I fear she’ll need all the gentle temperament she can get. She would do well to remember her father.’

Roger, her best friend and her husband, had been the exact opposite of her. Whereas she, in her youth, had always been taking risks and pulling pranks, Roger had been helpful and protective. Ever easy with his smiles and his care, Roger had been the absolute antithesis of the person she’d been, but she’d wanted his calmness in her life, and he...he’d wanted her.

Any moment she’d be crying, and then her friend would believe she had in fact hurt her.

A couple of blinks of her eyes and she saw a familiar figure on the horizon. ‘Louve’s on his way here.’

Bess turned. ‘It’s too early for the men to break from the harvesting.’

Glancing towards the sun, Matilda said, ‘Apparently not.’

‘Then something must be wrong.’

Feeling the same sense of urgency, Matilda placed her hand on her belly and locked her legs. There’d be no running for her.

‘There’d be others with him if there was something amiss,’ Matilda said.

Even after all this time it went against her instincts to hold still, but when Roger had died, for the sake of her baby, she’d vowed she’d be more like him. To set an example that would serve her child well and never to never turn out like her mother. Foolish. Heartbroken. Alone. Twice now.

Bess lifted her skirts. Despite her girth, she’d be able to run if there truly was an emergency. ‘Maybe they couldn’t be spared.’

‘And Louve can?’ Matilda answered. ‘At this time of day he must want to discuss the usual problems. Some argument or a missing tally stick.’

‘You do too much, and with only two of you now overseeing everything it’s not tenable.’

‘We’ll find a replacement soon enough.’

Until Roger’s death there had been three on the estate who oversaw the operations. Now there were only two—herself and Louve, who was both steward for the state and reeve to oversee the crops. She saw to the management of Mei Solis as well as helped settle disputes. Although since Roger—

No. In the fields all day, she thought too much of her lost husband.

Giving in, she strode towards Louve, hoping her mud-caked skirts would slow her enough to give the impression of serenity.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

Louve indicated behind him. ‘I came to warn you. Storm’s coming from just beyond that hill.’

She looked over his shoulder towards the field, where the men were cutting the stalks. If there was a storm, the hill disguised it. All around her were clear blue skies. And even if there was a storm, it shouldn’t bring Louve here.

Their arrangement was unconventional, but it worked. When lord of Mei Solis manor Nicholas had left to seek the fortune the estate so desperately needed, it had seemed reasonable to leave his friends and Matilda, his betrothed in charge. After all, he had intended to return within two years.

That had been six years ago, and in that time he had broken their betrothal. Despite this, they had kept to the managing arrangement because the manor, families and friends had prospered. She had married Roger, and even if her reputation had been whispered about, her authority on settling disputes and ensuring that Roger and Louve could come to terms had never been questioned.

‘Tell me why you’re truly here,’ she said.

Maybe Bess was right and something was wrong. On a day like today every man was needed to harvest the last of the crops. Louve was one of the strongest and quickest at the sickle, and every reaper was required.

‘I see no storm, and even if there was one, one of the boys could run and tell us that.’

Louve shrugged. ‘None of the boys wanted to protect their hands from blisters. I, however, have many reasons to pamper my hands.’

‘For the hordes of women after you, no doubt,’ Bess interjected.

Matilda almost snorted.

‘Exactly. I’d be useless to the women if my hands were wrapped,’ he said, with a curve to his lips.

Everything about Louve tended to be irreverent, even in the direst circumstances. It was part of his frustrating charm. That coupled with his exceptional blue eyes and black hair made him the most pursued male she’d ever known. Though lately his attention seemed only for the widow Mary.

‘I know exactly what the women would think about your uselessness,’ Bess quipped. ‘They’d be overjoyed not to be harassed by the likes of you.’

‘Ah, Bess, still pining for me, as always.’

Bess and Louve had been teasing each other like this for years. Bess, older than them both, was already married with a grown child.

‘That’s me—still waiting for you to get some sense. It appears I’ll have to keep waiting.’

‘Well, you know where to find me.’

Bess nodded. ‘Lazily talking with us when you should be reaping the wheat like the other men.’

Somewhere along the way Louve had picked up Matilda’s bag and swept more grain into it. It was then that his intent became irritatingly clear. ‘Are you here for me?’

Louve’s mouth quirked. ‘I’m here to save the grain. Storm’s coming.’

Louve was doing her work. The skies were still blue; there was no storm coming. ‘You can’t do this.’

Louve smiled ruefully. ‘You’re working too hard now.’

‘And the baby is kicking,’ Bess added.

‘Are you on his side now?’ Matilda said. ‘I’m working because there’s work to be done. Crops are better this year, so there’s more gleaning.’ A fact that had them all breathing a sigh of relief.

‘That sack’s getting too heavy for you to carry.’

She looked at the ground, thought of running horses to try and calm herself. When that didn’t work, she narrowed her eyes on Louve. ‘I’ll say this differently. I won’t have you do my work for me.’

‘Roger would have—’

Matilda held up her hand and shook her head firmly.

‘Oh, dear,’ Bess whispered.

But Matilda ignored her friend for now. She would also ignore all references to her husband. He was too recently gone, and though she wanted her baby to know of him, her baby couldn’t hear yet. Right now she didn’t want to be reminded of Roger’s protective nature when he could no longer protect.

‘It may be true...what he would have wanted...but I’m here now, and my crawling on this ground is a duty I need to fulfil. I’m not helping with the binding. I’m here with the children, gleaning.’

‘Stubborn as usual. What kind of reputation will I have if I can’t move a pregnant woman? I’ll never hear the end of it,’ Louve said.

‘You ruined your reputation when you were four years old, Louve, and you know it,’ Bess said. ‘And it appears—

Shouts came from behind them. A young boy was racing over the hill. His cries were carrying on the autumnal breeze.

‘Did he say we have company?’ Bess said.

Matilda turned her ear to the boy’s words, but they were still too faint. No one visited the estate. Up until this year they had been the ones who travelled to other villages and other markets to sell their wares. However, if the crops stayed this plentiful that would change. Until then...

Panting, the boy stopped in front of them.

‘We have guests arriving?’ Matilda cradled her belly, supporting the baby, who was blessedly still now that she’d given her room.

‘Visitor,’ the boy clarified. ‘With two giant horses behind him!’

The world...the ground underneath Matilda...shifted.

‘Steady,’ Bess whispered, grabbing her elbow.

‘How far out?’ Louve asked the boy.

‘Just outside the barren fields.’

If they could see a rider coming in that direction it meant he came from the east.

Louve glanced from Bess to Matilda and then back. ‘I’m closer than the others. I’ll get a horse and greet him before he reaches the trees.’

There was nothing to be discussed. It was the only choice, given all the men were in the opposite direction and she couldn’t move her legs.

Matilda kept her eyes on Louve’s long stride, taking him to the stables. ‘I will be well,’ she whispered. ‘Just give me moment more.’

Bess kept her hand where it was. ‘You knew this day would come.’

Matilda placed her hand on top of Bess’s. It was true. She had always known this day would come. Like a storm and the changing seasons. Like the endless rising of the sun and the setting of the moon. Like the certainty of time. She had known she’d see Nicholas again.

‘Always.’

Chapter Two

Nicholas rode guardedly towards his home, his father’s prison and the cause of his death. Mei Solis Manor. Ridiculous name: My Sun.

It had been a grand gesture from an impoverished knight to his new wife, Helena of Catalonia, the sixth daughter from a family who’d gained wealth in maritime, but no title. His father, a mere knight with a crumbling manor, had had favour and connections with the English Court, and thus had been able to wed a woman of some means.

Such happy news upon his father’s return. His father had been beaming with pride, knowing that with silver the rich soil estate would prosper with the right management and supplies.

Nicholas, six years old at the time, remembered the day Helena had arrived. His father had toiled for months before, and the estate had never looked better. When the carriage had stopped, his father, eschewing custom, had assisted his new wife in alighting from the carriage.

Chin raised, a tight smile on her face, she had stood next to his father. Her gown, almost white, had seemed to glow, made of some fabric he had never seen before. His first and only thought at the sight at his new mother had been, The sun’s light never stays.

He had been right. Helena had had only a modest income from her doting family, and had shared most of her dowry with her new husband and his estate. The remainder had been used for her return to London and Court, where she had remained despite his father’s attempts to make the manor more hospitable for her and his pleading messages. She had stayed there despite his own curt message regarding her husband’s sudden death.

After his father had died Nicholas had seen Helena a few times at Court. She had always been surrounded, but they had exchanged polite greetings given the agreement between them. After all, his father had paid with his life to keep the estate running, and Nicholas had paid Helena with his coin ever after to keep her well-dressed.

It was an arrangement made by his father that he continued. It was his sentence and his prison, too. As long as he paid Helena there would never be enough coin.

There’d been clear blue skies since he’d left London to travel west to his home, but the easy weather and the ride hadn’t alleviated the tumultuousness of his memories or the brutal facts. It had taken him six years to get enough coin. Six years during which he’d lost everything. His friends, his eye, his only love.

In the distance, a different shape arose from the empty peaks and valleys. At first it was too small to comprehend, but as it grew he recognised the lone rider. A friend to greet him.

Not that any greeting would be welcome. He’d never intended to return here. He wouldn’t be here at all except that he’d made a promise to a fellow mercenary to repair his past.

However, the only repair he could conceive of was to exact revenge on the three who had betrayed him. Something, no matter how much pain had been caused to him, he had never been able to bring himself to do.

Yet here he was, travelling alone on a road he’d never wanted to take, intending to do just that. All because his friend had reclaimed his past, found happiness, and requested that Nicholas do the same.

He’d stay the winter at his former home with its ridiculous name, find some justice from the people who’d blindsided him, and then be gone again. With any hope he’d be free of the painful memories of betrayal and be able to find his future.

So revenge he must have. The acts done to him were far past reparation and apology. His hatred of those deeds was the only emotion that had fuelled him for the last three years. There was nothing to reclaim or repair for him. Anything of worth in his past had been lost. He could gain nothing from nothing. Mei Solis was a vast emptiness to him. My Soulless.

Even recognising his childhood friend, Louve, as he neared wasn’t enough to gladden him. Not when he saw him pull up short, causing the horse to skitter backwards. Louve was a master horseman. The only reason for this lack of control was because he’d got a good look at Nicholas’s face and it had shocked him.

His scar. For years now he’d had it. A sword-swipe that had begun across his belly and moved up to his chest, and then the flick of an enemy’s wrist that had projected the sword-tip across his face and destroyed his left eye.

All sewn and beautifully stitched now, it was only a slight silvery shadow of the horror it had once been. The horror it still was, since his left eyelid would never rise again. But it was also a blessing, because it permanently covered the fact that he could no longer see on that side.

It was a battle wound that had made his sword-training fiercer and his battle mien more menacing. In the mercenary business, such a scar benefited him. But here, as the lord of a genteel manor, it was a liability. Now he would have to suffer questions, skirt the truth, or tell lies about how he’d received it. There would be gasps of dismay and horror, and—worse—pity.

He knew this, and though he’d worn no patch since his accident, he wore one now, for the trip home. The patch covered the worst of it, and yet still Louve’s horse skittered at the sudden jerk of his master’s reins.

He’d only just set foot on his land and had a fair distance to go before he reached the manor. He’d hoped for a brief reprieve until then, so he could see how his land fared. Instead, one of his oldest friends—one of those who’d betrayed him—had ridden out to greet him and almost toppled his horse as a result.

He didn’t want this.

Nicholas held his horse steady as Louve settled his. Neither man lowered his gaze. When Louve dismounted, so did he. For just that time Nicholas let Louve gawk at his injury.

He studied Louve as well, and noticed minor changes. His dark hair was longer, and he had more strength to him. But the irreverent look in his eyes, the way he held himself as if the world was a joke—that was painfully familiar.

Another moment passed and then Louve’s lips pursed and he whistled low. ‘You dumb bastard. You’ve returned but you’ve forgotten your eye.’

Nicholas was a liar. He was damned glad to see Louve—but that didn’t mean he liked it. Whatever friendship they had once shared had been battered away.

But what to do about it? Strike him down? Shove a sword through his guts? Nothing. He would do nothing right now. The disquiet coursing through him over coming here was gone, only to be replaced by a burning frustration at the injustice of liars and thieves.

‘Well, I can’t go back for it,’ Nicholas said, gauging this man’s reactions. Louve wasn’t Roger, or Matilda, but still he’d played his part. Something would have to be done.

‘I suppose we’ll have to take you as you are?’ Louve asked.

And there was the crux. He was the lord of this manor, and he’d been sending coin to make Mei Solis prosperous again. But he’d given the control of his home to two men and a woman. Despite the law, this man did have a say as to whether he could return. Which was one of the reasons why Nicholas had not written to inform anyone of his intended homecoming.

When Nicholas shrugged, Louve took the steps necessary to pound his aching back and shake him—briefly and far too roughly.

Unexpected. Unwanted. Nicholas stepped away from his touch.

Louve’s easy manner fell, and he gathered his horse’s reins.

Refusing to ease Louve’s feelings, Nicholas grabbed his horse’s reins and stepped in beside him.

‘Could you look any worse?’

A joke. Did Louve think to make light talk, as if six years didn’t separate them? What was his game?

‘I asked the bastard to take the other eye, but he couldn’t because I’d killed him.’

Louve raised one brow. ‘So you decided to wear some pauper’s unwashed clothes to finish the look instead?’

Wearing a rich man’s clothes would get him killed. ‘I’ve travelled far.’

‘Alone?’ Louve eyed the other tethered horses, which carried large satchels.

Nicholas knew Louve would guess there was coin in there, and he was right.

‘Just since London. Are we walking to the manor?’ It was miles yet, and he’d ridden hard since London.

‘If we ride we’ll be there in a few minutes. Walking gives us time to talk.’

A conversation amongst friends?

A part of him wanted to toss Louve to the ground and demand to know why he hadn’t stopped Matilda’s marriage. Why he hadn’t at least written to him, warn him. No, it was too soon. He would make them reveal their game first, before he revealed his.

‘I’ve written you letters almost every month for the last six years.’

‘True, but I notice the lack of any letter informing us of your return. We’ll probably never hear the end of it from Cook. But I have to admit the coin you sent was convenient.’

‘Was it?’

He was too far away to see the village or his home. Mei Solis was an open field manor. In the centre of his land was the manor itself, with a small courtyard and some buildings for his own private use, such as his stables. A simple gate kept his property separate from the village and from the tenants that encircled the manor for their own protection. Surrounding everything were fields for livestock and crops. All he could see so far was this road, which was narrow and rough, and useless fallow fields.

It stung to return here and be so brutally reminded of his failed past. He might have lost his eye, but while he’d been gone he’d gained balance, and a sense of worth as a mercenary. He’d gained friends—and wealth as well. And yet he was not even a furrow’s length on his land and the weight of his past burdens cloaked him again.

‘Your coin was quite handy. I’d be pleased to show you how,’ Louve said. ‘You are staying, I presume?’

Was Louve’s game to pretend to be friends? Maybe he thought to put Nicholas at ease so he would return to his mercenary life and leave them alone.

A dark, insidious thought came. Matilda had married Roger, but maybe she’d had Louve as well. What did he know? He’d thought she was true to him, as he had been to her. But her marrying Roger had proved she was as faithless as his stepmother had been. And Roger’s and Louve’s lack of correspondence depicted men without honour. All were without honour.

As such, if he did nothing else he would put no one at ease and tell nothing of his intentions. ‘Since I can barely feel my legs, I will stay until they can carry me again.’

Louve shot his gaze over to him, but Nicholas pretended not to see it.

‘I suppose that’s more information than we’ve had in the past,’ Louve said, after several more moments.

‘Not good enough?’ Nicholas said.

‘You’re as surly as a wolf in winter, but I understand why.’

So he should, thought Nicholas.

‘She’s out in the fields now,’ Louve remarked.

She. Matilda. It was late harvest time, and he could envisage her there. Her red-gold hair shining brighter than any crop. Her hazel eyes lit with more colours than a field of green. Matilda—who at one point in his life had meant everything to him, who had been his very soul.

Then she had broken her promise to him and betrayed him in the cruellest of manners. He’d returned to Mei Solis to fix his past. He intended to meet it head-on and bury it.

But he kept his head turned away from Louve, though he could feel his former friend’s gaze. ‘Let’s take the horses to the manor,’ Nicholas said.

* * *

Matilda should have heard their voices or the extra commotion in the yard. She should have heard his voice. But she couldn’t seem to hear anything through the roaring in her head. Not even her own thoughts were clear to her.

She realised that Bess, who walked beside her, hadn’t been as affected as her. Bess had understood that Nicholas was within a few paces on their path and hadn’t steered them in another direction.

But it was too late for her, because Nicholas was suddenly there before her. Already handing his reins to a boy, with whom he shared a few words.

He faced away from her, and his back afforded her a few moments to watch him while he exchanged greetings and soothed one of his horses, who stamped his hooves as the satchels were removed.

Nicholas. How had she forgotten how formidable he was? His brown hair was much longer, and tied back in a queue which emphasised his shoulders, so much broader than when he’d left six years ago. From being a mercenary; from swinging his sword and killing.

Such a dangerous and unscrupulous profession had given him the strength she saw in his arms, in the tapering of his waist to the defined legs that had walked the many lands he’d once written to her about.

The horses he’d chosen were huge, but they didn’t disguise what a giant of a man he was. How had she forgotten the immensity of him?

Bess went still at her side, neither pushing her forward nor turning her away, while others offered shouts and greetings. Not all the voices held joy. There was a tenor of dismay that she couldn’t understand.

Surely sounds of distress had no meaning when the prodigal lord of the manor had returned. Now was a time for joy and much celebration. If Nicholas had returned, it meant he’d fulfilled his vow to his people. It meant he had enough funds to make Mei Solis all he’d envisaged and promised.

Or perhaps he had simply returned without coin. How was she to know? He had once been so honourable in his vows...and then he had broken the vow he’d made to her. To make her his wife.

He turned then, deliberately, as if her accusations had struck his back. When he fully faced her, even Bess’s hand at her elbow didn’t steady her.

She swallowed a gasp as she noticed his left eye was covered by a brown leather patch. But otherwise, how could she have forgotten how he looked? The angles of his jaw softened only by the fullness of his lower lip. The broadness of the nose he’d boasted no one could ever break? How his steady brown gaze had riveted her?

She remembered their kisses. The way he’d smelled and felt when he’d held her. And his gaze...the way he’d looked at her. But she’d forgotten the feeling of breathlessness from just his look. It was this that had captured her when they’d been only friends. It was his gaze that had made him see into her soul and she into his as they fell in love.

What did he see in her right now? Almost eight months pregnant, her skirts saturated with mud, wheat stuck in her hair. Shock in her eyes, trembling in her limbs, and her breath coming short.

Shorter yet as she comprehended why her heart pounded so desperately until her breath wouldn’t come. Why her nerves jarred her inside as if trying to wake her.

Nicholas had a scar across his face. A thin slice that went from his left temple across his left eye, and down his cheek. Then there was a gap at his neck, before a broader gash revealed itself on his collarbone and disappeared under his loose tunic. He’d tried to cover his eye with brown leather, but she could see it. As if in a nightmare, she could see all of it.

All these years she’d imagined the swing of a sword gutting him. Imagined him spilling his life’s blood in a field too far away for her to reach him. He was here—alive—but he had lost his eye. What he must have suffered...

And she hadn’t known. He’d never told her. Hot rage roared through her, until her first and only instinct was to hit and rail at him and never stop. How could he have done this to himself? How could he have done this to her?

His brows drew in and his mouth grew fierce. His gaze, as open as hers must have been, grew cold. What did he see in her eyes?

Too much. She had purposely forgotten how he could see too much. How he knew her. And she’d thought she’d known him. Until the day he’d left Mei Solis. Until the moment he’d stopped writing to her and forgotten her completely.

She’d held on until her mother’s death, when she had realised how fleeting life was and that she should not wait a moment longer. So she’d agreed to marry Roger, and now she carried their baby. A daughter who was now more important than ever.

She briefly closed her eyes to Nicholas. Heard the horses being led away and Louve’s chatter regarding the weather. She focused on Bess’s clenching grip on her elbow, on the calls of children and animals, the smell of freshly cut wheat.

She was here on Mei Solis, the home that had remained her home because she had stayed, and she drew strength from it.

Nicholas was standing, waiting. It seemed the whole courtyard was waiting.

For her to throw something at him? To yell? To burst into hysterics or give a cutting remark because she was a woman scorned?

In their youth she had been mischievous and he reckless. They’d appeared a perfect match in every way. They’d shown no caution in their courtship because they’d seen no need to. And then he’d left because of his restlessness and his ideas of grandeur, even as she had begged for him to stay.

Six years. And now not only her but the entire courtyard held its breath for this reunion.

But she wouldn’t rail or hit out—though that had been her first response. Between that breath and now she had found strength from her home. She had purposely changed herself over these last few years and was no longer the woman he had left. No longer the girl he’d grown up with, when they had been friends.

Friends. They had been friends first—before they’d held hands, kissed and promised to marry each other. Before she’d given him her heart and almost her body. Before he’d left and broken her trust.

Friends since childhood. And he had meant the world to her as they’d run and raced and jumped and laughed.

If that boy stood before her now, what would she do?

Striding over, she lifted herself on her toes and gave him a brief embrace before stepping back beside Bess. ‘Welcome home, Nicholas,’ she said, pleased that her voice did not break on his name. That her gaze stayed steady with his. ‘Are you hungry?’

He stood as still as the manor behind him, while she placed her hands on her belly as if to comfort her baby. Only she knew the truth of who truly needed comfort.

His gaze took in her movement and held there for only a moment. Her gown was heavy, and hid most of her pregnancy, but the protective cupping of her hands and their weight against her gown showed to anyone how far along she was.

‘It’s wonderful to be here again,’ he said, just as evenly. ‘And I am famished. But even I know this isn’t the time for food, and I don’t wish to inconvenience anyone.’

She only just held back the shudder that went through her. Maybe it wasn’t his gaze that had made her fall for him, but the deep roundness of his voice. The rich tone was fitting for a man of his stature, but somehow it had always made him seem more of a giant among men.

But the sound of his voice was something he had no control over. What he said, however, he did. Cold. Formal. As if they were strangers and he was merely visiting.

A slice of anger scored through her at the injustice of his carefully crafted words. Did he think he was putting her in her place? That she was merely someone from his past...perhaps only a servant?

She was more than angered now, but she kept it in check. She wasn’t the same Matilda he had so carelessly thrown away.

Rising above her emotions, she said, ‘You’ve returned to your home. It’s more than time for food—it’s time for a feast.’

Chapter Three

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t hear or see. Whatever words he’d uttered had come from somewhere else, because he couldn’t recall what he’d said.

Matilda was more beautiful than he’d ever seen her. The autumn light played warmly against the havoc of gold in her hair. The sun’s glow gleamed a beam across her eyes so that they showed more green than brown, and made shadows of her lashes across her reddened cheeks.

Stunned at seeing her, though it was ridiculous to be so surprised, his only response was to stare like a fool and helplessly track the fluttering movement of the hands that had landed on the swell of her belly she so lovingly caressed.

Matilda carried a child not their own.

Whatever agony he’d experienced before was nothing to this. Nothing.

And it was made more cruel as Matilda embraced him as if they were long-lost friends. He could feel the weight of her against his chest, smell the scent she carried of fresh-cut wheat. No matter the year, she’d always smelled that way to him—like the promise of abundance.

Pain. Too much. And he wanted to draw his sword against it.

Enough. How much more could she take away from him? He had thought she’d taken it all and left him only the coldness that he’d honed until he was the most lethal of mercenaries.

And yet a mere heartbeat, a glance at her swollen curves, mocked this belief. He wanted to howl against the pain—but an audience surrounded them and she stared expectantly at him.

Did she expect an offer of friendship? Surely everyone here wouldn’t expect it? After all, he’d left here as her betrothed, and had toiled for years to make a home worthy of her. When she had decided she’d had enough waiting, she’d married his closest friend and written him a letter.

But he’d kept to his bargain and continued to send coin, so she could keep herself in the manner to which she had become accustomed...just like his stepmother.

He should count himself lucky that he hadn’t married Matilda after all. The coldness of her heart would never curse him as Helena’s had his father. And Matilda’s heart was cold—of that he now had evidence.

Nicholas’s wound wasn’t new to him, but it was to her. What he’d suffered...how he’d survived. So much pain... And yet she stood calmly before him, asking about his stomach instead of his eye.

If she wished for cold formality, he would treat her in kind. ‘I need no feast, nor any warm welcomes,’ he said. ‘I would not wish to cause you any more burden than that you already carry. I merely need a place to unpack my satchels and to change these clothes. My rooms are still available, are they not?’

There was a crack in her friendly demeanour, a tightening of her clasped hands. ‘They have been meticulously maintained.’

He relished seeing her mask slip. Until he knew how to exact his revenge it was best that she knew her place in his life—she was his bailiff, who managed his manor. ‘Then you have done your duties well. Good day.’

He turned, intending to stride away, only to be stopped by others. Greeted. Slowed in making his escape.

Louve was cracking smiles and talking to the tenants who waited to speak with him. In the past he had done much the same. Joked, answered questions, fielded enquiries from the tenants when they had pressured Nicholas too much. When the coin hadn’t enough for their demands Louve had learned to distract them so Nicholas could get away.

He wanted to get away now. He could feel Matilda’s gaze at his back. He broadened his steps and stormed closer to the manor, his fists clenching, ready for a fight. It took every effort to keep his shoulders and his breath even. To appear as if nothing was the matter when in actuality a sword had been sunk into his heart.

Did it look to her as if he was retreating? Let her think what she wanted. He didn’t care.

* * *

Matilda kept her chin high and her eyes on everyone who had observed Nicholas turning his back on her. Shaming her in front of the tenants...again.

‘Steady...’ Bess whispered by her side.

Humiliated, Matilda didn’t want Bess’s comfort. Keeping her hand on her belly, she walked in the opposite direction from Nicholas. The thick crowds parted easily. Because of her pregnancy or her disgrace?

Damn him for making her think these thoughts. She’d done her duty to the Lord of Mei Solis in greeting—and, more, she’d done her duty to Roger’s memory by keeping her composure as he would have done.

But she hadn’t wanted to. Not when she had first seen Nicholas, and certainly not after he’d spoken.

She had been cordial. He had not. What right did he have to treat her like a servant? As if all that mattered to him was that she did her duties here.

He had broken their betrothal and her heart when he had left Mei Solis, when he’d stopped his letters. He had no right to be aggrieved. But she was satisfied that the new Matilda had kept her calm. She’d changed herself, and today was testament that it was for the better. She just needed to distract herself a bit longer...

‘We’ll need to notify Cook of a feast—’

Bess’s hand on her elbow stopped her. ‘Be easy. Everyone knows of his return. Cook will already be preparing something special to add to the evening meal. You need to—’

She wouldn’t be ‘easy’ if Bess held her here. ‘Then I’ll see my father.’ She turned sharply to her right and Bess let her go. ‘He’ll need to know.’

Bess opened her mouth, closed it.

Matilda ignored Bess’s enquiring eye. She needed something to do between now and dinner. Something to occupy her hands, if not her thoughts.

She had always known this day would come, but she hadn’t been prepared for Nicholas’s injury. His patch hid most of the damage to his eye, but a scrap of leather couldn’t hide the fact that he’d suffered. The fact he’d never see the world as he had when they were children, when they’d first held hands...

There came the sting of tears, and she stumbled in her walk. She refused to think of Nicholas now. If she gave in to her weakness for him she’d never make it through this first night. He deserved no pity. Six years gone, and his friend dead, and he hadn’t even enquired about him.

‘My father will need to be prepared, and it’s best done by me. You know how he’ll feel about this.’

Her father had believed Nicholas would return to Mei Solis and to his daughter. Then her mother had died, and her father...her father hadn’t been the same.

‘He may not remember. It may be a bad day,’ Bess said.

Her mother and father had been very old when she was born, and she didn’t know now if it was his age or if losing her mother had caused the gaps in his memory. But he was a proud man, and he needed care, though all the while they made it appear as if they weren’t caring for him.

‘Regardless, it’s best I check.’

‘You’re doing too much,’ Bess said, her voice low. ‘You should sit. Maybe rest before dinner.’

That was the last thing she needed to do. ‘I’ll be fine.’

Just a few more steps and they’d be beyond the courtyard’s shadow and most of the prying eyes.

Bess sighed. ‘There’s no screeching coming from his home...that is a good sign.’

‘Or Rohesia has bashed his head in with a cauldron.’

‘True...’

There were days when Matilda and her father were more enemies than friends, but even if this was one of her father’s bad days, she’d gain distraction.

Curse Nicholas for returning. Why now? He’d never acknowledged the letter Roger had sent before they’d married, nor hers which she’d written with such meticulous care after they’d said their vows. The days she’d spent on each word...

Matilda shook herself. She’d put the past behind her and changed her ways. She’d put the Nicholas who was here now at Mei Solis behind her as well.

* * *

Too soon, Louve and Nicholas reached the threshold of a room he’d only ever intended to enter again as Matilda’s husband, and Louve gazed at him expectantly.

He had no expectations. The tomblike manor, Matilda’s cold formality...the fact that Roger hadn’t greeted him. He wasn’t welcome here.

Matilda was pregnant.

Again he was blindsided. Again betrayed. The blade swiftly planted between his ribs before he had even seen the glint of steel.

How he’d longed for a family with her. How he’d toiled to provide for his future children so they wouldn’t have to bear the burdens he had. And now Matilda was pregnant with another man’s child.

Boys carrying his personal supplies scampered past him in a race to reach his rooms before he did. But he didn’t need them to remember his way to the rooms that had once been his father’s.

All it took was the achingly familiar shape of the corridors that neither time nor distance could erase from his memory. As a boy, he too had scampered down this corridor. As a man, he had closed the door when he’d left for the last time.

He needed to get out of here. Never to have agreed to this fool’s errand. Never to have believed for a moment that he could have what Rhain had found with Helissent if he simply repaired his past.

There was no fixing this. He’d faced battles and men with rage in their eyes. He’d thought he could face this. Face her and hear her explanation. Hear Roger’s. Even Louve owed him something for not warning him.

Could he stay here just for revenge? He doubted he could stay here for apologies—not after seeing Matilda cradle her belly. Time had passed, and he shouldn’t feel the betrayal all over again like in some minstrel’s song. But she had stood before him and she hadn’t cared that he’d lost his eye. Hadn’t flinched at his return.

‘I need to change my clothing,’ he said, instead of voicing the thoughts roiling through him.

‘I’ll have water brought up.’

Nicholas pointed to some boys who were carrying pails into the room. ‘There are some buckets here.’

‘You’ll need a tub.’

What he needed was some time to come to terms with Matilda’s pregnancy.

‘How many more are there?’ he asked.

Louve gave him a questioning glance.

Nicholas looked over Louve’s shoulder to the flat stone embedded in the wall. The stone he’d mutilated with his first dagger while waiting for his father to emerge from his empty marriage bed.

‘She’s expecting a child. How many children do they have?’

‘That’s the question you want to ask me? I thought you’d want to talk about—’

‘Just answer me, dammit,’ Nicholas interrupted.

Louve’s gaze turned assessing. ‘After six years I thought you’d be prepared.’

It had been only three years since her—their—betrayal. ‘No, you didn’t think that. That’s why you’re here now—to see what scene I’ll make.’

‘Why are you here?’

‘This is my home. I have every right to be here.’ He didn’t have to give explanations to anyone.

‘You may have a right to be here, but you have no right to ask questions of Matilda’s personal well-being.’

‘You lecture me on what I have a right to?’ He knew Louve was as guilty as the others. ‘You, Roger and Matilda owe me!’

‘Roger? You bring Roger into this? You can’t even let—’

Without a word or a message, without facing him like a man, Roger had married the only woman he’d ever loved.

‘God himself would expect his punishment.’

Louve’s jaw dropped. ‘You can’t—’

‘I do.’

But Roger’s reckoning would wait until the coward met him face to face. Nicholas had no intention of sharing words with Louve on Roger’s black deeds.

‘For now, I’m simply expecting an answer to my question. How many?’

Louve’s expression turned mutinous. ‘The Nicholas I knew would have shown some mercy towards Roger...towards Matilda, given the circumstances.’

Mercy? To Roger? Never. ‘Tell me more.’

Louve’s brow deepened, then he looked away. ‘No.’

‘You walked with me up here and now you don’t want to talk?’

‘You’re not—’ Louve shook his head. ‘You’re not asking the right questions, and I refuse to believe you can be such a bastard. Come, let’s order some flagons brought up and we can share them here.’

Nicholas flexed his hands at his sides. A bath, ale, banter amongst friends... Were Matilda and Roger supposed to join them as well? Ridiculous. He had the answer to his question and these people were no longer his friends.

‘I have no patience to gossip like an old woman.’

He closed the door in Louve’s face.

* * *

‘What could possibly detain him?’ Matilda asked, not for the first time.

The meal was prepared, and most of the tenants had arrived. Many were dressed in their best clothes in honour of Nicholas’s return. Many had come tonight, and the Great Doors continued to let in icy wind and any stray animal that was fast enough to bypass the children trying to block them.

‘I left him upstairs...’ Louve shrugged.

That had been hours ago, and all day she’d found no distraction. The tenants, her friends, all were excited by Nicholas’s return. Yet she couldn’t—wouldn’t—join in their happy exclamations or murmured conversations.

Her father had been sleeping while Rohesia crushed herbs. Her home had been empty, just as she’d left it. So she had swept her clean floor as if she was attacking wasps and not her turbulent thoughts until she was exhausted. She was always tired now, and even more so when she thought of Roger and what he’d think about today.

What would he make of the joyful chatter spinning through the winding lanes? Mere months he’d been gone. Not enough for grief to be less, but somehow enough for her to feel lost.

She missed her friend...the man who’d wanted her when no one else did. No amount of sweeping would erase that. But then she’d slept long and arrived here late—only to discover the lord of the manor hadn’t shown.

‘He closed the door in your face and you let him?’

‘What would you have had me do?

What had they done in the past? She couldn’t remember. The boys had seemed to have their own mysterious ways. Their chores, their training, their missions and lessons.

‘Perhaps you could have stayed with him.’

‘The man sought rest. I had no intention of watching him bathe or sleep.’

Six years was enough to make a man grown. It had happened to Roger and to Louve. Of course it had happened to Nicholas as well.

Unbidden came thoughts of Nicholas asleep in that room, his dark brown hair curled along his shoulders and spread against the dark cover she’d chosen. His body half turned, as if waiting for her to wake him.

She closed her eyes to hide the sudden sharp emotion before Louve guessed her thoughts. ‘He’s been gone so long and is probably in want of glad tidings. That is all I meant.’

‘Why, Matilda, it sounds like you care.’

She narrowed her gaze. ‘As bailiff, it is my duty to ensure his comfort. And I am one of his oldest friends.’

Louve rolled the cup in his hand. ‘Are you still friends with him?’

‘Why would I not be?’ She had done nothing wrong. Roger would want her to let the past be the past. Roger had been her future...or as much as she had let him be.

‘I offered to share ale, if that appeases your sense of hospitality.’ Louve gestured with the cup in his hand.

That was good, except... ‘But he closed the door in your face.’

‘He didn’t stay in that room.’

‘I don’t understand...’

‘I hadn’t made it far down the stairs before I heard his additional requests. He had them move the buckets to the adjoining room. I didn’t stay to find out the reason. I know when I’m not wanted.’

So did she—and she knew what had happened even if Louve had not guessed. Nicholas had rejected that room just as he’d rejected her. She’d spent coin, time...part of her heart...preparing the room for when he returned, for when he claimed his bride.

He’d taken one look at it and desired the adjoining room. Fuming, Matilda tapped her foot. Worse, it showed that the great lord of the manor expected wasteful comforts. He’d make more work for the household...for her as bailiff.

He had been rude to her, rude to Louve. Maybe she went too far in offering him any hospitality, despite the fact this was his home and Roger would have wanted her to.

‘What did he say about Roger?’

‘Nothing.’

She quickly brushed the chill away from her arms. It did little to warm her, and she knew the coldness came from inside her. Because she was failing to hold back her grief. To show charity and patience as Roger would have wanted. As her daughter deserved.

Perhaps Nicholas was too tired...perhaps he wanted the smaller rooms for household ease.

‘Were his condolences sincere?’ she asked, trying to imagine the conversation.

Louve levelled his eyes at her. ‘He said nothing of Roger.’

‘Roger would—’

Louve’s words registered. Matilda unwound her arms and clenched her hands. There was no imagining this. To be that cruel. That cold. Maybe to her, but never to Roger. When Nicholas had left she’d seethed, but Roger had mourned the loss of their friendship. To know that Nicholas didn’t feel anything. Had not offered some words of kindness...

‘He said nothing of your marriage either,’ Louve added.

Something hot seared through her. ‘He has no right to talk of my marriage. No right to talk about me or—’

‘He did mention—’ Louve stopped.

‘What did he mention?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

Servants swept by with great platters and they sidestepped to give them room. ‘You should know better than to ignore me,’ Matilda said, lowering her voice.

‘You’re slower than you used to be.’ Louve looked pointedly at the swell in her belly. ‘I may be able to get away with it.’ At her warning look, he caved. ‘He asked about your babe.’

Her baby. Nicholas had already acknowledged her pregnancy when he’d described her child as a burden. ‘He has no right to talk of her. I hope you set him right.’

Louve’s puzzled expression changed to one of reflection as he eyed her.

She looked away, which was probably telling enough that she didn’t need to add bitter words. But she refused to feel this sense of wrongness. ‘He should never have returned here.’

‘It is his home, Matilda.’

‘It’s never been his home. All his life he talked of exploring other lands, and eventually he did. There is no reason for him to return.’ She had been his only reason to return, and eventually she hadn’t been enough.

‘You may love this crumbling manor and the crooked lanes surrounding it, but it’s his inheritance.’

‘One he never wanted. He earned more coin as a mercenary. You’ll see—one winter here will remind him, and off he’ll go again.’

‘Ready to be rid of me so soon?’ Nicholas said, from directly behind her.

Louve was quick to turn, but she held her posture that bit longer, to show her displeasure. Sneaking up behind them meant Nicholas had come from the servants’ entrance. They’d thought him asleep and sequestered upstairs. He was already proving difficult—and that had been before he overheard their conversation.

Carefully, she turned, taking in the fine weave of his green tunic, stretched wide against the mounds of his chest, the thick weight of his breeches just skimming the strength in his legs.

The clothes weren’t new, but they were a wealthy man’s clothing. Tailored for him with a weave so fine that the green almost reflected in the hall’s candlelight.

Mei Solis’s seamstress had never been able to get the cut of his clothes large enough for him to move properly. But these clothes fitted him so well, it didn’t take much to see the man beneath. A glance was all it took to see Nicholas in ways she never had before. Always tall, but never this broad. Never this...lethal.

She raised her eyes and took in more of the man. His thick hair was damp and waving loose around his shoulders. His face was now shaven, revealing the cut of his jaw, the sensual slash of his lips, but if he had slept, she did not see it in the strain of his brow, nor in the dark shadows underneath his eyes.

She took a brief moment to acknowledge that vulnerability before her eyes met his gaze. And then all she saw was the calculating brown, the victory gleam he disguised in his expression, but not in the lit depths.

He was pleased to surprise them—and to overhear a conversation never meant for him. But it was too early for any victories.

‘I’m merely stating facts, Nicholas. Your need for adventure is no secret here. In fact, you made it very public when you left on one and never came back.’

‘But my arriving now proves that I have returned.’

‘It only proves that you’re checking up on us. Isn’t that why you were in the kitchens?’

‘I was in the kitchens to see old and dear friends.’

‘I think I see Mary,’ Louve interjected.

She placed her hand on Louve’s arm to hold him back. Under no circumstances would she let him escape. When he glanced at her he got the hint.

Turning to Nicholas, Louve asked, ‘The kitchens, huh? How did Cook react?’

Nicholas glanced at her hand on Louve’s arm. She’d meant to withdraw it, but in some small measure she took comfort at the simple contact, and she didn’t want to withdraw it merely because Nicholas’s gaze had suddenly darkened.

‘As she always has.’ Nicholas’s voice was even, but not friendly. ‘She gave me a thick slice of bread with an even thicker slab of butter before I even started my greeting.’

Matilda just stopped herself from digging her nails into Louve’s arm. This exchange was ridiculous. Nicholas had returned to Mei Solis to meet some agenda, perhaps to insult them all and show his uncaring soul, not simply to be fed. How could she keep quiet with a man who did not mourn his friend and had never replied to their letters?

She bit her lip, trying not to retort, but her eyes strayed to the doors and she knew Nicholas was watching her.

Nicholas smirked. ‘Would you prefer it if I left right now, instead of after the winter?’

He had heard every word.

Good.

Yet again she tried to hide her need to sweep past him and open the doors wide for him to step through. That would have been the old Matilda, the reckless one who had showed no caution. That Matilda had never served her well. Now, no matter how desperately she wanted Nicholas gone, a part of her wanted to be Roger’s wife and the mother of his child. To be calm, to remember that they had all once been friends.

She didn’t know Nicholas’s reason for being here. Roger’s death had been mere months ago, but Nicholas had given her no condolences nor apologised for not being here. Other than that time after his father’s death, when he had became obsessed with repairing Mei Solis, he’d never shown any interest in his home or the rich fields surrounding it. And now he gave no clue to his motivation.

He held neither the boyish looks of his youth nor the easy open temperament. This man before her was a stranger. Dark gaze, even darker mien. She’d never been friends with this mercenary.

‘Don’t be foolish, Nicholas. You apparently need rest, and the weather will soon prevent you from leaving.’

‘So you do show concern at my welfare? At my inability to ride because of travel weariness? Or are you afraid that I might catch cold?’

Louve almost choked on his ale. Nicholas ignored it. Matilda tapped Louve’s arm. Remember what Roger would want.

‘Of course we’re concerned for your welfare, and we haven’t had a chance to hear properly of your travels. This is your home.’

‘Ah, yes, my home,’ Nicholas said, his gaze roaming the hall. It was a brief relief from a gaze that always saw too much, before he narrowed it on her again. ‘There’s more than that that prevents me from leaving.’

A fissure of warning opened up inside her at those words. Most definitely he had some reason to be here, but it wasn’t for Roger. No word of condolence, nor apology for not being here to bury him. It wasn’t his home and it wasn’t her.

Louve’s arm tensed when she asked, ‘What could that possibly be?’

The victory light in Nicholas’s eye returned, and she knew she was the foolish one.

‘I’ve returned with bags of silver to make Mei Solis everything you’ve ever wanted. You will have the ability to make repairs, purchase supplies for a thousand new roofs or new buildings. Or tear the whole thing down and start again.’

Simple words. Insulting words. Matilda’s nails dug into Louve’s arm before she could hide her response.

The look on Matilda’s face was exactly what Nicholas had hoped for when he’d caught her and Louve unawares. The one she had denied him when she had turned away slowly to hide her response. She couldn’t hide her response now, and he revelled in it.

Petty of him, he knew, but he’d once found some balance in his life and now he could find none. Even his quarters, which were meant to be his sanctuary, had haunted and mocked him. He’d reeled when he saw the rooms, the evidence of all Matilda had done. He hadn’t been able to bark out his instructions to move elsewhere fast enough.

After a quick bath, he’d left to investigate the rear of Mei Solis and visit the kitchens. To greet Cook, with deeper furrows between her eyes from her frowns, and more around her mouth from her frequent smiles. It had been good to see her again.

However, not as satisfying as this. Having the advantage and striding up to Matilda and Louve, who had been looking towards the stairs and not the servants’ entrance. Reminding her who exactly she was. Someone greedier even than the woman who’d killed his father.

Mei Solis had been crumbling down, its roof collapsed. He’d ridden off to earn coin for their home—only to be shown that Matilda could spend his silver and have another man.

He’d dealt the verbal strike, but he’d felt a blow himself when her hand had tightened on Louve’s arm. Another man...any man but him.

‘When the light comes tomorrow we can show you what has been done,’ Matilda said, her voice tight.

Still not good enough for him. ‘So the work’s all done and the coin I bring now is unnecessary? Perhaps I’ll spend it on trivial matters. I notice my rooms need updating.’

Matilda paled, and Louve’s hand grasped hers on his arm. Nicholas tracked their familiarity with each other.

‘When has coin ever become unnecessary?’ Louve said, his voice light, though there was a dark warning in his eyes.

Nicholas was past warnings. It was time for him to give some of his own. ‘True. It is convenient for bribes, debts, wars and weapons.’

‘Mercenary work? Nothing we’ve seen here,’ Louve said. ‘I speak of boundary fences. The coin we’ve gained from the fields has supported this, but not soon enough. There are times when deer have been as destructive as the weather.’

‘Boundary fences?’

Nicholas knew of enemies and boundaries—was all too aware of how they could be crossed. He had no interest in the stone and mortar kind, but still, an inspection would serve his purposes. Maybe he’d invite Roger to go with him, and there in the empty fields he’d demand his honour returned. If Roger ever showed.

Nicholas rolled his shoulders. Whatever sense of homecoming he’d felt in the kitchens was now gone. There was only the strain in his shoulders, the weight in his stance. The weight of this moment—as if this pause, this time, held some significance.

For what or for whom? A pregnant woman and a man who made too many jokes? If so, this was his welcome home feast and there was one guest missing.

‘It’s getting late, isn’t it?’ he said, turning his head towards Matilda.

‘We should eat,’ Matilda agreed.

‘Surely the fields are empty at this time of year?’ At their quizzical looks, he added, ‘It’s too late for man or beast to still be out.’

Matilda frowned. ‘We’ve been able to get the work done before dark these last few years...’

That wasn’t what he was asking. Over the years he’d received Louve’s reports and, despite everything else, he trusted them when it came to maintaining the estate.

What and who he didn’t trust was Roger, who was avoiding this welcoming feast. However, eventually Roger would be expected to enter the hall to eat. Until then...

‘I will wait to sit until everyone is present.’

Nothing. Louve looked mildly curious while Matilda stayed implacable. Did they expect him to say nothing about the man—his friend—who’d stabbed him in the heart? Then they didn’t know him very well. He’d wait until next winter if that was what it took.

Louve drained his ale, the tenants’ chatter eased, and all eyes turned to him. Of course they would—because they couldn’t eat unless he sat. He wanted to announce that it wasn’t he who delayed their meal, but a coward. One he should have faced years ago.

He had been travelling for weeks alone, lacking sleep in order to protect his horses and the satchels. His body ached and rest beckoned. Still he stood, waited, and thought about what he would say to Roger. His childhood friend, his reeve, who took care of the crops. Waited for the man who loved his betrothed but hadn’t had the courtesy to tell him, who had married her and given her a child.

Patience, he told himself. But it wouldn’t come. Not with all eyes turning to him now. Not with the constrictive band and the pressure of the patch over his eye. His right hand tightened as if it wanted to grasp a sword. His heart thumped as if he rode onto a field of enemies.

He’d been polite and had enquired gently regarding Roger’s absence. He’d waited for Roger to reveal himself, or for Louve and Matilda to inform him of Roger’s whereabouts. He’d come here to bury his past. To seek some revenge. To demand apologies. The man had married the woman he loved, and now he wouldn’t show his face.

Enough was enough. Right now he would demand that Roger show himself. He wouldn’t wait for answers—he’d force them.

He didn’t—couldn’t—ease his stance, or the tension mounting inside him as he bit out every word. ‘Matilda, where is your husband?’

There was a sound from Louve and Matilda paled. The crowd around them faded. The lights seemed to dim as her brows drew in.

No. No balance. No patience. No understanding.

His fingers curled and there was a roaring in his ears as he glanced to Louve, whose expression was stricken, his mouth slack.

Nicholas glanced behind them to the Great Doors that remained shut, and the tenants waiting by their seats. Even the children and the animals were finding their places.

There wasn’t space for anyone else.

His gaze locked on Matilda. There was a flush in her cheeks and an answering emotion gleaming in her hazel eyes. He recognised them all. Anger. Rage. A warrior’s cry for battle.

His sense of betrayal was overwhelming. Patience? Balance? None to be found. He shook his head—a warning to himself, to Louve, who stood agape. To Matilda, whose lips had parted.

He was lifting his curling fist before she said the words, ‘He’s dead.’

Nicholas struck.

Chapter Four

‘You should go after him,’ Louve said, holding his sleeve to his bloodied lip.

Matilda crouched beside her fallen friend. Louve had hit the floor faster than she had been able to react to what Nicholas had done. The corner of his lip was bleeding and the entire right side of his face was bright red, his eyelid beginning to swell.

‘Your eye!’

‘He only glanced it. I’m lucky.’

‘Lucky? Lucky is being told that Cook didn’t burn all the bread for the day. The right side of your face is swelling faster than said bread loaves is not Fortune smiling on you.’

Her heart would not stop thumping and her every word shook. That moment when Nicholas swung. The expression on Nicholas’s face. Something raw, visceral. It had gone through her before she’d registered what he meant to do.

Louve had been completely unprepared.

The people in the hall had been unprepared too, as the crack of Nicholas’s fist against Louve’s jaw had reverberated against the stone.

She hadn’t heard Louve hitting the ground—not through the sudden gasps of the crowd.

Then there had been a void of sound, except for Nicholas’s harsh breaths and his brutal growl aimed at no one as he stormed through the unnaturally still room and out through the Great Doors.

‘Lucky?’ she repeated. ‘You’re bleeding. And despite him only glancing it, you’ll have a black eye.’

‘Luckier yet, for Mary will care for me now.’

Matilda saw Mary, standing as still as the rest of the crowd. She’d never understand the hold she had over her friend. ‘You’re incorrigible.’

Louve took her hands and helped her stand. Then he waved off the now circling crowd with a smile. The crowd dispersed, but the chatter increased. Soon everyone within a day’s ride would know of what had happened here tonight.

What a great welcome from the lord of Mei Solis. No, it had been a welcome from a mercenary. Nicholas had always been impulsive, but that violence hadn’t come from the Nicholas she’d once known.

‘You should go after him,’ Louve told her.

‘You’re the one he struck—don’t you want to talk to him?’

‘Not this time.’ Louve flexed his hand and gave her a look she recognised from years of friendship. ‘I dare you.’

‘That won’t work on me.’ And no such childish challenge would influence the mercenary who had strode out of the Great Hall. ‘Nicholas has gone, and maybe he’ll keep on going.’

‘You know where he went. And, despite his aim, it’s you he needs to talk to. He’s been gone a long time, but from his reaction...’ Louve placed his hand on her arm. ‘He didn’t know about Roger, Matilda. You can’t leave him like that.’

She could. ‘He left us.’

‘He’s returned to find his friend dead. Not only a friend, but Roger. For all he knows, Roger could have been gone for years.’

‘The time of Roger’s passing makes no difference. Nicholas chose his path years ago—as I chose mine. He left first. He holds no more importance to Roger’s death than to any other friend. In truth...’ In truth she saw little of the man she had once called her betrothed. ‘You don’t know if he thinks of any of us as a friend. He never answered our letters.’

‘You think he feels nothing over Roger’s death? He struck me in his home—in front of his people. That’s some indication of where his heart is.’

She didn’t want to think of Nicholas’s heart. He didn’t deserve it. Yet Roger had been her friend and her husband. And in that she knew she was the one to answer whatever questions Nicholas might have.

Dares didn’t work, but she always faced her challenges.

She knew the path towards the chapel’s graveyard all too well. Her mother and her husband were buried here, and she visited them every day. However, instead of taking the well-worn path she turned left towards the other side. The one that wasn’t lit by the villagers’ fires and lanterns, but only by moonlight and stars.

Still, she could see Nicholas—exactly where Louve had said he’d be. No statue or grave marker, no matter how grand, was as dark or forbidding as the man towering amongst them.

Two hands gripped a statue’s base, and his head was bowed between his arms. To anyone else he’d look to be praying next to his father’s grave. However, his father was buried inside, under the chapel’s great stones, not outside, battered by the elements.

It could be freezing here at night, with nothing to buffer against the wind. Nicholas, bent against his father’s memorial, looked like a man braving harsh weather. To her, he looked like a man shoving a broken plough through rocky ground.

‘You shouldn’t have come here.’ Nicholas’s resonating voice, tinged with pain, reverberated across the cold stones.

Refusing to feel pity, she ignored his grief. Still... ‘We sent you a message.’

He raised his head, but did not stop gripping the statue’s base. As if he held it up...or maybe it supported him. Whatever the reason, the tightness of his hands was visible to her, but not his expression. It took a moment longer for her eyes to adjust and then she realised it wasn’t only the darkness making his gaze unreadable...it was something of himself that was unknown to her as well.

‘I don’t want to talk of Roger,’ he said.

Conflicting emotions seemed to be battering him. There was pain there, and anger, confusion and something else. She ignored all that at his words. There was only one reason he didn’t want to talk about Roger. Because he didn’t care.

‘Of course you don’t.’

‘Your meaning...?’

‘You don’t deserve to know my meaning.’

He pushed himself off the statue and rose to his full height. His will seemed to reach out to her and she brushed it aside.

Turning away, she said, ‘It seems colder here than anywhere else.’

She only made a few steps before he said, ‘How many more are there?’

Ignoring him, she took a few more steps. Her reason for coming out here was to talk of Roger, but Nicholas had made it clear that wasn’t what he wanted.

His standing next to his father’s memorial and not the new headstone of his friend should have been an indication of how futile her coming here was. He obviously still worshiped his father’s desires above anyone else’s...even his own.

Or maybe she had never really known what Nicholas’s desires were. She’d always argued that he followed his father’s desires and never his own. Maybe his desires were his father’s, and it was she who was blind.

It was an old argument, and one that she’d thought was put to rest after she’d married Roger. It should have been put to rest—and yet here she was walking through the night to face him again. It hadn’t yet been a full day into his return.

Another step away, and still Nicholas’s gaze collided against her. She ignored him, but couldn’t ignore her own curiosity. What did he mean by how many? How many deaths?

Biting back a sound of frustration, she pivoted to face him. ‘How many what?’

Nicholas was only a few steps away. She hadn’t heard him following her and wasn’t prepared for him to be so close.

It didn’t matter that it was only moonlight illuminating them because he was no longer in the monument’s shadows. So when she turned she surprised him, and glimpsed his expression before he shuttered it.

‘How many other children, Matilda?’ he asked.

There was a whirling darkness in his gaze, a furrow between his brow. His shoulders hunched as if he’d taken a fist to his guts. She’d thought the emotion gone before he’d uttered his question, but it wasn’t. He was in agony.

His pain had to be feigned. For the last three years his correspondence had been only perfunctory and infrequent. He had never enquired about his tenants or his friends.

He had never answered her letter to him.

Trying to gain distance, she wrapped her arms around her stomach and watched his lids flutter closed for a moment, as if her action affected him. She wouldn’t let him affect her.

‘You want to talk of my baby?’ She wanted to shout. ‘Are you concerned that a widow with children will deplete Mei Solis resources? Or, more precisely, that I won’t be able to do my duties as bailiff? That your linens won’t be clean enough or I won’t be able to settle disputes for you?’

The wind buffeted them, but his words pounded against her. ‘Isn’t it you who is concerned with linens and the depletion of precious Mei Solis resources?’

Like some spoiled, selfish shrew? Not her. She wasn’t his stepmother, Helena. She’d begged him to stay, to tear down Mei Solis and live a simpler life. Instead he’d left to bring more riches, making it very clear to her what he deemed important. So she had married another.

And yet he accused her of this?

‘After all these years...’ She only just held back the urge to kick him. ‘This is what you want to say to me?’

Nicholas opened his mouth. Closed it. And she felt the satisfaction in that.

Until he said, ‘Does it feel like I’ve been gone years?’

His voice was low, contemplative. She knew immediately how to respond to the judgemental, accusing Nicholas, but not to this man. Rubbing her arms against the wind, ignoring his steady gaze, she gave his answer some thought.

How long did it feel? Like centuries and like just yesterday. Especially since he’d brought up everything from the past simply by returning. It didn’t matter how much time, it mattered what was felt.

And she shouldn’t be feeling anything for him. No matter what his presence here meant. She’d married another. Loved and grieved for another and was now carrying his child.

‘Your absence has no bearing on what I feel. You were gone six years and that’s the truth. What we care for or feel matters not.’

‘I care very much.’

Judgement, accusation, and now lies. ‘For what? In three years I have heard nothing from you, and you’re here now—’

‘I’m here now because this is my home.’

More lies. ‘Don’t give me sentiment. This property is your income.’

There was a curve to his lips, but his fingers flexed as if to release tension. ‘It is my home.’

Which didn’t give him the right simply to return and order them around. She bent and scraped some of the almost solid soil into her palm. When she stood again, she tossed it at him. ‘This is yours—the rest of us are not.’

He suddenly became as dark as the soil still clinging to her fingers. ‘You made sure of that.’

‘I?’ She brushed the soil off, desperate to remove all traces of his property from her body. She wanted no part of any of this. ‘I had nothing to do with your leaving or your staying away.’

‘You had everything to do with it.’ He took a step forward, leaning towards her as if he meant to plough her down. His queue was loose, his hair whipping in the wind. ‘Everything! You who—’

He didn’t say any more, but she’d heard enough.

A mere day since he’d returned, their first conversation, and it was nothing but barbs and jabs and not anything she could possibly understand, even though she had been a part of it all.

Except... She’d made promises that weren’t part of what had been between Nicholas and her.

She’d made vows to love and marry Roger. To raise their child as he would want. They’d talked about when Nicholas returned and if it would matter. She’d told her husband that it wouldn’t, because she wanted a new life. Or at least to look at the one she had differently. She’d made her choice and so had Nicholas. Still, it had hurt Roger when Nicholas had never replied, but he’d forgiven him.

She thought she’d forgiven him, too. Yet, here she was with him in a graveyard at night. She was supposed to have changed, but turmoil roiled inside her. Anything between them was supposed to be dead.

‘And you’re here now expecting what?’ She gestured at him, at their surroundings.

‘Answers!’ He pulled himself away then, as if he hadn’t meant to say that word or put any emphasis on it.

Answers. In that she would agree—it was why she had written to him.

‘Then you should have replied to my letter.’

He hadn’t because he didn’t truly want answers. He was a mercenary—had fashioned himself to be a trained killer. He’d wanted to leave this home that she loved, and he’d wanted never to return. Now he made demands for no reason.

‘Your letter?’ His expression turned mutinous. ‘Damn your letter. How could I have answered that? Do you know when I received your precious letter?’

His hand went to the back of his head, as if to brush through his hair, but his fingers stopped at the strap of the eye patch.

Biting out another curse, he jerked his hand away before locking his venomous gaze with her. ‘Too. Late. That’s when I received your letter.’

Nicholas was like a berserker, crying for blood across the field, and everything in her wanted to answer. To raise her own sword and strike the killing blow.

He was a madman, a mercenary with no conscience. He should be mourning his friend’s death. Should be apologising for not answering their letters. He should have been here when her mother died.

He’d done nothing.

And Louve had sent her out here to provide comfort. There was no comforting madness and cruelty.

They stood here in this graveyard, shouting on matters that had no bearing in the present. Right now it wasn’t about them, or the past and their arguments. Those had been long decided by his absence, by his deeds. All that mattered now was that she was the one who’d married Roger; she had been there at his death. And she’d go to her grave making sure that Nicholas, who had abandoned them all, knew why.

‘Stop making this into something it’s not. You don’t care about what happened to us. Roger’s dead. And I refuse to let you ignore that.’

He huffed out a breath as if she had hit him. ‘I’m not ignoring his death.’

A strike to Louve’s jaw...standing in the night surrounded by graves... Maybe he wasn’t ignoring Roger’s death, but he wasn’t acknowledging it either.

‘You refuse to talk about him.’

‘It’s pointless.’

The pain in her belly was so sharp she was certain it was physical. ‘Pointless?’ she gasped as she locked gazes with him.

There was so much there in his face as his brows drew in, as his lips parted. He wanted to say something, but then his face shut down again. The hard angles of his jaw, the slash of his cheekbones. The strip of leather along his left cheek. His scar. His eye. Why did she see it now, and not when he’d struck Louve, or when he’d gripped his father’s memorial?

To see beyond his injury must be a weakness in her. For it was the wound of a man who killed for a living. She must remember to look at that silvery bisecting jaggedness to remind her that this man had no heart.

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘It is pointless. Louve told me to come here and tell you, and you don’t care.’

‘Not now. Not yet.’ His words were clipped, as if he’d forced them out.

‘Is this too soon?’ she mocked. ‘Did you want to wait a few days? Get some rest? Have Cook prepare huge meals?’

‘It is too soon for this.’

‘Because today you returned? If you didn’t want to hear any of this you could have kept away—like the coward you are.’

‘Coward?’ he growled. ‘You want to hear what I want to know? I want to know if that child you bear is even Roger’s. Or is it Louve’s?’

Something colder than ice sliced through her. ‘Louve’s?’

He waved his arm. ‘He was standing by you so protectively this evening. Roger isn’t here. What am I to guess?’

What was he to guess? He should have known. Known never to accuse her of going from him, to Roger, to Louve. She could hate him in this moment.

‘You’ve changed.’

He gave a mocking exhalation. ‘Not enough.’

Too much. So easily she could hate him. So easily she could turn the shame and the sting to her pride when he’d left her begging into something darker and more bitter. Turn the emotions into being more like him. A mad mercenary.

Everything about Nicholas was as sharp as a sword. Bitter. Cold. Hurting.

And yet agony was there in his voice. Everything in her fought to acknowledge it, yet she couldn’t when the heart of his question was more significant than her pride. In a way, without asking about Roger, he was.

‘You need to know,’ she said.

‘I don’t,’ he mocked. ‘But you’ll tell me anyway, won’t you?’

She wanted to throw more dirt at him and walk away, but she’d changed since he’d left. She could face his anger...and his agony. For Roger’s sake, she’d force him to listen to her.

‘This child is Roger’s, Nicholas,’ she said. ‘He died mere weeks ago, knowing he’d be a father.’

Nicholas shook his head—once, twice. Then he pivoted suddenly, took a step away from her, then another. His shoulders rose and fell with great gusts of breath.

She waited, but he remained silent and didn’t turn again. He didn’t walk away. Maybe he knew if he did, it would be she who silently followed him on this graveyard path. She who would stand close so that when he turned he’d be surprised.

She would be cleverer than him and let none of her emotions show. With his back turned, she could tell nothing of what he felt now, but she didn’t care. He stood still, and for Roger’s sake she’d make sure Nicholas heard every word.

‘Roger died by a scythe wielded by a mere child who, though it was not his fault, carries great remorse. He was training the children as he used to. It was only a cut, and yet it wouldn’t heal. It wouldn’t heal and he died. Yet here you are, asking about my children, and what burden they’ll mean for your estate.’ She forced this last word through her constricted throat.

Roger’s death had been senseless and horrific. He’d been in such pain, and utterly incoherent as his leg turned black. Death’s pungent odour had filled their home and blanketed the cradle newly built for their child.

When his condition had worsened she’d feared for Roger, felt the grief of knowing he would never see their child, would never grow old with her.

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