Married to a perfect stranger...

Reunited with her warrior husband

When Constance inherited her father’s lands, she had no choice but to marry cold-hearted Matthew Wintour. He left her for the battlefield without even a wedding night. Five years later, Matthew has returned a valiant knight! But Constance is no longer a frightened girl. And, this time, she must reach out to discover the honorable man behind the armor and what pleasures await them in the marriage bed...

JENNI FLETCHER was born in the north of Scotland and now lives in Yorkshire, with her husband and two children. She wanted to be a writer as a child, but got distracted by reading instead, finally getting past her first paragraph thirty years later. She’s had more jobs than she can remember, but has finally found one she loves. She can be contacted on Twitter @JenniAuthor or via her Facebook Author page.

Also by Jenni Fletcher

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Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Reclaimed by Her Rebel Knight

Jenni Fletcher

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08925-8

RECLAIMED BY HER REBEL KNIGHT

© 2019 Jenni Fletcher

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 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.

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To Evelynne and BGU

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Historical Note

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

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Historical Note

Extract

About the Publisher

Historical Note

In the thirteenth century marriage was regarded very differently from the way it is today. For the nobility it had little to do with love, but was a way of gaining power and influence and even making fortunes.

Betrothals could take place when the future bride and groom were still babies. Under canon law, the legal age for marriage was twelve years old for girls and fourteen for boys, although some marriages took place even earlier. However, these could later be challenged in Church Court.

In the majority of cases consummation was delayed until the bride began menstruating, and could therefore potentially provide an heir, but noblewomen rarely had any choice in the identity of the man they would marry—the husband who would effectively own them for the rest of their lives.

In 1200, a year after ascending to the English throne, King John married Isabella, the daughter of the Count of Angoulême, having dissolved his first marriage to Isabella of Gloucester on the grounds of consanguinity. Historians estimate Isabella to have been twelve years old—John was thirty-three.

Controversially, she was already betrothed to Hugh IX le Brun, Lord of Lusignan and Count of La Marche, who appealed to King Philip Augustus of France in protest, thus beginning the hostilities that led to the loss of so much English territory over the channel.

It was this territory that John attempted to reclaim in 1214, leading to the disastrous Battle of Bouvines on 27th July and the First Barons’ War of 1215.

Chapter One
Lincoln, England—November 1214

Constance crouched down beside her cousin, pressing her eye to a gap in the slats of the gallery railing above the great hall. In the gauzy light of the fireside below, she studied each of the new arrivals in turn, waiting for some flash of recognition or long-distant memory to stir. None did.

‘So?’ Isabella nudged her in the ribs. ‘Which one of them is he?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But he’s your husband! How can you not know?’

‘Because I only met him once five years ago and I was only fourteen at the time! It was before I came to live here, remember?’

‘Oh, so it was...’ Isabella giggled. ‘I couldn’t believe that you were only a year older than me and already married. And to Matthew Wintour of all people!’

‘Sir Matthew now, Uncle says.’

‘Whoever he is, I’ve been pestering Father to find me a husband ever since.’

‘I know.’ Constance threw her cousin a half-affectionate, half-exasperated look. ‘I’ve had to listen, but at least you’re betrothed now.’

‘Finally. You know, he might not be as well connected or important as your husband, but I think I’d recognise Tristan anywhere, even after five years.’

‘Maybe because you want to be married. I don’t.’

‘Well, it’s a little late to do anything about that, but you must remember something about him. What about his hair? His eyes? Was he dark or fair?’

‘Fair...I think.’

‘You think? Didn’t you spend any time alone with him?’

‘No. There was a short ceremony and then he and his father left. I never saw either of them again.’

She lifted a hand to her mouth, chewing nervously on her fingernails. As far as she recalled, she and her so-called husband hadn’t exchanged a single private word on their wedding day. They’d barely even looked at each other, except for one brief, disconcerting moment when he’d slipped the gold band over her finger. Of course he’d been older than she was, around the same age she was now at the time, but he’d barely acknowledged her existence while she’d been too nervous to throw more than a few tentative glances in his direction. They’d simply stood side by side, reciting their vows like the strangers they were. It was no wonder she didn’t recognise him!

Even so, Isabella’s questions were making her feel more and more uncomfortable. Maybe she ought to remember more about the man she’d vowed to spend the rest of her life with, but then she hadn’t particularly wanted to. Truth be told, she’d done almost everything she could to put him out of her mind since their wedding day, as if by doing so she could somehow forget the fact it had ever happened. The only thing she’d never been able to forget was the icy, almost glacial impression he’d left behind. Of all the men her uncle might have chosen for her to marry, why had it had to be him? She’d regretted her vows ever since, dreading the day when he’d come back to claim her.

But now he had and her nails were already chewed down to stubs.

‘That was really all that happened?’ Isabella sounded as if she didn’t believe her. ‘He never wrote or sent gifts?’

‘No, you know that he didn’t.’ She glanced over her shoulder quizzically. After sharing a bedchamber for five years, surely they both knew it would have been impossible to hide any gifts?

‘Not necessarily.’ Isabella shrugged. ‘I know that you don’t like to talk about him. I thought maybe you were just being secretive. Either that or you’d thrown them away.’

‘Well, I wasn’t and I didn’t. I haven’t heard anything from him since our wedding day. All I know is that he’s been away fighting for the King in Normandy. Uncle says this is the first time that he’s set foot in England in five years.’

‘He still could have sent a few messages.’ Isabella sounded offended on her behalf. ‘How strange.’

‘Mmm...’

Constance made a non-committal murmur. Strictly speaking, Isabella was right, he ought to have sent word occasionally. Not that she’d wanted him to, but since he apparently hadn’t forgotten about her existence then he could at least have sent a few gentle reminders of his own, some token attempts at gallantry at least, instead of turning up at her uncle’s manor with barely a week’s worth of notice and simply expecting her to be ready. Then she might have accustomed herself to the idea of being a wife again, as much as she ever could anyway. The only good thing about his return was that it meant she could finally go home... Five years away from Lacelby was far too long.

‘I wouldn’t want a husband I could forget.’ Her younger cousin, sixteen-year-old Emma, came scurrying along the gallery to join them, bending over to avoid being seen from below.

‘Not so loud!’ Isabella hissed with a look of irritation. ‘Father will be furious if he finds out we’re up here. And you’ll be lucky to find a husband at all with your long face. You look like a horse.’

‘I do not! Take that back!’

‘Not when you listen in to other people’s conversations.’

‘If you don’t take it back, then I’ll tell Mother you’re spying!’

Constance rolled her eyes as the two sisters began hurling insults at each other. It was a regular occurrence, though if they weren’t careful, their increasingly irate whispers would start to attract more than their father’s attention below. It wasn’t even as if they had anything to insult each other about. They were both strikingly pretty, blue-eyed and flaxen-haired with small figures and even smaller features, whereas she...

She looked down at her body in chagrin. She was too tall for a woman for a start. As tall as, and frequently taller than, most men, with curves in places she hated and a bosom that drew all the wrong kind of attention. She was the one who felt like a horse. A giant carthorse beside two delicate palfreys. Even her face looked wrong, her wide forehead and round cheeks a long way from the ideal of pale, fragile beauty that both of her female cousins naturally exemplified. The only thing she did like about her appearance was the dark hair she’d inherited from her mother, a thick wavy mass that reached all the way down to her too-wide hips, though even then the deep sable shade was unfashionable.

As much as she loved her cousins, it hadn’t been easy growing up with such paragons of female beauty. Men looked at them with expressions of admiration and awe, as if Isabella and Emma were somehow pure and untouchable, perfect examples of womanhood to be idealised from a distance. It was a stark contrast to the way they looked at her, their eyes raking over her figure with a darker, more primal emotion that made her feel obscurely frightened and even more self-conscious. She couldn’t help but wonder if her husband would look at her in the same way. Or would he simply be disappointed that he hadn’t married one of her golden cousins instead?

Not that it mattered what he thought of her, she reminded herself. Her marriage had nothing to do with looks, or compatibility for that matter, and definitely nothing to do with love, that all-consuming emotion the minstrels sang about. It was simply about her inheritance, about the property and fortune that nobody thought a woman ought to be allowed to keep or to manage on her own, no matter how much her upbringing might have prepared her for it.

As the only child of Philip and Eleanor Lacelby, she’d found herself one of the most eligible heiresses in the east of the country when they’d both succumbed to the same illness just weeks before her fourteenth birthday. It was a position that, according to her uncle, had left her vulnerable to fortune hunters, would-be seducers and villains alike. After weeks of attempting to assert her independence, she’d eventually realised that protestations were futile and marriage inevitable. Exhausted and numb with grief, she’d agreed to a union in name only until she came of age, though she’d still been unprepared for the consequences...

Marriage to Matthew Wintour, the eldest son of a neighbouring baron, had been the safest, most practical option, but while their union had meant he would become one of the most powerful men in the country some day, all it had made her was his wife. In a few short minutes, everything that she’d inherited from her parents had become his, including the home and land that she loved. To add insult to injury, he’d wasted no time in exerting his new-found authority either, simply adding Lacelby to the long list of properties already controlled by his family and ordering her away to be raised in her uncle’s household instead. He hadn’t even had the decency to tell her himself, leaving England a few days after their wedding without so much as a goodbye. It was hard not to feel outraged about it, even five years later. Even harder to think of him as anything other than a cold-hearted, arrogant and insensitive tyrant!

‘You’re just jealous!’ Emma’s high-pitched exclamation jolted her back to the present. ‘Everyone says I’m the prettiest. Even Tristan.’

‘He does not!’ Isabella looked as if she were about to hurl herself bodily at her sister. ‘When did he say so?’

Constance heaved a sigh and pressed her eye back to the gap in the slats, pushing reminiscence aside as she focused all her attention on the men below. There were three of them, not including her uncle, though in the murky light it was hard to make out whether they had dark or fair or even green hair for that matter. Judging by their style of dress, they were all soldiers, wearing chainmail collars above brown-leather gambesons and russet-coloured surcoats, and they were all faintly bedraggled, though since it had been raining for most of the day that was hardly surprising.

She frowned, chewing on her thumbnail in frustration. The clouds of steam emanating from their damp clothes made it look as though there were a layer of mist floating around them, obscuring her view and giving the scene a somewhat uncanny aspect. It would help if they would only turn their heads since the way they were gathered meant that she could catch only fleeting glimpses of their profiles, though no sooner had the thought occurred to her than a servant entered the hall and they all did just that, finally allowing her a clear view of their faces.

She caught her breath, examining each of the men as quickly and intently as possible. One of them was too old, in his fifties by the look of him, which effectively narrowed the choice to two. Which still didn’t help since there was nothing remotely familiar about either.

They were both above average height, with broad shoulders and distinctly weather-beaten aspects, but whereas the one on the left of the fireplace had an amiable, handsome face and what appeared to be chestnut-brown hair, the one on the right looked as if he’d never smiled a day in his life. He might have been good looking, but it was impossible to tell by the way he was glowering, as if he suspected the servant approaching them to be carrying a dagger and not a tray laden with cups. The very thought made her uneasy. What on earth could they be talking about to make him look so defensive?

She bit down hard on another fingernail, dismayed to note that in the glow of the firelight his hair looked to be fairer than that of the others, tinged with a hint of copper and swept back from a square-shaped face in which every feature, from his heavily stubbled jaw to his high-angled cheekbones looked as if they’d been sculpted with a knife. They gave him a faintly dangerous aspect, exacerbated by his scowling brows and an air of restlessness that she could sense even from her position above and at the opposite end of the hall. The longer she looked, the more she thought there was something familiar about him, too, something about the rigid set of his shoulders and the way he planted his feet so firmly apart as if he were bracing himself for something... Just as he’d stood on their wedding day.

She felt a shiver run down her spine, struck by the same glacial aspect she’d tried so hard to forget. Not him! Surely her memory was playing tricks on her and she was mistaken. She had to be mistaken! Unfortunately, she didn’t think she was. The glower, the stance, the sense of coiled, tightly leashed tension... Suddenly they all seemed too familiar... Her chest contracted almost violently as her heart plummeted all the way down to her toes.

‘Mother’s coming!’

She almost jumped into the air in surprise as William, her youngest cousin at five years old, poked his head around the gallery door where he’d been posted as lookout.

‘Come on!’ Isabella grabbed hold of her hand, hauling her back to her feet as Emma scampered quickly away.

‘Wait, I think I know which one he is.’

‘There’s no time!’

‘But that’s him! That’s my husband!’

She pointed over her shoulder, saying the words at the same moment as the object of them lifted his head and looked up. Despite the darkness, she had the distinct impression that he scowled straight at her.

* * *

Sir Matthew Wintour waved away the offer of wine with a grimace. Tonight more than ever he needed a clear head, even if none of his companions shared the same sense of caution. Laurent in particular was draining his cup as if they were toasting each other’s good health and not discussing the future of the whole kingdom. As if treason were something to drink to.

There had been noises from the gallery a few moments before, like muffled voices and the rustling of skirts, which he’d been relieved to see had been the case. He’d dimly been able to make out the shape of one woman at least, though he wondered if he’d guessed her identity correctly.

His wife’s residence in her uncle’s household had provided a good excuse for leaving the King’s increasingly suspicious court and coming to visit Roul d’Amboise so soon upon his return to England. A useful one, too, since it allowed him to bring Jerrard and Laurent under the pretence of a belated—very belated—wedding celebration, though personally he would have preferred to postpone the reunion with his wife a while longer. Another five years preferably, but now that she’d reached a more suitable age for marriage he could hardly avoid it.

It was strange enough being back in England, even stranger to believe that he actually had a wife, especially when his memory of her consisted of little more than a pair of frightened grey eyes, but strange or not, he and Lady Constance were married. Unquestionably and indisputably so. Because of his actions and mistakes, she was a Wintour, which meant that he had no choice but to do the right thing by her even if he’d managed to fail just about every other woman in his life. No matter that he’d been forced into the union, no matter how important his other concerns, he was responsible for her well-being as well as for all her lands and properties, first and foremost her castle at Lacelby. His father had taken care of the latter during his absence abroad, but now that he was back in England, most likely for good, it would be his—their—marital home, where they would live just as soon as they’d visited Wintercott. Something else he would have avoided if possible.

‘Was our defeat in France really so bad, then?’ Her Uncle Roul looked sombre after Jerrard, the most experienced soldier among them, finished giving an account of the English army’s recent campaign.

‘Catastrophic.’ Jerrard had never been one to mince words. ‘John has big schemes, but no idea how to manage an army or lead men into battle. He thinks that money solves everything and flees every time the enemy gets within fifty miles, often at the cost of our own allies. Our territories across the channel are all but lost. Anjou, Maine and Touraine. The French must be laughing at how easy he makes it for them.’

‘What do his soldiers say of him?’

‘They call him Softsword behind his back because he always runs from a fight. He’s accused of cowardice and despised for employing mercenaries.’

‘Which he pays for by levying fines and increasing taxes at home.’ Laurent had finally finished drinking. ‘My father’s estate is almost in ruins and he’s not the only one. Everyone knows John’s the worst King we’ve ever had, but our families still suffer for his incompetence and corruption. The time’s come to make a stand.’

‘Perhaps we shouldn’t discuss this so openly.’ Matthew threw a pointed look at the gallery. ‘These are dangerous words.’

Roul looked mildly offended. ‘You’ve nothing to be afraid of here. I vouch for everyone under my roof.’

Which would be no help at all if they were accused of treason, Matthew barely stopped himself from replying, though the others looked reassured.

‘It’s incredible to think that John and the Lionheart were brothers.’ Jerrard heaved a sigh. ‘King Richard was a born leader of men, but John’s ineptitude only emboldens our enemies. If we’re not careful, he’ll bring a French invasion down on our heads. We’ve had forty years of peace in England, but these are dangerous times.’

‘Then what is it you want of me?’ Roul gulped his wine with the look of a man fortifying himself for the answer.

‘Nothing for now,’ Matthew answered as Jerrard hesitated. ‘But the barons have had enough. Some are already in open revolt, others are biding their time, but all agree that John’s behaviour needs to be curbed. There’s talk of a charter limiting his powers so that he can’t act as he pleases any more. We’re gathering support, approaching those we think might stand with us if it comes to a confrontation.’

‘What kind of a confrontation?’ Roul looked anxious. ‘You know when I arranged your marriage to my niece I thought I was providing a secure future for her. I never imagined I was marrying her to a rebel.’

‘I’m not a rebel.’ Matthew held the other man’s gaze squarely. ‘I’m a loyal subject of England and the Crown, which is why I don’t want to see John destroy it either. With any luck, he can be made to see reason.’

‘And if he can’t?’

‘If he can’t, then the barons together will decide what to do. All I know is that abuses of power need to be challenged and bad kings held to account if necessary.’

‘I agree, but there are some who might not. Your own father, for example.’

‘My father has no more interest in politics.’

‘But he used to be a close confidant of the King, did he not?’

‘Once.’ Matthew clenched his jaw, holding his temper in check as Jerrard threw him a warning look. He supposed he could hardly blame others for suspecting that he might have divided loyalties, however much the suggestion offended him. In their position, he would probably suspect the same, but then none of them knew the full extent of, nor the reasons behind, his estrangement from his father. ‘Which is why I haven’t told him anything about this and have no intention of doing so. My father and I disagree on a great number of subjects. John is the least of them.’

Roul nodded solemnly. ‘You’re certainly very different in character, no matter how much you look alike, though I confess we haven’t had much communication since his marriage last year.’

‘He’s married again?’ Laurent sounded incredulous. ‘How many stepmothers have you had now, Matthew?’

‘This is the fourth.’ He scowled at the thought. Another poor woman, doubtless little older than his own bride...

‘So what’s that? Five marriages and four wives dead? You’d think they’d be too scared to marry him in case they’re next!’ Laurent started to laugh and then clamped his mouth shut abruptly. ‘Sorry Matthew, I didn’t think. The wine...’

‘Your mother is still greatly missed,’ Roul interceded tactfully, ‘and I’d say that you take after her in character.’

‘I hope so.’ Because he didn’t want to consider the alternative...

‘Because of that, I’ll trust you. If you make a stand against the King, then I’ll support you, too. You have my word and my silence.’ Roul clapped a hand on Matthew’s shoulder, smiling as if the subject were over and dealt with. ‘And now that’s settled, we have pleasanter matters to discuss. My wife is planning a banquet tomorrow to celebrate your reunion with my niece. I think you’ll be pleased. Constance has grown into a fine and accomplished young lady.’

‘I look forward to it,’ Matthew lied, finally accepting a cup and raising it to hide his underwhelmed expression. She could be the finest, most accomplished young lady in the whole of England for all it mattered to him, but marriage vows were marriage vows and it was his duty to keep them.

‘To Lady Constance.’ He raised his cup in what he hoped was an enthusiastic-sounding toast. ‘My wife.’

Chapter Two

Constance sat on the edge of her bed, barefoot in a cotton shift as Isabella ransacked her coffers.

‘You have to make a little effort to dress up for him.’ Her cousin was adamant as ever. ‘What about your red gown? The one with the white beads?’

‘No.’

‘But it suits you.’

‘Absolutely not!’

She shook her head, nibbling on the jagged remnants of her fingernails and averting her eyes from the rich crimson fabric. It was true that red was her best colour, complementing her colouring and making her olive complexion seem to glow, but it made her painfully self-conscious, too. That particular gown had been a birthday gift from her uncle and aunt, but she preferred to blend into the background rather than stand out quite so dramatically and the prospect of seeing her husband was nerve-racking enough. Aside from the fact that she had no desire to dress up for him, as Isabella put it, she didn’t want to see him again at all! The banquet her aunt had arranged was only a few hours away and she had to fight the temptation to dive back under her bedcovers and refuse to come out.

‘Why not the red?’ Isabella was pouting now.

‘Because it’s too bright. My green bliaut and surcoat will suffice.’

‘But they’re so drab! That surcoat looks like a sack on you.’

‘It’s just loose, that’s all.’ The way that she liked it. Tight-fitting gowns only drew attention to her curves...

‘No.’ Isabella put her hands on her own narrow hips emphatically. ‘As your cousin I refuse to allow it. He’s your husband. You want to make a good first impression, don’t you?’

‘Second impression.’

‘Well, the first one was too long ago to count. You admitted you barely spoke to him on your wedding day.’ She smirked. ‘Although now I see why.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just that the rest of us met him in the hall this morning when you were still asleep and he was so stern. Emma tried to flirt with him and he gave her such a scathing look! Served her right, but she’s still sulking about it.’

‘Oh.’ Constance blinked, uncertain about what to make of either his or her younger cousin’s behaviour. ‘But why didn’t you wake me this morning?’

‘Because you were tossing and turning for most of the night and Mother said we ought to let you rest. Wait, I know!’ Isabella snapped her fingers. ‘Mother’s blue gown. The one you wore to the Michaelmas feast last year. I’ll ask if you can borrow it again.’

‘No!’ Constance raised her hands in panic, gesturing awkwardly at her chest. ‘It was too tight...here.’

‘I know.’ Isabella giggled. ‘That’s why he’ll like it. Half the men in the hall couldn’t take their eyes off you that day.’

‘It was horrible.’

‘They were like dogs slobbering over a piece of meat. I’d take it as a compliment.’

‘You weren’t the meat.’

‘Well, this is different. Your husband’s allowed to slobber, isn’t he? Besides...’ Isabella tilted her head to one side speculatively ‘...you’ve lost weight since then. You aren’t feeling unwell, are you?’

‘No, just nervous.’ Constance averted her face to hide her expression of guilt. Since the summer, she’d been making a concerted effort to eat less, not that it had made any difference to her hips and breasts. Only her face and arms had ended up looking thinner.

‘It’ll be all right.’ Isabella sat down and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. ‘Father would never have married you to a monster.’

‘I know. And I know he only did what he thought was best, but I just wish he hadn’t married me to anyone.’

‘But he had to, you know that. Lacelby was practically besieged with suitors after your parents died. They would never have left you alone, not until you’d chosen between them, and there was a danger the King might have made you a ward and kept all your inheritance for himself. He’s done it before, Mother says. He puts unmarried women in the Tower, claiming it’s for their own safety, but really to make sure they never marry and have heirs so then all the land becomes his. You’re lucky the Wintours are such a powerful family or it might have happened to you, too. Without your husband’s protection you might have lost all your inheritance.’

‘So I ought to thank him for taking it instead?’

‘No—’ Isabella sounded chastened ‘—I just meant that it could have been worse.’

‘You’re right.’ Constance tipped her head sideways, resting her cheek against her cousin’s shoulder apologetically. ‘I’m sorry I snapped. I know that you’re right, but I still can’t help resenting him for it. He took my inheritance and sent me away from Lacelby as if I were just a child. He never even spoke to me, let alone asked what I wanted. Even if he isn’t a monster, what if I can’t stop resenting him? What if we just make each other miserable for the rest of our lives?’

‘That’s a risk for any marriage. Sometimes I worry about Tristan.’

‘You do?’ Constance lifted her head again in surprise. Isabella had done nothing but enthuse about her betrothed ever since they’d met. ‘But you love Tristan. You said he was perfect.’

‘No, I said that he seemed perfect. That doesn’t mean he is. Anyone can seem perfect.’

Anyone except for her husband, Constance thought bitterly. He hadn’t even seemed pleasant. If only she could have waited a few years to marry, then she might have chosen a husband for herself, one who she might have liked and respected, who wouldn’t have treated her like a child, but allowed her a mind of her own. Then perhaps in time there might have been affection. Fondness. Maybe even love, just like in the songs... She bit down hard on another nail. One glimpse of Matthew Wintour and it was impossible to imagine feeling for him the way Isabella felt for Tristan.

‘We just have to hope for the best.’ Isabella jumped off the bed, dispelling the sombre mood. ‘Now I’m going to fetch Mother’s dress and I don’t want to hear any more arguments. It makes your eyes look turquoise.’ She stopped halfway across the room. ‘Do you know what’s funny? That we’ve shared a room for five years and I’m still not certain what colour your eyes are.’

‘Grey.’

‘Not quite. They change colour depending on the light. Right now, for example, they look green.’

‘So I should wear my green surcoat?’

‘Nice try. I’ll throw it on the fire if so.’

‘All right, you win, I’ll wear the blue,’ Constance smiled, appreciating her cousin’s efforts to cheer her up, however futile. ‘Isabella?’ she called out as an afterthought. ‘You’ll come and visit me at Lacelby, won’t you?’

‘As long as you come to my wedding.’

‘You know I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back tears as Isabella went off in search of the gown. Of course she wanted to go to her cousin’s wedding, to visit her often as well, but so much depended on their husbands and what they would and would not permit. Tristan seemed smitten enough to allow Isabella anything, but she had no idea about Matthew, the man who’d claimed her inheritance and, with it, all control over her life.

A fresh burst of anger coursed through her, so hot and fierce that she felt positively feverish by the time Isabella came back with the gown draped over her arms. It was undeniably beautiful, the colour of the sky on a warm summer’s evening with a square neckline, tight bodice and long fitted sleeves that flared out at the cuffs, though at that precise moment she felt like hurling it to the ground and stomping all over it.

‘I found a gold belt, too.’ Isabella gestured for her to stand up and then hauled the silk over her head. ‘You’ll look lovely, I promise.’

‘Of course she will.’ Her aunt followed Isabella into the room, giving Constance a swift look of appraisal before starting to tug at the intricate side lacings. Just like her daughters, she was blonde, beautiful and slender, even after five children. ‘Your parents would have been proud of you.’

‘Do you really think so, Aunt?’ The words brought a lump to Constance’s throat.

‘I know so. You’re a virtuous young lady and a credit to your family. What more could a man want?’

Quite a lot, Constance thought silently. Beauty for a start...

‘If only my daughters would stop thinking about their appearances long enough to behave the same way.’ Her aunt pursed her lips at Isabella. ‘Now we need to hurry. He’s waiting in my solar.’

‘Already?’ Constance felt her stomach swoop. ‘I thought the banquet wasn’t for another few hours?’

‘It isn’t, but your uncle and I thought it would be a good idea for the two of you to get reacquainted first.’

‘You mean just the two of us?’ Her mouth turned dry at the thought, the words emerging as a kind of stricken croak. ‘But we were never acquainted in the first place!’

‘Well, here’s your chance.’

‘But—’

‘Why couldn’t they meet yesterday evening?’ Isabella interrupted. ‘What was he talking to Father about?’

‘Important matters that don’t concern you.’ Her aunt’s tone was brisk.

‘What can be more important than seeing his wife after five years?’

‘Was it about the King losing so much territory across the Channel?’ Constance lowered her voice discreetly. She’d overheard enough rumours to guess what the ‘important matters’ might be, though as usual her uncle refused to discuss any of them with her.

‘Hush, child.’ Her aunt gave her a pointed look. ‘It’s men’s business, not ours.’

‘But why not ours? He’s our King, too.’

‘Enough!’ Her aunt closed the subject by pressing a hand to Constance’s cheek. ‘Do you remember what we discussed the other evening?’

‘Yes, Aunt.’ Although Constance wished that she didn’t. That conversation had made her feel a hundred times worse about her husband’s return. The marital bed had been a place of mystery before, but now it was one of positive horror. Not to mention that her monthly courses had started the day before. As if her stomach hadn’t been churning enough, now she had cramps to contend with as well!

‘Good.’ Her aunt patted her cheek again. ‘Now just remember that most brides find it painful at first, but there’s no need to be afraid. Best to get it over with so that you can enjoy the banquet later. There.’ She gave one last tug on the lacings and then took a step backwards, seemingly oblivious to the rush of panic her words had just created. ‘I think that you’re ready.’

‘But...’ Constance had the distinct impression that her feet had just rooted themselves to the spot. The last thing she felt was ready! Best to get it over with? Was that what getting reacquainted meant? She’d only just come to terms with the idea of seeing him again, never mind anything else! She’d assumed that the rest would happen later, when they were back at Lacelby maybe...or hopefully never...

‘Well, go on then.’ Her aunt was starting to sound impatient. ‘And remember to let him do the talking. Be modest and obedient and agree with everything he says.’

‘What if I don’t agree?’

‘Then he’s the last person you should tell.’

‘But...’

‘No more buts! A good wife doesn’t keep her husband waiting. Just do your best and make your uncle and me proud.’

‘Yes, Aunt.’ Constance pressed a hand to her roiling stomach, torn between resentment, dread and a powerful urge to run as far away as her legs would carry her. ‘I’ll do my best.’

Chapter Three

Half an hour. Matthew tapped his foot irritably. He’d been standing around for half an hour, staring into the fire and waiting for his wife to make an appearance. Where the hell was she?

She hadn’t been with the rest of the family when they’d broken their fast that morning, though it had come as something of a relief at the time. The situation was irksome enough without an audience watching them, too, but now he wished they’d simply got the reunion over with. If they had, then he wouldn’t have had to be here now, waiting and wasting his time when there were much more important matters he could be discussing elsewhere. If she was acting coy, thinking it would somehow increase her appeal, then she was very much mistaken. He wasn’t in the habit of waiting for women.

For his wife, however, he conceded that he ought to make an exception. Just this once, though he had no intention of letting it happen again. As a knight in the King’s service, he’d found it was best to let new soldiers know from the start how they were expected to behave, though he supposed he’d have to moderate his language for a lady. He probably ought to have used the time waiting to think of some gallant-sounding way to explain it, but now he was far too annoyed to try.

He glanced at the daybed in the middle of the solar and then marched across to the window. Judging by the number of artfully arranged cushions on top of the coverlet, not to mention the pitcher of wine set on a table alongside, the pair of them were expected to consummate their marriage sooner rather than later. It was distinctly unsettling, the presumption of intimacy with a complete stranger he was none the less committed to spending the rest of his life with. What was he expected to do, woo her straight into bed with sweet words and compliments? Even if he’d known any, which he didn’t, in his current mood he would have preferred a nap. If he’d known how late she would be, he could already have had one.

The blunt truth was that he didn’t know the first thing about being a husband. His father had never been much of a role model—quite the opposite, in fact—so that at least he knew how not to behave, but as for the rest, he was in the dark. He was used to living among men, to sleeping in a tent and talking about military tactics and supply routes, not cavorting with ladies. He had no idea how to talk to those and his unmarried companions hadn’t been able to offer much helpful advice either. According to Laurent, however, the most important thing was not to frown. Which was particularly difficult when frowning was his customary expression, but he’d been told the effect could be quite intimidating and he was supposed to be getting to know the woman, not frightening her.

He only hoped she wasn’t anything like her female cousins. They were both fashionably beautiful, he supposed, albeit a little insipid-looking for his own tastes, but altogether too aware of their own attractions to be truly attractive. The younger one had batted her eyelashes so coquettishly that morning that he’d been forced to scowl back—a response which, now he thought of it, probably explained Laurent’s advice. Personally, he’d settle for a wife who wasn’t a flirt. The last thing he needed was another woman like Blanche...

There was a brief tap on the door, mercifully distracting him from his memories, before it opened a crack and a woman’s face appeared in the gap.

‘Come in.’

He turned away from the window, noting the momentary hesitation before she stepped inside and closed the door softly behind her, as if she’d been considering making a run for it instead.

His first, favourable impression was that she was nothing at all like her cousins. So different, in fact, that it was hard to see any family resemblance, not just in looks, but in manner, too. There wasn’t the faintest hint of coquettishness about her, not in the steady way that she walked, nor in her face which was striking rather than beautiful with strong, definitely not insipid features and thick brows framed by dark hair twisted into a seemingly endless braid over one shoulder.

He let his gaze follow the braid downwards, over a vibrant blue gown that put him in mind of a summer’s meadow. For a confusing moment, he thought he actually caught a scent of wildflowers, as if a breath of fresh air had blown into the room with her, though the very idea made him frown again. It wasn’t like him to be poetic. Or to think of flowers for that matter. Or to be pleased simply because a woman had lustrous dark hair and was far, far more appealing than he remembered. Suddenly the daybed didn’t seem like such a bad idea...

‘My lord?’ Her footsteps faltered briefly before she dipped into a curtsy and then stood stock-still like a soldier awaiting inspection.

‘Lady Constance?’

‘Yes, my lord.

He clasped his hands behind his back and made a concerted effort to unclench his brows, surprised to find that her face wasn’t as far away as he would have expected. Most women were a good head shorter than he was, but her eyes were on a level with his chin. She’d certainly grown over the past five years, not just upwards but outwards, too, her low curtsy allowing him to judge just how much. He’d lifted his gaze away from her generous cleavage and back to her face just in time, surprised to find that her eyes were blue rather than the grey he remembered. For a moment he’d actually wondered if there had been some mistake, but then she’d answered to Lady Constance...hadn’t she? He was so distracted by the sight of her that it was honestly hard to remember.

‘I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting.’ Her voice was low and measured, though with a distinctly brittle edge.

He opened his mouth to confirm it and then changed his mind. Her hands were clasped together so tightly at her waist that he could see the whites of her knuckles and her stance was tense, the way soldiers looked before a battle. Was that how she thought of their reunion, as a battle? Perhaps he ought not to reprimand her for tardiness this time after all, although as to what else he might say... He cleared his throat awkwardly. He hadn’t expected to be quite so—what was the word?—speechless...

‘You’ve grown.’

They were the first words that came into his head, though judging by the immediate flash in her eyes, they were also the wrong ones. Oddly enough, however, he found the defiant spark reassuring. Those frightened grey eyes—he’d thought they were grey anyway—from their wedding day had haunted him ever since.

‘It’s been five years.’ Her retort sounded even more brittle.

‘I suppose so. You were just a child when we last met.’

Another flash, even brighter this time. ‘I was fourteen.’

‘As I said, just a child.’ He inclined his head as she jutted her chin forward slightly. ‘Or do you not think fourteen young?’

‘I think it depends. Some ladies run households at fourteen.’

‘Not many, I should think, and not on their own.’

‘That doesn’t make it impossible.’

‘No—’ he wasn’t quite sure why they were arguing ‘—but perhaps not advisable either.’

She thrust her chin out even further, looking as if she were on the verge of arguing some more, before changing her mind and dropping her eyes instead. ‘I’m sure that you’re right, my lord.’

‘You’re nineteen now?’ He decided to move the conversation on to safer territory.

‘Yes, my lord, and you twenty-four?’

‘Twenty-five.’ He lifted an eyebrow at her forthrightness. A man’s age wasn’t something a lady would usually ask, but then he had just asked hers. Fair was fair. ‘It was my birth date last month.’

‘Oh.’ She pursed her lips as if she were less than impressed by the fact. ‘Then I wish you a happy birthday, my lord.’

He didn’t bother to lower his eyebrow, surprised by the strange combination of submissiveness and defiance about her. There was an undercurrent of antagonism in her voice that suggested she was angry at him, but why? It wasn’t as if he’d expected a joyous reunion, but she was as tense and defensive as a cornered animal. Surely it wasn’t because he’d said that she’d grown? It had only been a statement of fact, although in retrospect, he supposed some kind of compliment might have been more appropriate...especially as an introduction...and he was frowning again...

‘My friends call me Matthew. You may do so, too, if you wish.’ He attempted a small, very small, smile. Under the circumstances, it was the best he could do.

‘Very well.’

‘I hope that we can be friends...’ he held on to her gaze, loath to state the obvious, though it appeared to be necessary ‘...since we’ve already vowed to spend the rest of our lives together.’

This time the flash was so bright it practically scorched him. ‘I had not forgotten.’

Matthew folded his arms, attempting to restrain a growing sense of irritation. So much for getting to know her. The relief and attraction he’d felt when she’d entered was already wearing thin. He was back to being irritated again—and starting to wonder whether one of her cousins might have been preferable after all.

‘You seem uncomfortable, lady.’ He made one last attempt at conversation. ‘Ours is a strange situation, is it not?’

‘I did not say so.’ Her eyes flickered towards the daybed. ‘I am here, my l—Matthew.’

He followed the direction of her gaze. Was that why she was behaving so combatively? Since the position of the bed wasn’t exactly subtle, he could only imagine what her aunt had told her to expect. Personally, he wasn’t sure whether to feel amused or offended, but he supposed in that case it was no wonder she looked so tense, as if she expected him to leap on her at any moment. Well, he could set her mind at ease on that score at least. He had no intention of doing anything besides talking to her today and he’d just about lost patience with that.

‘Which doesn’t answer the question.’ He decided to be blunt. ‘Perhaps you are displeased with me?’

‘I do not know you.’ She looked straight at him then, blue-grey eyes bright as sapphires and blazing with some fierce emotion. ‘Like you say, this is a strange situation and we are strangers. How could I be anything but uncomfortable?’

‘You’re right.’ He considered briefly before unfolding his arms. ‘Then perhaps it might help you to know that I feel the same way. We barely know each other and yet tonight we’re expected to sit side by side at a feast and make a public show of ourselves. I’m a soldier. I’ve no idea how to play the husband, but...I am here, too.’

He planted his feet firmly apart, waiting for another spark, possibly a whole bonfire this time, but instead she simply regarded him with a look of surprise.

‘You feel the same way?’

‘I’d rather face a dozen French soldiers single-handed. No offence, lady.’

‘I do not think I’d fare so well against a dozen French soldiers, but...’ her tense expression eased slightly ‘...I’ve no idea how to play the wife either.’

‘Then perhaps we’re well matched after all.’ He took a step closer, holding a hand out palm upwards towards her. ‘Although I don’t believe you would ever be called on to fight. I’m sure any French soldiers would be smitten by your charms first.’

As compliments went he’d thought it wasn’t too bad, for a first attempt anyway, surely nothing that would justify the way her eyes suddenly widened and her cheeks flushed as if he’d just insulted her.

‘There’s no need to mock me.’

‘Mock you?’ He was surprised by the tremor of emotion in her voice. ‘I was not...’

‘My charms?’

She lifted her hands, clasping them together over her chest protectively, though it still took him a few moments to work out what she was referring to and then a few more to believe it. Then he burst out laughing.

‘It’s not funny!’ Her cheeks were practically crimson now.

‘It is if you thought I meant that! Those!’ He cleared his throat, attempting to pull himself back together, but now that he’d started laughing it was proving difficult to stop. It had been so long since anything had really amused him.

‘Stop it!’ She sounded furious now.

‘Forgive me, lady...’ he eventually succeeded in stifling his laughter ‘...but I swear I was not mocking you. I was simply referring to your beauty.’

‘Then you’re a liar!’

The accusation made him sober again instantly. There was nothing funny about that. If she’d been a man, then he would have challenged him to a duel over the words, but she wasn’t a man. She was his wife. One who looked ready to fight him anyway.

The last tattered shreds of his patience finally snapped. So much for getting to know each other, or however her aunt had put it to him that morning. His young bride appeared to be spoiling for an argument. Well, if his company was so objectionable, he wasn’t going to waste any more time making stilted conversation. If this was marriage, then it was even worse than he’d expected.

‘Perhaps you’d like to rest before the banquet?’ He made a stiff bow and then strode determinedly past the daybed towards the door. ‘We’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other later. In the meantime, now that we’ve officially met, I’ll leave you in peace.’ He reached for the door handle. ‘Until tonight, Lady Constance.’

Chapter Four

‘Don’t!’ Constance waited until the very last moment, calling out as he lifted the door handle.

‘Why?’ Her husband looked back over his shoulder, his expression an unmistakable and somewhat intimidating blend of impatience and anger. ‘Was there something else you wished to accuse me of?’

She shook her head, wishing that she could go back and start the interview all over again. As it turned out, she’d guessed his identity correctly the previous evening, but meeting him in person had proven even more difficult than she’d anticipated. It had been hard enough confronting the man who’d usurped her inheritance and banished her from the home that she’d loved, but the sight of the daybed, drawn out from its usual place in the corner and set in the very centre of the room, had made things even worse. With her aunt’s advice still ringing in her ears she’d felt like a condemned prisoner on her way to the gallows.

His appearance hadn’t helped. He’d looked just as stern as before, albeit less dishevelled in a pristine white tunic, dark breeches and black leather boots instead of the bizarrely pointed shoes the men in her uncle’s household had recently taken to wearing. Clean-shaven, however, his features had looked even sharper and more dangerous, while smiling still seemed beyond him, except for one small attempt which might easily have been mistaken for a grimace. The only softness about him was in his eyes, which seemed to belong in a different face altogether. They were a deep, almost black shade of brown, wide and soulful and fringed with lashes several shades darker than the rest of his blond-and-copper-streaked mane. There was something almost feminine about them, unlike the rest of him, which was undeniably, unequivocally, masculine.

She hadn’t been able to read his expression at first, but the way that he’d scowled as she’d crossed the room had made his feelings abundantly clear. Obviously he’d been disappointed with his first sight of her, no doubt comparing her unfavourably to her cousins, though he might have tried to hide his reaction a little. Almost the very first words out of his mouth had been about her appearance and then all he’d said was that she’d grown! As if she wasn’t already keenly aware of the fact!

She’d entered the chamber determined to hide her true feelings and be ‘modest and obedient’ like her aunt had told her and then done the exact opposite, answering his questions with retorts and being generally belligerent instead. But how else could she have responded to his behaviour? ‘Modest and obedient’ were all very well, but surely that didn’t mean she had to tolerate disparaging looks and comments? Yes, she might have grown since their last meeting, but she could hardly do anything about that! And, yes, she might have been young when they’d married, but she certainly hadn’t been a child! She’d been more than capable of managing Lacelby! It was what she’d been trained for! Which her husband would have known if he’d actually bothered to speak to her on their wedding day. If he hadn’t just stolen her inheritance and left!

It had been too much to bear. All of the resentment and bitterness of the past five years had seemed to catch up with her at once, rendering ‘modest and obedient’ impossible. So she’d been rude and over-sensitive, misinterpreting his words and then insulting him in the worst way possible, but she’d never been so mortified in her life, first at what she’d thought he meant by her charms and then at his mirthful response.

The inevitable result was that he was leaving and she could hardly blame him. She didn’t particularly want to stop him either, but after what her aunt had said about making her and her uncle proud, Constance didn’t want to let them down either. If her husband left so soon after their reunion then the news would be around the manor in less than an hour and the banquet would be even more of an ordeal. Everyone would be talking about it and watching them, speculating as to why he’d left so soon and what had—or more precisely had not—happened between them and why. It would be hard to regard their marriage as anything other than a dismal failure and she’d promised to do her best...

‘I mean, please don’t go.’ She could hear the stiffness in her own voice. ‘I didn’t mean to be so abrupt, but...’ she sought for an excuse that didn’t involve resentment or abject rage ‘...I’m nervous.’

‘Nervous?’ He drew his already scowling brows even closer together, regarding her suspiciously for a few seconds before dropping his hand from the door handle. ‘Very well, then. Shall we sit?’

To her relief, he gestured towards the window seat instead of the daybed, almost as if he were making a point of avoiding it, and she perched on the far edge, resisting the urge to start chewing her fingernails again as he sat down beside her.

‘I should not have called you a liar.’ She folded her hands in her lap, waiting for some words of reproof, but to her surprise he sighed and spread his own hands out in a placatory gesture instead.

‘I should not have laughed.’

‘It was a misunderstanding.’

‘It was an attempt at a compliment, believe it or not. Perhaps I need more practice in making them.’

‘No, it was my fault. I did not...that is, I’m not accustomed...’ She faltered mid-sentence, wondering how to explain that she was used to a different type of comment, from men anyway. ‘I mean, both of my cousins are so beautiful...’

‘I suppose so...’ his brow creased as if he didn’t understand quite what she was trying to say ‘...in their own way. As are you, Lady Constance.’

‘Me?’ She was too astonished to even try to conceal it. Beautiful wasn’t one of the words men generally called her. They were usually far more descriptive... ‘But you scowled when I came in. I thought you were disappointed.’

He winced. ‘It’s a failing of mine, I’m afraid. I often don’t know I’m doing it, but it was not my intention to scowl. Believe me, I was not disappointed.’

‘Oh.’ She stared at him speechlessly for a few moments. Hard though it was to believe, he looked and sounded sincere—and he’d said she was beautiful...

‘In any case...’ she cleared her throat, trying to distract attention away from the pink blush she could feel spreading up her neck and over her cheeks ‘I apologise for what I said. I will try to be less...uncomfortable.’

‘As will I.’

His gaze was so direct that she turned her face towards the window, willing her cheeks to cool down as they lapsed into a pensive silence. It had started to rain again and the steady patter of water on the roof and against the windowpane seemed to echo all around them.

‘Your uncle is a good man.’ Her husband—it was still hard to think of him as Matthew—spoke again after a few minutes.

‘He’s been very kind.’

‘Your mother was his sister, I understand?’

‘Yes. They were always very close.’

‘What about your cousins? Are you close to them, too?’

‘Oh, yes—’ she smiled with enthusiasm ‘—they’re more like brothers and sisters to me. I love them all dearly, especially Isabella.’

‘I’m glad.’ He gave a satisfied-looking nod. ‘I hoped that would be the case.’

‘You hoped...?’ The words drew her up short. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Just that I thought you’d prefer living here to Wintercott.’

She stared at him in confusion. Wintercott was his family’s main residence, but what did that have to do with anything? ‘I don’t understand.’

He shrugged as if the subject wasn’t particularly important. ‘There was some discussion about where you should live after our marriage. My father suggested his household, but I thought you’d prefer being with your own family. I didn’t want you to be lonely, so I asked your uncle to take you home with him when I left England.’ He nodded again. ‘I’m glad that I made the right decision.’

‘Oh...’ She pursed her lips, resisting the urge to start another argument by asking why she’d had to leave Lacelby at all. It was true that given the choice between his father and her uncle then she would have chosen the latter, but neither had been what she’d really wanted. Even so, the fact that he’d put some thought into where she might be happiest made her resentment diminish a little.

‘You wanted to remain at Lacelby?’ His expression shifted suddenly, turning to one of comprehension. ‘That’s what you meant about being able to manage an estate at fourteen?’

She hesitated. No doubt her aunt would tell her to deny it and say that whatever decision he’d made had been the right one, but he looked as if he genuinely wanted to know the truth. Besides, she wasn’t that good a liar.

‘It was my home. When I agreed to marry you, it never occurred to me that I’d have to leave.’

‘Ah...’ he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees ‘...so that’s why you’re angry with me?’

‘I’m not...’ She bit her tongue on the lie. ‘Yes. You never asked me what I wanted. I wasn’t a child and I could have stayed and managed Lacelby on my own. My mother raised me to do it.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Yes!’ She narrowed her eyes at his sceptically raised eyebrow. ‘She ran the whole estate for months on end whenever my father was away on campaign. He called her his rock. She didn’t need any help and she taught me everything she knew.’ She lifted her chin. ‘I didn’t want to be sent away.’

‘I see. Were you homesick, then?’

‘Of course! I’d just lost my parents...’ She faltered, trying to force away the hollow feeling in her chest, the hole that threatened to open up and swallow her whenever she thought of her mother and father.

‘It must have been hard for you losing them both so suddenly.’ His voice was softer and more sympathetic than she would have imagined it could be. ‘It was some kind of illness, I understand?’

‘A fever, yes.’ She could feel his gaze on her face. ‘It was during one of my father’s visits home and swept through Lacelby like a fire. So many of us had it. I survived, but my parents died within a few days of each other.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I still miss them. Even after five years, some wounds do not heal.’

‘True.’ There was a hint of some powerful emotion in his voice. ‘And leaving Lacelby made it worse?’

‘I thought that my heart would break,’ she answered truthfully. ‘I’d had a happy childhood and my home was all that I had left of my parents. The day I rode away, I thought I’d never be happy again. I’ve been homesick ever since.’

‘But surely you’ve visited?’ He sounded faintly surprised.

‘No. My uncle thought that your father might not appreciate the intrusion.’

‘Did my father say so?’

She jumped, alarmed by the sudden note of anger in his voice. ‘Perhaps... I don’t know.’

He leaned back in the window seat, the lines between his brows deepening. ‘Forgive me, I ought to have considered how hard leaving your home might be for you. To be honest, I assumed you were grieving and that your family were best placed to take care of you, but perhaps I ought to have allowed you more time. That said, I stand by my decision. I wouldn’t have felt comfortable leaving you at Lacelby alone. I did—do—believe that fourteen is too young to manage an estate.’

‘You still could have asked.’

The retort was out before she could stop herself, but to her surprise, he only nodded.

‘You’re right, I should have. It was a difficult time in my life, too, but that’s no excuse. My only defence is that I thought I was doing the right thing. If it made you unhappy, then I’m truly sorry.’

‘Thank you.’

She leaned back, too, grateful for that concession at least. Much as she still resented his presumption that she’d been too young to manage Lacelby on her own, she had to admit she would have been lonely growing up without her cousins. He was right about that and he had apologised, and at least they weren’t butting heads any more. In fact, now she thought of it, aside from one brief outburst about his father, he’d barely scowled since they’d sat down! She tilted her head to one side, regarding him with new eyes. Somehow they’d gone from arguing to understanding in a few minutes. His whole manner seemed to have mellowed, including his voice which now sounded as deep and smooth as gold velvet. Somehow it took the edge off his sternness and made her feel inexplicably light-headed.

‘Perhaps I ought to have asked more questions about our marriage, too.’ He met her gaze again, his own faintly troubled. ‘I was told that you’d given your consent willingly.’

‘I did.’ It was her turn to frown. ‘That is, I knew my position was a precarious one and it wasn’t safe for me to remain unmarried. If I’d been born a boy or had a brother, then it would have been different, but as it was...’ She shrugged. ‘It was made clear to me that an heiress cannot remain unwed.’

‘You did not really wish to marry, then?’

‘No.’ She bit her lip, wondering if she were taking honesty a little too far, though fortunately he didn’t look angry. ‘I would have preferred to wait, to choose a husband for myself when I came of age, but I knew there was no choice.’

‘No choice...’ He repeated the words softly. ‘In that case, I’ll offer you one now, a way out if you still want it.’

‘A way out?’ Her body seemed to jerk upright of its own volition. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Since our marriage hasn’t yet been consummated, it could still be annulled.’

She was vaguely aware of her mouth dropping open. An annulment? It was almost impossible to believe that he was offering her freedom so easily and yet he appeared to be serious. ‘You would agree to that?’

‘If it’s what you truly wanted then, yes, I would. Since I ought to have consulted you five years ago, the least I can do is consult you now.’

‘But what about my fortune? My land?’

His eyes crinkled at the corners as one side of his mouth curved upwards. ‘Your opinion of me really is low. You think me a liar and a fortune hunter?’

‘No!’ She shook her head quickly. ‘I did not mean...’

‘It’s all right. I can see why you might think so. Our marriage was a practical arrangement, after all. But the truth is...’ he made a faintly apologetic gesture ‘...I have bigger concerns.’

‘Oh.’ She wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to such a statement. She seemed to feel equal parts grateful, surprised and hypocritically offended. ‘So if I wanted an annulment...’

‘You would only need ask. I would not oppose it.’

He lifted a hand to stifle a yawn and she felt a fresh stab of offence. Bigger concerns was bad enough, but now she was apparently boring him, too! Then again... She leaned closer, belatedly noticing the dark shadows around his eyes... He looked as if he hadn’t slept properly in days. Neither had she, though she doubted it was for the same reasons. It was hard to imagine him feeling anxious about seeing her. Especially when he had bigger concerns...

‘Forgive me.’ He ran a hand over his jaw. ‘It’s been a long month.’

‘Then you should rest. We have another hour or so before the banquet.’ She gestured towards the daybed. ‘Sleep. It might be a long evening otherwise.’

‘True—’ he threw a longing look towards the cushions ‘—but I would not wish to insult you, my lady.’

‘You would not be.’ No more than he just had anyway... ‘I’d appreciate some time to think over your offer.’

‘Then I’d be happy to oblige.’ He made his way across the room, collapsing enthusiastically on top of the coverlet and folding his arms behind his head with a sigh of satisfaction. ‘That’s better. Although if you want an annulment then the less time we spend alone together, the better.’

‘I know, but if either of us leaves now...’

‘We’ll both be besieged with questions. Good point.’ He sighed again and closed his eyes. ‘In that case, wake me up when you come to a decision.’

‘I will.’ She took one last look at him and then turned her face back to the window. ‘Matthew.’

Chapter Five

Constance twisted her body sideways, curling both legs up beneath her on the window seat so that she could sit comfortably and watch the rain pouring into the rapidly swelling puddles below. It was coming down in earnest now, but the sound was soothing, almost lulling her to sleep, too. The very worst of the storm was just missing them, passing by to the south by the look of it. Though if the last few weeks were anything to go by, it wouldn’t be long before the next. The ground had been waterlogged now for almost a month, though fortunately the harvest had all been collected before the weather had turned. At this rate, however, the winter promised to be a long one.

None of which was the subject she ought to be thinking about. She ought to be thinking about her husband’s offer of an annulment and whether or not she could accept it. A few days ago she would have said yes in a heartbeat, but a few days ago she would never have considered it a possibility. Now that it was, the decision wasn’t so easy, mainly because the kind of man who would make such an offer was exactly the kind of man she would want to stay married to. The irony would have amused her if she hadn’t spent the past five years resenting him!

She glanced over her shoulder at the daybed. Judging by the sound of his breathing, Matthew was fast asleep, his chest rising and falling so steadily that she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. She’d spent the last few nights tossing and turning with worry and yet he’d gone to sleep simply by closing his eyes! Probably because he wasn’t, as it turned out, particularly bothered about whether she remained married to him or not. He had bigger concerns. Which at least proved that he wasn’t the fortune-hunting opportunist she’d assumed, though his attitude towards her inheritance was somewhat perplexing, too. He’d seemed almost ambivalent about Lacelby and the land that came with it, but if that were the case then why had he married her in the first place? He’d said something about it taking place during a difficult time in his life, but surely he’d wanted her inheritance five years ago? In which case, why offer to give it up now?

On the other hand, what did it matter? Why wasn’t as important as what she ought to do next, whether to accept the freedom he offered or to stay married. Amazingly, he’d left the decision up to her, although if she chose an annulment then she doubted the King would let her remain unmarried for long, presuming he didn’t take her inheritance for himself, that was. If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up in the same position she’d been in five years ago, compelled to be wed, although at least this time she might be allowed to make her own choice.

Now that she thought about it, however, the prospect seemed more than a little daunting. It wasn’t as if she had much experience of men—certainly not much good experience. How could she possibly know who would or would not make a good husband? At least with Matthew Wintour she knew what she was getting, or had a rough idea anyway.

Besides, more than anything she wanted to go home and an annulment would only complicate matters and delay her return even further. Matthew Wintour might be the man who’d sent her away, but he was also her way back. And once he’d stopped scowling she’d found him surprisingly easy to talk to. She’d never told anyone how desperately homesick she’d been when she’d first left Lacelby, not even her uncle or Isabella for fear of upsetting them. It had been a relief to finally admit it out loud, as if the words had been on the very tip of her tongue for years. Somehow she’d felt able to tell him, a complete stranger who was still, somehow, her husband. Maybe because he seemed like the kind of man who appreciated the truth. Maybe because he wasn’t the arrogant tyrant she’d first assumed him to be. It was still hard to imagine feeling for him the way Isabella felt for Tristan, but he was more observant, more considerate, more sensitive even than she’d expected, albeit in a stern, forbidding kind of way. Not to mention far more good looking than she’d given him credit for the previous evening. And then there was his voice... Not that she was going to forgive just because of that!

Most important of all, however, was that the way he looked at her didn’t frighten her. As far as she could tell, he’d kept his gaze above her neck the whole time they’d been talking. Not many men did that. Not unless...she tensed as a new, less appealing thought occurred to her...unless that was why he’d offered an annulment, because he really wanted one himself? He’d called her beautiful and said he wasn’t disappointed, but what if he was lying? What if he’d taken one look at her and decided that he wanted a way out of their marriage even if it meant giving up her inheritance, too? She didn’t know which was worse, a husband who stared as if she were a piece of meat or one who didn’t want to look at her at all...

The dull thrumming of the rain against the window seemed to get louder and louder as she mulled over each idea in her head, only the gradual darkening of the sky outside alerting her to the fact that time was passing and she really ought to wake him. The banquet would be starting soon and they were the guests of honour. If she chose to stay married to him, that was.

Reluctantly, she stood up and walked across to the daybed. Despite the sound of raised voices and tables being set out below, Matthew was still fast asleep, flat on his back with one arm across his chest and the other stretched above his head. She reached a hand out to touch his shoulder and then stopped with her fingers a hair’s breadth away. She was used to sharing a bed with Isabella, but being so close to a sleeping man was different. He was almost twice the size of her cousin for a start and the warmth emanating from his large body felt strangely intimate and exciting, making her heart race and her body shiver in a way she’d never experienced before. She leaned closer, bringing her face almost to a level with his as she breathed in his musky scent, a combination of leather, sandalwood and something else...something indefinable and male. Up close she could see flecks of stubble across his chin, pale golden hairs that made her want to reach out and...

A light tap on the door made her whirl around guiltily.

‘It’s almost time.’ Her aunt’s voice outside sounded distinctly smug, Constance noticed, opening her mouth to answer and then almost yelping with surprise as Matthew did it for her.

‘We’ll be down shortly!’

He was already swinging his legs over the side of the bed by the time she turned round again, looking as wide awake and alert as if he’d never been asleep at all, and she felt her cheeks flame with embarrassment. What must he have thought to wake up and find her standing so close beside him? Not that she’d been doing anything wrong. Just looking...

‘How long was I asleep?’ He arched an eyebrow as the sound of her aunt’s footsteps receded.

‘Just about an hour, maybe. I lost track of time.’

‘Thinking?’ The eyebrow quirked higher. ‘Then have you come to a decision, Lady Constance?’

‘Just Constance.’ She caught her breath, feeling an unexpected thrill at the sound of her name on his lips. The way his voice lingered on the last syllable made her feel as if they were actually touching. ‘And, yes, I have.’ She swallowed, watching intently for his reaction. ‘I’ve decided that if you’re content to remain married, then so am I.’

He hesitated for a moment, his expression unreadable before he gave a firm nod and then pushed himself to his feet. ‘Probably for the best. We might have trouble explaining what we’ve been doing all this time otherwise.’

‘Do you feel well rested?’

‘Extremely.’ He stretched his arms above his head. His hair was still ruffled from sleep, but his features seemed more relaxed than before. ‘People will think you have rejuvenating powers.’

‘That I have...?’ She wrinkled her brow in confusion and then stifled a gasp. Nothing her aunt had told her about the marriage bed had sounded particularly rejuvenating, but she didn’t even want to think about that and she had the distinct impression that he was teasing her. A fresh wave of colour swept over her already red cheeks. At least he didn’t seem overly disappointed that she hadn’t taken up his offer of an annulment. Although she couldn’t exactly tell what his reaction was either...

‘Shall we go and let them gawp at us?’ He gave an almost-smile.

‘Yes.’ She smoothed down her skirts as if doing so might help her gather her scattered thoughts. ‘Only what should I tell my aunt? She expected...’ She jerked her head towards the bed, not knowing exactly how to finish the sentence. Judging by the slight quirk of his lips, however, she didn’t have to.

‘Tell her the truth, that we had a lot to talk about and you needed time to consider.’

‘But she’ll think I ignored her advice.’

‘What advice?’

She bit her lip, instantly regretting the mention of it. ‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter.’

The eyebrow lifted again. ‘If I recall correctly, married people aren’t supposed to keep secrets from each other.’

‘That probably applies to the ones who’ve known each other for more than an afternoon.’ She gave him an arch look back. ‘Oh, very well. She told me to be modest and obedient and to agree with everything you said.’

‘Really?’ His eyes sparked with amusement. ‘Do you generally make a habit of arguing, then?’

‘Only about disagreeable subjects.’

‘Such as my behaviour over the past five years?’ His expression turned serious again. ‘Good point, but surely your aunt will be content as long as we appear at the banquet side by side?’

‘I suppose so, only I don’t want to let her down.’ She lifted a hand to her mouth and started to chew on her thumbnail. ‘She said it was best to get it over with.’

‘It?’ He looked from her to the bed and then back again. ‘If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, then I’m afraid we’ve run out of time.’

‘What? No!’ She almost had a coughing fit, spluttering over her protest. ‘I wasn’t suggesting anything!’

‘You mean that it would make your aunt happy to think that we’ve got it over with?’

‘Yes.’

‘Very well, then.’ He drew a knife from his belt and started to roll up his tunic sleeve.

‘What are you doing?’ Constance started forward in protest as he drew the blade lightly across the inside of his forearm.

‘Giving your aunt what she wants. A few drops should be sufficient, I think.’ He smeared the blood across the coverlet and then stood back to admire his handiwork. ‘There. Now there’s no going back. As far as anyone else is concerned, we’re husband and wife.’

‘Yes.’ She found herself staring at the bed, mesmerised by the sight of his blood. As gestures went, it was surprisingly and strangely touching. Their whole situation felt so intimate and yet, so far, they hadn’t even touched.

‘Constance?’ The sound of her name brought her eyes back to his. ‘We can work out the rest in our own time, but there’s no need to be nervous. I won’t rush you.’

‘I know.’ Oddly enough, she did.

‘I’ve been a neglectful husband, have I not?’

She raised her shoulders slightly, at a loss for what to say. Somehow it seemed hypocritical to accuse him of neglect when she hadn’t even wanted him to exist.

‘You don’t need to answer, only believe me when I say that I’ll endeavour to do better in the future. As for the past, I hope that you can forgive me in time.’

She held on to his gaze, the intensity in his dark eyes sending a wave of heat through her body, as if all her nerve endings were tingling in unison. His neglect she could forgive. As for the rest, well, he’d promised to make up for it now and he seemed to be genuine. Maybe marriage to him wouldn’t be so bad after all. Maybe they could even be friends...

‘Will you take me home? Back to Lacelby?’

‘Yes.’ He offered his hand, the way he had before she’d accused him of lying. ‘As soon as I can, I promise.’

The sound of a citole floated up from below, accompanied by sounds of laughter as she placed her fingers gently in his, her breath hitching at the contact of skin against skin.

‘Very well, then, I forgive you.’

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