Reclaimed By The Knight. Nicole Locke
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.’
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