Jenni Fletcher - Reclaimed By Her Rebel Knight

‘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.’

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.’