Reclaimed By Her Rebel Knight. Jenni Fletcher

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.