Reclaimed By The Knight

‘It is too soon for this.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘You’ve changed.’

He gave a mocking exhalation. ‘Not enough.’

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

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

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

‘You need to know,’ she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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