Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Matthew was grateful for the growing darkness, if only to prevent his blush from being seen by the woman he’d just been caught staring at.
He’d been unable to help himself. He’d seen her beauty before in the car—dark hair twisted up in an elegant style, red lips, smooth skin, and piercing gray eyes. But as she stood before him now, tall and regal, her black umbrella sheltering her feminine frame and long legs, he’d been stunned into silence.
He knew more than anyone that women were more than their physical appearance, so he’d looked away as soon as he’d realized he’d been staring, but her image remained emblazoned in his mind’s eye, despite him focusing on his horse instead.
Who was she? Was she really expected at Foxwood? And what was she doing there so late at night, speeding down the drive in a rainstorm?
“Well, I really am sorry for splashing you,” the woman said with sincerity, preventing him from asking the questions swirling in his mind. “And for what it’s worth,” she continued, “I’m super grateful for your help.”
“’Tis no trouble, my lady,” Matthew returned.
He hoped going back to speaking Ye Olde English wasn’t annoying to the woman. He had discovered years before that talking in such a way allowed him a level of confidence he otherwise struggled to possess. The accent—as well as his armor and lance—helped him to replace nerdy, history-obsessed Matthew with noble, knightly Sir Matthew, and people always responded better to the latter than the former.
His horse nickered before him, Nightshade standing still and patient, ears flicking back and forth as he listened to the sounds around him. The rain, their voices, Matthew’s softly clanking armor…The woman behind him clearing her throat.
“I’m Winnie, by the way,” she stated. “Winnie Knox.”
Matthew hesitated, then braved another look at her, allowing himself a casual glance instead of the full-on gawping he’d done before.
She stood with one heel slightly forward than the other, a small smile on her face as she extended her right hand toward him.
“Oh, and I’d prefer your actual name,” she added. “Unless you wish to keep up with this knight-business for longer.”
He would prefer to keep it up for longer, but clearly, she was done with it.
He stared at her outstretched hand but made no move to take it. “Matthew,” he finally responded, raising his muddy gloves to face her. “And I’d shake your hand, but as you can see, that would not do you any good.”
“Ah, I appreciate it.” She lowered her offered hand, then her eyes traveled the length of his armor. “So, do you work here at the estate, or do you just find yourself dressing up like a knight and riding on other people’s properties for fun?”
Matthew hesitated. He’d given her his name, she’d claimed she was expected at the estate, and yet, she still didn’t know who he was.
This could be fun.
“As much as I’d love to claim the latter, I do work at Foxwood,” he responded.
“And what exactly do you do here?” she pressed. “Besides dressing up like Sir Lancelot.”
Matthew raised his horse’s stirrup over the saddle, more questions teetering at the edge of his tongue. She’d said she was expected, but by whom? A member of the household? The staff? As a guest or as a new employee?
He had a feeling she wasn’t going to be forthright in her answers until she knew his real identity, but he didn’t mind hiding that from her for at least a little while longer. Most people weren’t themselves when they knew who he was. He didn’t want this Winnie Knox to do the same.
“Oh, I do a bit here and there,” he responded vaguely. “Stable work. A few things around the estate. Simple stuff, really.”
“I see.”
“I can’t claim to be Sir Lancelot, though,” Matthew continued. “And to be honest, I’d prefer to be William Marshal. But I’d take anyone over Sir Cadogan.”
She delivered a blank stare, but Matthew wasn’t surprised. Her response was what he’d come to expect from most people when he showed his true colors and dropped his knightly act.
“William Marshal was England’s greatest knight,” he explained.
“Ah, yes,” she muttered with an averted gaze, clearly trying to make it appear like she knew of whom he spoke. “But Sir Cadogan was not nearly as admirable, I take it?”
Matthew nearly laughed before realizing she was serious. He sobered at once, rushing to explain so she wouldn’t think he was making fun of her. “No, Sir Cadogan was a knight in the Harry Potter books.”
Another blank stare.
“You…You haven’t read Harry Potter ?” he asked.
“No. But I’ve seen the movies, and they’ve got to be just as good, right?”
He scoffed. As if the two mediums could even be compared. Seriously, who was this woman? Either way, he was finished waiting to find out because he now knew two very distinct facts about this Winnie Knox. One, she didn’t have any interest or knowledge in British history. And two, her opinion could not be trusted when in reference to books versus movies.
Really, if a person couldn’t be trusted in that regard, how could she be trusted at all?
Winnie had said something to upset Matthew. The only problem was that she didn’t know how she’d done it. Either way, she’d be better off changing the subject rather than risking offending him further.
“So,” she began, motioning once again to his armor, “you dress up like a knight to clean up horse poo?”
Matthew watched her for a moment, and she wondered if he’d even heard her before he turned away and responded. “Not typically. I merely ride dressed this way to keep the horses used to the sounds and weight. And the lance is to keep me primed and ready for jousting.”
Winnie couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. “Wait, like, jousting-jousting? Like with a lance and everything?”
Her eyes darted to the six-foot-long pole still propped up against the tree. “That is how one generally jousts,” he returned.
He shifted to face his horse more directly, grunting slightly as he secured the cinch around the gelding.
“Do they hold a renaissance faire here or something?” she asked, trying to make sense of it all.
“We do, but we call it a medieval festival, not a renaissance faire,” he responded.
“Gotcha. So it’s kinda like a real-life A Knight’s Tale ?”
His brow lowered a fraction as he paused in prepping his horse. “No, not like A Knight’s Tale at all. That movie is completely historically inaccurate. ”
She should have known he wouldn’t have appreciated the comparison. “What are you talking about? Queen was totally around during the eighth century.” There, she’d redeemed herself. Eighth Century . “And in my opinion, “We Will Rock You” is the best part of the movie.”
He stared at her with a look of confusion before he seemed to realize she was teasing him. One corner of his mouth raised in a smile, and his shoulders seemed to lower in time with his defenses.
That had been fun, teasing him. Maybe she could get away with doing it again.
“I do wonder, though,” she continued, “if you fault Harry Potter for being historically inaccurate as much as you do A Knight’s Tale .”
He held up a finger. “Ah, excellent question. I do not. That is because the amount of history and research laced throughout each story in the Harry Potter series is comparable to a simplified history book. So while it may be set in a fantastical world, it should still be known to a degree for its historical accuracy.”
Winnie couldn’t hide her smile. Honestly, he was adorable—and his passion for history and apparently Harry Potter were admirable. She’d had a passion for things once, too. Horses. Riding. Jumping.
But that was a long time ago.
“So,” she continued, if only to distract herself from the miserable thoughts of her past, “I assume your festival takes the cake from Harry Potter and A Knight’s Tale when it comes to historical accuracy?”
Matthew shifted back to his horse and continued. “Absolutely. We all pride ourselves on the quality of the entertainment we provide. Our festival is far more historically accurate than any movie you’ll ever see—or any event you’ll ever attend.”
“That’s quite the statement,” she said.
“Such is the level of my confidence, my lady,” he said with another wink.
He certainly was a flirtatious knight.
“I assure you,” he continued in his normal accent, “if you wish to know about the medieval era, come to the festival we’re holding tomorrow. You’ll be an expert in no time.”
Was he really inviting her to join him? Or was this more of a generic comment? Either way, Winnie was still trying to wrap her mind around the fact that someone jousted for an actual living.
She didn’t know much about renaissance faires or medieval festivals, and she’d only ever watched fake jousting done by Heath Ledger. Although, in high school, she’d seen people gathering in groups, dressing up, and playing make-believe together with swords and armor.
To be honest, it wasn’t really her thing. Armor, and history, and damsels in distress. But to each their own, she supposed.
“You said you’re expected here, then?” Matthew asked.
“Yeah.” She was more at ease, knowing the man worked there. She could be deliberate in what she shared or didn’t share more easily now. “Mr. Wintour has asked me to do some work for him.”
She omitted her actual job title. She didn’t know of very many people who actually liked consultants. Okay, she didn’t know of anyone who did. Honestly, she didn’t even like herself sometimes in this line of work. But Dad was proud of her for once in her life, so what was a girl to do?
Although, now that she thought about it, maybe “proud” was too strong a word. “Tolerated” fit better.
“ Some work ,” Matthew said, repeating her words. He lowered the stirrup and unbuckled his knight’s helmet from the side of the saddle, his features still hidden from her. “So you’ve been hired as a consultant.”
Her lips parted in surprise. “I, well, I…” she stammered.
Finally, he faced her with a knowing look. “Thy hesitation revealeth much, my lady.”
She fought off a smile. Fine. She would relent. “How did you know?” she asked.
“The Wintours have hired many consultants over the years. I merely put two-and-two together.”
She looked away. Had they really hired that many consultants? Neither her dad nor Mr. Wintour had mentioned that. Well, it didn’t matter. She was good at her job—the only one she’d ever been good at—so she knew she would succeed where every other consultant hadn’t. Such was the luxury of attempting to start up one’s own business a number of times and failing a number of times. With all that experience, how could she not know exactly how to help businesses thrive?
“Well, I wish you luck,” Matthew continued. “The Wintours can be a crotchety bunch at times.”
She hesitated. He was either complaining about his employers to be truthful or to try to get her to be more truthful. Better to be safe than sorry, though.
“Well, thank you for the luck,” she returned. “But I won’t need it.”
He looked at her with one eyebrow raised in a challenge. “Really?”
She nodded. “I’ve heard of nothing but good things about Mr. Wintour, so I’m not worried.”
“And who have you heard these words from?”
The light outside was growing dimmer, the rain still tapping against the top of her umbrella. Matthew—had he given her his last name? She was too tired to recall—still stood in the midst of it all, droplets dripping from the ends of his dark blond curls, though he’d pushed most of his hair away from his brow.
He looked…Well, he looked good, dang it. Moisture glinting across his features, enhancing the lines of his cheekbones and edges of his lips. Small drops of rain clung to his scruff and accentuated all the right angles of his jaw.
Why was it that men became more attractive in the rain when women just looked so soggy?
He watched her expectantly, and she realized all too soon that she hadn’t responded to him yet, too taken with all his bearded goodness .
“My dad is good friends with Mr. Wintour,” she finally said.
Matthew’s eyes were impassive. What was he thinking in those blue depths?
“Well, I suppose you’d know best, then.” He gave her a short smile, then turned toward his horse once more.
He might have been finished with their conversation, but Winnie had a bit more information to glean first. “I take it you’ve worked with Mr. Wintour directly,” she said in a casual tone.
He placed a white cap over his wet hair, then pulled his hooded chainmail on next. “I have. A time or two.”
“And both times were…unpleasant?” she prodded.
“Not at all,” he returned. “I only said the Wintours can be crotchety. They know what they like and can be difficult to make bend. One in particular.”
He was obviously talking about Mr. Wintour. But why? What had happened for Matthew to say that?
He raised his helmet over his head next, then faced her as he lifted the visor, his features framed in the small window he was allotted.
Even with her limited view of his face, his attractive traits still shone through. “I just wanted to warn you,” he said. “That’s all.”
Warn her or scare her off? The two were synonymous in her experience.
“Well, thank you,” she said. “But like I said, I’m not too concerned. I’ve had my fair share of working with difficult people.”
“I’m sure you have.”
Silence hung between them, and his pointed look made her pause. Wait, was he saying that she was difficult?
Before she could ask, he walked to the other side of his horse, untied the reins from the tree, and pushed himself into the saddle, his armor clanging with each movement. How had he managed that, mounting by himself?
Clearly, he was ready to get back to his knightly ride, but she still wasn’t finished.
She shifted her umbrella back a degree to see him atop his horse. “Before you go,” she started, inching closer to the edge of the road where the mud began, “I have to ask, since you already know why I’m here, is there anything you’d like to share with me that would make your life as an employee of the Wintours better? Anything that should be brought to my attention? Anything that could be improved?”
His horse started walking ahead, but Matthew held back on the reins, reaching for his lance. With grace that revealed he’d done the action before, he gently tossed the pole in the air little-by-little, shifting it up until he gripped the handle firmly in his hand.
“No,” he finally responded, eying the top of the lance that he held straight up in the air. “The place is pretty well perfect as it is.”
Obviously, the man didn’t think he could trust her with the truth. But she was used to breaking down those barriers quite simply. All it took was a bit of encouragement and a whole lot of charm.
She smiled up at him, blinking slowly with a look that said, Come on, you can trust me.
She’d practiced this look in front of the mirror a thousand times as a high schooler. She’d learned it from one of her sisters. Samantha had achieved hundreds of dates with such a look.
Winnie had been…less successful. But it was worth a try now.
“There’s not one little thing you want to share with me?” she asked sweetly.
He shook his head in silence, the lance still steady in his grip.
All right. Charm wasn’t working. Maybe a little trust exercise then.
“So you don’t see a problem with the GPS system not taking guests directly to the house?” she asked. “Or that the roads are unfit to travel in the rain due to puddles and pockets of mud? Or that there’s not a single sign posting or welcome that lets visitors know they’ve arrived at the estate? None of that matters to you or the others who work here? ”
The air between them grew cold. Matthew’s eyes hardened, and she knew she’d offended him. But, why? Was he simply loyal to the Wintours?
“If you look for something to complain about,” he began, “you’ll be sure to find it. I, for one, choose to see the good in things. It makes life far more enjoyable.”
Another blush threatened to rise to her cheeks, but she suppressed it. Matthew sure liked to instruct people, didn’t he?
She tipped her umbrella back even farther. “I’m not complaining, merely being observant. In my experience, I’ve found if we don’t continually look for things to improve upon, we become stagnant and filled with faults and flaws that would have been much easier to get rid of had we put in the effort in the beginning. If you look at it that way, it’s really all about saving time and being more productive. And what’s not enjoyable about a productive life?”
She ended with a smile, then waited in silence for him to respond.
His scrutinizing gaze would have made her squirm, were she not well-versed in remaining cool under pressure. “So Foxwood is filled with faults and flaws, is it?” he asked.
That’s what he got out of her whole speech? “Not necessarily. But you’d have to be crazy to say it’s perfect the way it is. I haven’t even arrived fully yet, and I already know there’s going to be a long list of improvements that can be made. Should be made.”
“Is that so?” he asked.
She nodded in silence.
“Well,” he began, looking away, “what a blessed relief for the lowly Wintours to have thee to rescue them.” He adjusted the reins in his hands. “I bid thee adieu now, as my own steed grows weary. Good evening, my lady.”
He bowed his head in what she could only assume was a mocking nod, then clanked his visor down over his eyes and urged his horse forward—directly toward where she stood.
Swiftly, she moved out of the way to avoid being hit by the mud kicked up by the horse’s hooves, but in her haste, she forgot where she stood and stepped straight off the side of the road. Her pointed heels sank into the soft mud, and she groaned as the dark grime oozed over the black toes of her footwear.
Had Matthew done that on purpose? Ridden too close to her to make her stand in the mud?
She glanced up at him, but he and his little horse just sauntered away without a backward glance, the lance high in the air like a floating, branchless tree.
He couldn’t have known what he’d done, otherwise he would have offered his help to her again, right? Or had the mere mention of her being a business consultant stripped him of any desire to continue his knightly actions?
Sadly enough, in her experience, that was the truth more often than not. This was yet another reason consulting was difficult—how swiftly she made enemies.
With a sigh, she stared down at the mud once more. Whatever. She didn’t need Matthew’s help anymore anyway. Her shoes were far lighter than the car. She could get out of this mud herself.
One by one, she heaved her feet from the slop, her heels making a “schlock” sound as they were pulled from the mud’s grip. Her legs were as speckled as an Appaloosa’s behind, no doubt from the gelding’s backsplash, but she shook off her annoyance once again.
Fort Knox. Be like Fort Knox.
She pulled a face as the phrase sailed through her mind. The words were as deeply engrained in her as was her desire to please Dad.
“Being a member of the Knox family means that nothing can penetrate your defenses,” he’d always said to her and her siblings when they were children. “It means that nothing can shake you, nothing can hurt you, nothing can rattle you. Because we Knoxes are like Fort Knox. So be like Fort Knox.”
She hated those words. Sometimes, she didn’t want to have a permanent defense around her. Sometimes, she wanted to let go and just be okay with not…being okay.
But ultimately, in her line of work, she needed metaphorical defenses. Heck, in life she needed metaphorical defenses. Because being a Knox meant that she had to deal with all the garbage handed to her—and to never get discouraged by it.
With a heavy sigh, she tramped across the road, doing her best to wipe off the mud from her heels before entering the car and using spare tissues to wipe off her legs.
As she did so, she focused on the task that lay before her with Mr. Wintour, all the while repeating to herself the words she prayed would actually help her be like the Knox she was meant to be.
“Like Fort Knox. Be like Fort Knox.”
Matthew gripped the lance tighter as he urged his horse into a trot, finding his balance instantly with Nightshade’s rhythmic clip-clopping.
He probably shouldn’t have done that—walked too close to Winnie to cause her to step in the mud. Such a decision had been petty and childish. And yet, still, it took everything within Matthew to keep his eyes forward so he didn’t pride himself on seeing what damage he’d done to those heels of hers.
He couldn’t say Winnie hadn’t deserved it. She’d been far too candid criticizing Foxwood, and he wouldn’t stand for it. None of the other consultants hired to improve the estate had ever been so boorish. He could only imagine what she’d say about the festival if she chose to accept his invitation to attend.
He blew out a breath, white air billowing out from his helmet and disappearing behind his armored shoulder as he and Nightshade drew closer to the stables .
The festival was one of his greatest joys. It was the only place he was free to be himself—to share his love of the medieval era with those around him, to bring history to life without being judged for being different.
And the jousting—how he loved the jousting. Dressing in the ancient, powerful armor, feeling the strength of Nightshade beneath him as they charged down the list along the tilt, using every ounce of might to grip the lance in his hands and striking the opposing knight. There was no greater feeling on this earth, no greater force Matthew had ever experienced than when he dressed as a knight and jousted.
Having that presumptuous Winnie Knox in the audience would certainly dampen that enthusiasm, though.
His stomach hardened at the thought, and Nightshade tossed his head in protest, having felt his owner’s change in demeanor.
To alleviate his horse’s distress, Matthew drew a calming breath, then pointed the lance straight out in front of him, cradling the handle between his arm and side for a few paces until his muscles burned. Only then did he raise the lance to stand straight up in the air once again, giving his arm the chance to rest from the strenuous position.
He always performed the exercise before a match or during a particularly stressful practice session, finding that it helped to channel his anxious energy. Fortunately, it did the same thing now with thoughts of the narrow-minded consultant.
Matthew needed all the focus he could get because he had a job to see to now, and that was alerting the household to just exactly what type of consultant had been hired to help at Foxwood—a consultant who criticized the estate and who didn’t know her eighth century from her eighteenth.
There was definitely no place for her here. No place at all. And he’d be the first person to let everyone else know it.