Fulk The Reluctant. Elaine Knighton

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      He had the audacity to strike a pose, like a statue of some ancient king. Or warlock.

      “Oh.” She gulped. “It dazzles the eye. Surely it belonged to a great lord in some faraway land?”

      “Aye. But it no longer fit him.”

      His tone made her wonder if the previous owner had lost some of his bulk in an unpleasant manner.

      Fulk dragged a stool close and folded his legs in an attempt to sit, but gave up and chose a large, flat-topped chest instead. It put more distance between them, which suited Jehanne far better.

      “Would you like some wine?” He dangled the flagon.

      “Nay. I had best come to the point, Lord—er, what shall I call you? You are in truth a viscount, so I’ve heard?”

      Fulk looked down at his hands, then met her eyes. “In France, perhaps, had my father not—well, that is another matter. Suffice it to say His Grace Henry has deprived me of any title I may once have expected here in England. But do not call me ‘lord’. It makes me feel that I must refer to myself in the plural.” He gave her a devastating, self-deprecating grin.

      “I see.” Jehanne cleared her throat and sat up straighter.

      God’s teeth and gums. As if his body and voice and eyes were not enough—but she would not let him sway her from her purpose.

      If it were possible to die of shame, she would have done so gladly, rather than say what she had to say next. She stood, praying she could bear his lustful attentions without showing fear. “I am here, Sir Fulk, to offer…to offer myself—I am aware of what is expected of me, as the…the spoils of war, as it were.”

      To her astonishment, Fulk blushed. Right up to the roots of his black hair. He bounced up from his seat and turned his back to her.

      “Watch the beam!” Her warning popped out before she could consider not giving it.

      “The devil’s own!” Fulk pressed his palm to his head again, this time to the opposite side, and glared at the offending timber. “Who built this place? Dwarves?” He slammed the flagon of wine down and the liquid sloshed onto the table.

      Jehanne tried not to laugh. Bruised and bloodied, Fulk himself was the only casualty of violence so far in the taking of Windermere. He quickly regained his composure, however, and to her dismay, came to sit beside her on the bed.

      His was a warm, vibrant presence. Discreetly she edged away from him.

      Twisting at the waist, Fulk leaned back against the bedpost. Jehanne longed to run from his penetrating scrutiny, so much so that she barely heeded him.

      “Be assured, Lady Jehanne, that you are a—a most tempting prize—were the situation different. I will not lie to you. I have been ordered to beget an heir for Windermere. On you. And the very fact that it is the Earl Grimald’s desire makes it an impossibility for me to carry out such an act. It would make me feel like an animal. I could not subject you to the role, even were you willing. And that I do not believe for an instant.”

      Jehanne repeated Fulk’s words to herself, to make certain she had heard correctly. He could not beget an heir on her because it would make him feel like an animal. She acknowledged his stammering attempt not to offend her. She understood. Here, indeed, he had just cause for reluctance. Her scars made her ugly, and there was no way around it.

      Fulk rubbed his knees as if they were sore. Watching him, Jehanne frowned. She found she could not help admiring the shape of his powerful, tight-knit hands, and their surprising cleanliness. She pushed away the thought of the strength she had already felt in his long fingers and dragged her attention back to the conversation.

      “Duty is not meant to be pleasant,” she said.

      His hands stilled. “Do you mean to say you want me to…?”

      At the distressed look on his face Jehanne was unaccountably amused. So, perhaps she frightened him, too. Good. She bit her lip but a nervous laugh emerged despite her best effort.

      “What? Do you now mock me, lady?”

      As his color rose again, so did her mirth, born more from feeling overwhelmed than any humor in the situation. “Of course not. Forgive me, sir, but—”

      “I did not come to this Godforsaken place to be made an object of hilarity. Kindly take your leave. I shall summon you when next I wish your presence.”

      At his icy tone Jehanne sobered. “Very well. But do not count upon my attendance. This is the last time you will have the opportunity I have just offered.”

      “What you deem as noble sacrifice, I deem as cold-blooded manipulation. Leave me, mademoiselle.” Fulk stood.

      Jehanne stared up at him, her remaining composure ready to snap, her pride in tatters. “I cannot, sir.”

      “Why?” He crossed his arms, deepening the dark V of his chest where the tunic gaped open. In his royal-hued robe, he resembled nothing so much as a displeased potentate from Byzantium—or so she imagined, never having seen one.

      She drew a deep breath. “The…the terms of conquest were made clear to me before your arrival. They are part of why my resistance lasted so long. But my duty is to my people. I capitulate for their sake. They have suffered enough. If I do not meet the earl’s demands, he will punish me in some other, even more horrible manner—nay, sir, I did not mean that the way it sounded—”

      Jehanne waited for Fulk’s color to return to normal. When her own heart had slowed, she too got to her feet, crunching the rushes and sweetgrass beneath them.

      “Grimald wants me thoroughly humiliated. That is why I come to you. To salvage something of my self-respect before the inevitable happens, and at the same time protect my people from future insult.”

      “The ‘inevitable’?” Fulk’s luminous eyes appeared wounded. “Lady Jehanne, whatever you may think of me, I am not a rapist.”

      “It would not be rape.”

      “Would it not?”

      “Nay…I—it is how these things are honorably accomplished when in a situation such as mine.” Jehanne wound a strand of her hair about one finger. She had not sounded very convincing, but meeting the demands of honor did not make the prospect of being the object of a man’s lust any less dreadful.

      “A situation such as ours, milady. In a way I am a prisoner here as much as you. But, for a woman to submit out of fear, even if not on her own behalf, is a sin. And for me…to take you…take you to wife, with the slightest misgiving on your part—or mine, for that matter—is just as wrong, methinks.”

      Jehanne was dumbfounded to hear such a revolutionary attitude. And from a man, no less. If in fact he meant what he said. “What will you do to satisfy the earl, then?”

      “I know not. But he holds my sister’s life hostage. Among other things.” Fulk swept up the wine flagon and drank straight from its mouth.

      “Hostage?” The possibility of such goings-on between her enemies had never СКАЧАТЬ