Fulk The Reluctant. Elaine Knighton

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      Fulk poked at a smoldering log and it rekindled with a burst of yellow flame. “Though it makes my hair stand on end, I can envision you bedded—just. But wedded? I think not.”

      The Scot sighed. “What’s the difference? To give a woman my body is to give her my heart and soul as well. Do you not feel the same?”

      Fulk ran his fingers through his thick hair. It was growing back fast—as if it sought again to needlessly remind him of Rabel. He replied truthfully to the Scot, “I have no answer to that, for never have I given a lady any part of myself that I did not want returned. Certainly neither my heart nor soul.”

      “Ah, that much is obvious, for if you had, you’d know ’tis sheer hell, and to love is to suffer the tortures of the damned.” Malcolm stood abruptly. “Good evening, Galliard.” The Scot stalked off, muttering to himself and shaking his head.

      Fulk stared after his friend. Malcolm was in a bad way. Scattered. Irritable. But surely not in love.

      The hour was late, and the fire in Jehanne’s chamber had dwindled to a smoking pile of red and black coals. She shook out the gauzy linen of her shift, straightened her overgown, and finger-combed her hair one more time. She checked to make certain the dagger strapped to her calf was secure. She would not use it unless she had to.

      Not unless he forced her to.

      She felt like an impostor—pretending femininity. But she had made up her mind. Nothing could be worse than lying awake waiting for Fulk to burst in, punish her and take what the king said was his due. For him to overpower and ravish her would be far more humiliating, terrifying and degrading than if she went to him of her own free will.

      This way, she retained her dignity. This way, it was her choice, not his.

      “My lady, I beg of you, do not do this.” Lioba, ever proud and protective, put a hand to Jehanne’s shoulder. “We shall watch over you, this and every night. He will not come nigh without having to deal with us.”

      Elly and Beatrix murmured their agreement. They had already pushed their clothes chests near the door, in order to barricade it quickly.

      Jehanne clasped Lioba’s fingers. “You are brave, and I appreciate the protection each of you offers. But think upon it. This Galliard comes at the king’s behest. He and the Earl of Lexingford plotted together and falsely accused my lord father of treason. We cannot stop Fulk’s possession of Windermere. Nor can I stop him from possessing me.”

      She paused and stared into the red heart of the fire. The decision she had made had been the most difficult of her life.

      “The earl’s letter was quite plainspoken. It is best for the villagers that I surrender gracefully, as honor demands. But should this knight reveal himself as wholly a beast, I shall defend myself, for honor will then be forfeit.”

      “Let us accompany you to his door, at least. We will sit without the solar and be ready should you call for aid.”

      Jehanne could not help a small smile. “Very well. But it may be he who cries for mercy, should he provoke me.”

      Her words were bold, but her stomach churned as she approached Fulk’s chamber. Partly because she had taken some food at last—and it did not sit well—and partly because deep inside, a tiny piece of her took interest in Fulk de Galliard. Came alive at the thought of him. And not in a way suitable to any respectable maiden.

      Jehanne stopped before the entry of the solar that had been her father’s private chamber. She took a deep breath and raised her hand to knock. The door flew open, and the Scot blocked her way.

      Quick blue eyes, hair the color of a blood-bay horse, and a moustache of which any Saxon would have been proud. All in all, his face was a not unpleasing juxtaposition of lean planes and angles.

      “Mademoiselle?” His French had a thick Gaelic overlay.

      “I would see Sir Fulk.”

      “Would you, now? What say you, Fulk? Dare we risk admitting the lady?”

      Jehanne heard a thud and a curse. Rubbing his head, Galliard loomed behind the Scotsman. He must have caught the low beam.

      “Malcolm, kindly stand aside and let her in.”

      “I cannae do that, not ’til I’ve checked her person for weapons.” The Scot’s eyes raked her up and down.

      “Malcolm…I thank you for your concern. But I will not subject Lady Jehanne to such discourtesy in her own father’s solar.”

      Jehanne gripped her skirts tighter. Fulk had no way of knowing what discourtesies she had already suffered here. Even now it was not easy for her to cross the threshold, but she challenged Malcolm with her gaze. He narrowed his eyes, then the barest hint of humor glinted in their depths, and he allowed her to slip past.

      She stood as she had countless times before, in the center of the room, facing yet another man who could break her as he willed—or make the attempt. With the sole of her bare foot she found the familiar, sharp edge of an uneven floorboard she had used over the years to keep her fear at bay.

      To her surprise, Fulk bowed. “How may we serve you, Mademoiselle?”

      There it was again, that way Fulk had of turning his voice into a caress, of putting her at ease when she needed to remain vigilant.

      “I would speak with you alone, my lord.” She curtsied to Malcolm by way of dismissing him.

      Fulk’s glance cut to the Scot. A whoosh of air billowed Jehanne’s skirts as Malcolm closed the door, silent on its greased hinges. Galliard had jumped out of bed to greet her, it appeared, for he was but half clad, in a white linen tunic and footless chausses. The clinging gray wool that encased his long legs showed every ripple of muscle with shameless clarity.

      He did not apologize, however. Instead, he stared at her as though she were a vision he had dreamed into reality—of what, she could not fathom. After a moment, and a swallow or two, he found his voice.

      “Please, be seated, my lady.”

      He offered her the most comfortable spot—the bed. Jehanne was not about to refuse, out of either propriety or fear. Her feet barely touched the floor as she sat on the edge of the mattress, still warm from Fulk’s body.

      Slowly he approached, his languid eyes focused upon her breasts. A burst of panic seared her throat. He was not going to wait. He was going to take her…now.

      It was entirely possible he might kill her, albeit perhaps unintentionally. He had to be at least four cubits tall. He must weigh more than sixteen stone. The very breath would be squeezed from her body, he would tear her in two—Jehanne clutched the bedclothes and with an effort stopped herself from uttering a small moan.

      He was almost upon her. What had the wretch found to smile about? Did he enjoy terrifying women? She would wager his past conquests had been but games, played with willing partners. This was life and death, to her, at least.

      Mere inches away, Fulk leaned toward her. A pulse throbbed in his neck. A beast, ready to pounce.

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