Fulk The Reluctant. Elaine Knighton

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      “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 crossed Jehanne’s mind. He must be lying, to gain her sympathy. But the pain she had glimpsed in his eyes looked real enough.

      “Grimald holds her well-being as a club to my head.”

      “Then what shall we do?”

      “What do you want to do?” Fulk wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at her squarely.

      Jehanne’s mind raced with possibilities. To beat him in a fair fight and regain her honor. To watch his back as he rode away in defeat from her lands. Her gaze strayed to Fulk’s sword, lying within easy reach, then back to the man, awaiting her reply.

      He had the upper hand, his men were fit and well-fed. It would not be easy getting rid of him. She sighed.

      “My people will be afraid if they see an ongoing quarrel between us. They fear a reprisal, should the earl suspect we are not loyal vassals. Windermere’s immediate safety lies in your strength, and my cooperation. Your men-at-arms are all that stand between us and any marauder. At this crossroads, alone, I am easily conquered.”

      “Not so easily.” Fulk cradled his bandaged arm.

      “I am sorry for that.” I am sorry I missed a more vital spot, Sir Fulk. Nay, that was not true. It should have been, but it was not.

      “I am grateful you did not pierce my heart.” He gazed at her, not a trace of guile showing.

      Jehanne felt her own cheeks bloom, but could not look away. “We must put up a pretense of mutual affection, or at least of tolerance.” She examined her nails, bitten to the quick.

      Fulk tipped his head to one side. “How grand a pretense would you like to attempt?”

      At the low, sensual timbre of his voice, the bottom dropped out of her stomach. “As much as I can bear.”

      “I can be very convincing.”

      Fulk’s growing smile was dangerous. Captivating. Much too appealing. Jehanne swallowed hard. An unfamiliar quiver in her belly told her it would not take a great deal of effort on his part to make a pretense wholly unnecessary.

      She must keep her heart steeled against him. It was merely lust she felt, nothing more. “No doubt. Just remember, the appearance of amity is for the public’s benefit only.”

      “Aye. In six months’ time we’ll tie a pillow round your middle. And in nine months we will come up with a foundling—our heir—is that the plan?” His grin became positively roguish.

      “It is not! Who is to say you would be so potent—or I so fertile, or the imaginary babe so healthy?”

      How had he turned the conversation into such a ridiculous fantasy? Fulk’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Ah, but were the child to die, I would be prostrated by grief, and would have to go on a pilgrimage to cleanse my soul.”

      “What if the mother died? Would that not solve all your problems? You’d be able to take a bride of your own choosing.” Jehanne glared at Fulk, until the growing look of strain on his face caused her to soften her gaze. Her own mother had died giving her life. It would not be surprising to learn Fulk had killed his, too, simply by virtue of his size.

      He began pacing before her, this time ducking the beam at each end of his circuit as if he had grown up with it. “That is a wicked thing to suggest, lady.”

      He raked his hand through his loose black curls. “Besides, the father’s death would be just as convenient, for you.” He shot her a piercing look. “Windermere is a vast and beautiful fief, is it not?”

      Jehanne blinked at the abrupt change of subject. “It is large, and was once a rich, productive place.”

      “One the earl might covet for his own?”

      Where was he going with his questions? “Certainly.”

      “How did your father become Grimald’s enemy?”

      “My father has ever been true—faithful to both the earl and our lord king.”

      “You cannot expect me to believe that. Why then was I sent to confiscate this place? I was shown the king’s seal upon the matter—” Fulk stopped in his tracks. He rubbed his brow and she followed his look toward the shield hung over the bed, blazoned with the FitzWalter arms.

      A pair of lions, back to back. Fitting symbols for a family who would fight to the death.

      “My lady, go, rest you this night, and on the morrow let us speak again.”

      Jehanne straightened her shoulders. “I do not wish to further discuss the plots and intrigues that have ensnared my family. You are here simply because I refused the earl and his henchmen, thus he has used other means to force our cooperation. The effect on me is the same, for I have no doubt you will go to great lengths to protect your sister. But since you appear to be a pawn just as am I, I intend to do something about this injustice.”

      Fulk questioned her with an arched brow.

      “I shall petition the king. In person. And you shall be forever removed from the chessboard.” Jehanne strode to the door, fully expecting Fulk to stop her with one of his big hands on her arm.

      “Perhaps you should do, lady. But give me a month, ere you set my doom into motion.”

      “Why should I grant you any grace period?”

      “Because you have not a chance in hell of changing the king’s mind. And because I spared you.”

      Jehanne suddenly felt small and alone, no longer righteous. Despite what she would like to think of him, she had a feeling this opponent possessed a sense of honor. And that made it all the harder to hate him on principle, for being the one to take Windermere away from her. The question was, could he hold on to it? She might yet retake the keep, God willing.

      “Agreed, Sir Fulk. We shall not act in haste. I bid you good night.”

      He opened the door for her. As she passed him, heat escaped from his open robe, licking at her back. Still, Jehanne shivered. She hurried toward her own chamber. Her women were nowhere in sight, and she risked a look over her shoulder. Fulk had retreated, and Malcolm was already in place, watching her for a moment before he ducked into the solar.

      Jehanne shrugged off the sense of isolation that dogged her as she walked down the echoing corridor. The Scot had apparently chased her ladies away, damn him. She СКАЧАТЬ