Fulk The Reluctant. Elaine Knighton

“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 paused, her hand on the door of her own chamber, reassured by the murmur of her women’s voices within.

      Another thought occurred to her. If the earl did want Windermere for himself, why send a man who hated him, even under the pretext of her father’s supposed treason?

      She looked up toward the solar. The keep would still belong to Fulk, who might not share its potential, as the earl’s other lackeys would have done. It was almost as though the earl had placed both his enemies into one pot.

      Chapter Six

      Fulk woke to the faint scent of mint, the only trace of Jehanne’s presence the previous night.

      But the herb’s aroma also reminded him of hot nights and warm seas, of dewy, kohl-ringed eyes and veiled faces….

      Fulk blinked away the erotic images, and instead studied the complex weave of the faded red and gold bedcurtains. After a moment, he sat up and thrust them aside. A milky sunbeam had found its way through the wooden slats at the window, and now seethed with dust on its way to the floor.

      At the thought of his last encounter with Jehanne he shook his head. What in hell had possessed him? I can be very convincing. Lord God. He had smiled, knowing full well how it would affect her. Or how it affected most women. Fulk groaned inwardly. He was not treading lightly, nor taking steps to remain disentangled from this woman and her miserable keep.

      And whose fault was it?

      Hers. Hers entirely. He wanted nothing to do with her. Not with her, her haunted eyes, her eloquent, chewed-upon hands, nor her lithe, hungry body that cried out to be touched—Fulk’s groan turned into a growling yawn.

      He stretched and went to the window seat. Pushing open the shutters he looked out upon the tidy village, fields and white-clad forest now under his protection. The rising mist caught the sun and diffused its light, veiling the harsh reality of lingering disease and starvation below.

      Just what he needed—more responsibility, when worrying about Celine was already an all-consuming occupation.

      An energetic rap sounded at the door, adding to his foul mood. “Come.”

      Malcolm entered sideways, glancing left and right, checking for potential assassins behind the bed curtains and the door, as was his wont.

      “I am quite alone, Hunterson.”

      “In your present state, Fulk, any number of malefactors could be hovering, daggers at the ready, and you would pay them no heed.” Malcolm stepped to the window. “’Tis a lovely dawn.”

      “Aye. And with the coming of this day the yoke of Windermere falls securely about my neck. I will never get free of this place. It is a pit of quicksand, I know it.”

      “Why should you wish to be free? ’Tis every man’s dream handed to you gratis, both lady and land.”

      “Nay, Malcolm. I have already paid too dear for it—with every last one of my books, and to buy what? A ransom in fine horseflesh and foodstuffs. Land and warlording are not how I had thought to live my life. And now I’ve been tethered to the likes of a mermaid. She will take me down with her, to depths beyond my capacity, until I drown in a sea of tears.”

      “What rot! This is what comes of your bookishness, Fulk. You wax morbidly poetic instead of forging ahead.” Malcolm sat opposite him and propped one booted foot on the window ledge.

      “Leave me alone. I am unwell.” Fulk leaned his aching head against the cold stone of the embrasure.

      “Lovesick, you mean.”

      “You are the plague that ails me.”

      “Nay, Fulk. I know what cure you will be needin’, right quick.”

      “Not another word. Why don’t you find out if the girl intends to show me round, or if I should look for the bailiff?”

      “Ah, ’tis ‘the girl’, now. You’re so pitifully transparent, Fulk. You cannae hide your longing behind such disrespectful forms of address.” Malcolm waggled an elegantly gloved and beringed finger at Fulk.

      God have mercy on me should I strike the man dead. Sometimes Fulk would like to have forgotten that Malcolm was of noble blood, and related to the Viking Earls of Orkney. He gazed at his friend’s grinning, feral face.

      “You, Hunterson, tread upon thin ice. And if my goodwill means aught to thee, you had best retreat to shore.”

      The Scot paled a shade but his voice ground out low and steady. “You’re a bloody fool. Treasure in your grasp and you would toss it aside over a dead man.”

      “Watch yourself, sir.” Fulk’s heart lurched with regret. As ever, he was tortured by the image of Rabel, dying. Rabel, drowning in his own blood. “You know what I mean.”

      “Aye, Fulk, I do. But you are that blind, if true love were to clout you o’er the head, you would fight it off instead of embracing it.”

      “I cannot concern myself with love. I must find Celine a refuge, to keep her safe from the Hurler. I thought of bringing her here, but this place is not yet stable.” And, he did not add, there were far too many men about. One look at his sister was often enough to bring lovelorn suitors crawling to him, begging for her hand. But none that he cared to have as a good-brother.

      Malcolm did not reply.

      Fulk stared at his friend. His silence was heavy. Full to bursting. “Oh, Lord. Nay, Malcolm. Not you, too. Not Celine. You have never even spoken to her!”

      The Scot’s eyes only burned more intensely.

      Fulk stood. Blood roared through his chest and into his head. Nay. Such a thing could never be. Celine was fragile. Delicate. Not a maid for the likes of Hengist, nor even for Malcolm, wild and fierce as a northern gale. While his honor and bravery were unimpeachable, his passions ran too hot.

      Fulk could not think of a single man of his acquaintance who would be suitable for his sister. It would only be a matter of time before she fell into the clutches of some unscrupulous varlet, if she were not close by that Fulk might guard her himself. Even were