Fulk The Reluctant. Elaine Knighton

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.

      Jehanne held herself rigid. Disjointed thoughts raced through her mind. Why must he smell so good? Like cedar, or sandalwood, or—oh, God, she did not want to be hurt. She would have to raise her skirts to pull the dagger.

      Even as she debated whether to grab for it, Fulk rested one hand on the bed, and reached behind her, feeling for something tangled in the sheets.

      “Pardon me, I had best cover myself.” He brought forth a garment of some sort and stepped back.

      Jehanne trembled in her relief, angry with herself for giving way to fear so easily.

      The robe he shook out was an amazing creation, ermine-lined, of deep red-and-purple-hued silk, thickly embroidered in loops and whorls of fantastic intricacy. As Fulk shrugged into it, wrapping himself in its voluminous folds, he paused at her frank stare. “Does it not please you?”

      “Well, I—”

      “Plunder, my lady. One cannot always pick and choose. Or can it be that you do admire it?”

      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