Fulk The Reluctant. Elaine Knighton
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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 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.