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“How dare you force me abed? Get out!”
“Nay, lady. We both shall stay, and you will obey. The quicker you cooperate, the sooner you may leave.”
“Fool! You know not what you are up against. You will never break me. No man has.” Jehanne bit her lip at her own outburst. No man had broken her, but never had she spoken thus to one and not regretted it.
As he sat next to her, Fulk radiated heat and strength. Yet there was something more, she felt safe in his proximity. What an absurd idea.
Fulk leaned on one palm, his gaze boring into her. The firelight bounced blue sparks off his hair, and he seemed to fill her whole field of vision. “I have no wish to break you,” he purred, a whisper of steel in his voice. “But bend you I will, and if it takes till summer, so be it.”
Praise for Elaine Knighton’s debut
Beauchamp Besieged
“Sensational plot turns…gritty but vivid picture Knighton paints of medieval times.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Rich details create a strong sense of place in this debut.”
—Romantic Times
“Raymond de Beauchamp is the sort of hero not easily forgotten. He is tortured, brooding and a slave to his passions.”
—The Romance Reader’s Connection
“A definite must-read for those who enjoy a good medieval tale.”
—Romance Reviews Today
DON’T MISS THESE OTHER TITLES AVAILABLE NOW:
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Fulk the Reluctant
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To my mom and dad,
who have always been there for me, no matter what….
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Prologue
A tournament in France, 1230
Fulk de Galliard, the undisputed champion of that day’s mêlée, lay facedown in the dust and wept like a child. Beside him sprawled his elder brother, his eyes still open to the hot sky. Proud, bold Rabel—witty and sarcastic and now utterly dead.
It had not been one of their usual arguments, for Fulk had thrown the first blow. A single, fatal blow.
Fulk raised his head and met his lord father’s terrible, wounded eyes. He held up his bloodied right fist. “Cut it off,” he begged.
The count shook his head slowly. “I will do nothing for you. You are an abomination…you are my son no longer.”
Fulk sat up, wrenched his dagger free and sawed the blade against his wrist. If his father would not rid him of the offending hand, he would do it himself.
“Stop!” The count kicked the bloody weapon from Fulk’s grasp. “I leave you to the mercy of Rabel’s comrades.”
As Rabel’s body was carried from the practice grounds, the grim knights surrounded Fulk. He took a deep breath, but made no effort to defend himself. They laid into him with their fists and the flats of their swords. Fulk never uttered a sound. He took the beating as though he were made of stone.
But before the blackness took him, he had one last coherent thought. I hope they’ve killed me.
He eased his eyes open. It was dark. Freezing. Then he remembered. Rabel is dead. And if the pain and misery and cold were any indication, Fulk was not.
A pity. Rain spattered against his face. From the smell, he knew he lay in a mixture of mud, blood and horse dung. And would no doubt remain there, for the slightest attempt to move produced screams of protest from his limbs.
A squelching noise
