he towered over her, the fear she expected did not blossom. Nor could she stop looking at him. Witchcraft. Magic. Nothing else explained the unwelcome ache in her heart.
His amber eyes grew opaque, and he pulled the bandages from her nerveless fingers. “Eat and take your rest now, lady. I shall explain my requirements to you later.”
Jehanne did not reply. She could not, without spluttering her indignation. This—sorcerer—had requirements? Windermere belonged to her, and she would forever belong to it. Let him think he ruled, let him imagine that she might comply. Jehanne, daughter of Alun FitzWalter, would win her keep back.
Chapter Five
Fulk stretched, leaned back in his chair, and warily eyed his new acquisition. Lady Jehanne sat rigid and silent before the fire, with a half-dozen sated hounds of dubious pedigree asleep at her feet. In spite of the hour and more formal circumstances, she still wore the heavy men’s tunic and plain surcoat of earlier in the day, her body all but lost in the folds of wool and linen.
A long, untidy fall of hair, the color of ripe barley, twined about her arms and down her straight back. Crowning her head was a circlet of silver, apparently her only concession to the occasion of his arrival. But, resting at a decided tilt, it lent the lady an unexpected air of vulnerability.
Her haughty gaze flicked to his eyes and away again. Her opinion of him was low, indeed. No doubt he would feel much the same, were their positions reversed. Shifting in his seat, Fulk crossed his legs and rested his chin on his palm. What a confusing bundle of contradictions. A mere woman, all alone, yet so bold as to openly defy him. To loose an arrow upon him and wound him, no less.
She possessed a degree of pride, unrelated to vanity, heretofore unknown to him in a female. He was used to women of delicate sensibilities, artful in their allure, soft of voice and skin.
This one was brittle in her righteousness, hardened by her devotion to lofty ideals, but especially to things. Land and cattle, serfs and profits seemed to be her main preoccupations, apart from her love of violence.
Nothing of any interest to him.
Nay, during the siege he had thanked God for each day that passed without the necessity of a bloody fight. And thanked Him even more that he had not been forced to do battle with his supposed future father-in-law. Now that he had met the lady, Fulk knew she would never have forgiven him Alun’s death, be the man traitor to the king or hero to the people.
Jehanne’s contingent of gentlewomen, three in all, surrounded her like mother wolves defending their young. They would flay him alive with their stares if they could, he’d warrant.
But they were vastly outnumbered. Malcolm sat next to him, and all the rest of his men were present, speaking quietly among themselves, though well apart from the women and the other members of the household. Fulk had ordered it so, on pain of a night in chains, should any one of them cause the ladies of Windermere a moment’s distress.
Thus far his consideration to the resident females had met with more resentment than gratitude. The men did not chafe much at the imposed limitations, but the women seemed to take it as an insult, yet another demonstration of the power Fulk held over them.
He cleared his throat. “Lady Jehanne,” he murmured.
Slowly, she turned her head toward him. “My lord?”
He might have been a toad, her tone was so dry. He gestured toward Malcolm, off to one side. “This is Sir Malcolm, known as the Fierce, son of Hunter of Clan Mac Niall. A man of both honor and rare caution.” Malcolm bowed and Fulk let her wait a moment before he continued, and took a good look at her fresh-scrubbed face.
She looked much the same as he remembered from the Duke’s tournament. Skin like a country maid, sun-kissed and quick to blush. Grave, gray-hued eyes, startling in their depth and clarity.
But now a narrow, ragged scar marred her beauty. It slanted and skipped from her right brow to her nose, then onto her left cheek where it faded away. A pity. She made no effort to hide it.
He wondered how she had come by such a wound. Dueling with her suitors, perhaps? Not altogether beyond the realm of possibility. Their eyes met, and though Jehanne’s gaze was unflinching, she clasped her hands so tightly the knuckles showed white. Aye, she had changed. Still bold, but the wholly defiant manner of her exploits last summer had been replaced by wariness.
Nor was she as young as Fulk had first assumed—in her early twenties, he guessed. She must have spurned the earl and his candidates for ages.
Fulk smiled to himself. She had dodged marriage the way he had dodged his knighting. Well, she was welcome to her spinsterhood. He would not deprive her of it. But deal with her he must.
“My lady, there is much to be done on the morrow. My men will aid you in the burial of your dead. I should also inspect your demesnes. Will you accompany me and show me what needs attention?”
Her eyes widened. “My demesnes? Do you mock me, sir?”
Fulk suppressed his impatience. She was determined to take everything he said as an offense. He could hardly blame her.
“I would not bludgeon you with the truth. But I believe you would relish the designation ‘our’ even less, am I right?”
Though Jehanne tossed her head, the movement could not disguise the shudder his words provoked. “You are indeed correct in that belief. But as befits the vanquished, I will do whatever you wish—tomorrow. May I go now?”
She stood, chin raised, her small hands still clasped before her.
Fulk rose and bowed. “By all means, lady. Sleep well.”
No doubt she would—better than he, for his wounded arm ached from wrist to shoulder. As the women climbed the stairs to their quarters he took his seat again and turned to Malcolm.
“Vanquished? She would dagger me in a trice if she could.”
Malcolm’s sharp, almost sinister features were the picture of skepticism. He leaned in close, his voice low. “You’re right there. I would watch my back, Fulk. The lass willnae be rolling over for you any time soon.”
“An interesting choice of words, Malcolm. Aye, she must take after her father.”
“And a more cunning plotter against your precious king you’d nae have found. So I heard ere we set out—the quicker Alun FitzWalter were brought to justice the easier his Grace would breathe. ’Tis blessed we are he was taken before we arrived.” Malcolm crossed his arms and stared at the fire.
The Scot’s expression darkened, in spite of his last statement. Fulk handed him a goblet of wine. “What is it, Mac Niall?”
“Och, Fulk, ’tis the state of this keep is causing me to fret.” Malcolm took a long swallow and twirled the cup between his palms. “We will be here a right long time. And it would appear there are not enough womenfolk to go round.”
“Come now, they will be awaiting you in relays. It is the rest of us will suffer.”
“Lies, Fulk. Vicious rumors meant to sully my reputation as a man pure of both heart and mind.”
“You
