Love Thine Enemy Read online

  Love Thine Enemy

  by

  Carolyne Cathey

  The thieving knight steals her castle then threatens to secrete her forever in a convent.

  Lady Rochelle’s only option: Seduce her enemy.

  France, 1355 AD, during the Hundred Years’ War when England battled for the French throne.

  Awards

  Love Thine Enemy won awards in every writing contest in which it was entered:

  * First Place in Oklahoma Writer’s Federation, Inc.’s Historical Romance Category;

  * First Place in Northeast Oklahoma’s Romance Author’s Crystal Heart contest;

  * Second Place in Monterey Bay California’s Silver Heart contest.

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Table of Contents

  Bibliography

  Other books:

  Fiction, Historical Romance: The Wager

  Nonfiction: The Spiritual Health Book

  Copyright © 2013 by Carolyne Cathey

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Published in the United States of America

  E-Published, 2013

  www.carolynecathey.com

  Dedication

  Love Thine Enemy is dedicated to my wonderful, patient, supportive husband and soul mate, George Cathey, and to our amazing children, Kaye Alley and Carlon Cathey, of whom we are in awe and so very proud, and our incredible grandchildren, Travis and Piper Alley, all of whom strongly encouraged me to publish “Love Thine Enemy”. You are the loves and joy of my life.

  I am also grateful to my friends Sonny Alexander and Janie Coulson who, ad nauseum, listened to and critiqued each chapter and then listened to and critiqued each revision that was read aloud during the writing group. This book would not have been what it is without their input.

  I also give appreciation to the “Vicious Circle”, our talented writing critique group who patiently critiqued each chapter and book and helped me to improve and gain confidence as a writer. Debbie, Brenda, Joyce, Jackie, Amy and all of you, thank you for your honesty and persistence and laughter and encouragement. You were a special part of my life.

  Enjoy!

  LOVE YOU! And GOD BLESS YOU.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  Chapter One

  Southern France, 1355

  “TRAITOR! You'll never have DuBois Estates!

  "Hush, mon père. Sire Gaston merely taunts you with an empty threat.” Lady Rochelle de DuBois pressed another pad of hastily torn sheets over her father’s chest wound. “The arrow is removed as best I can for the moment.” Trembling like an aspen leaf, Rochelle wiped blood from her hands onto a hastily donned apron. The apparent fatality of her father’s injury terrified her. Yet terror struck hardest because of the intruder whose brittle laughter now resounded within the stone walls of the lord's chamber.

  Gaston, the Sire de Moreau, a black-clad bulk of a man with a hawkish nose and with eyes the gray of cold steel, hovered at the foot of the emerald-draped bed like death impatient for a doomed soul.

  “’Tis not an empty threat, is it Reynaurd?” With a flick of his wrist, Sire Gaston swirled his black mantle from around his shoulders as if readying a shroud, then settled the wool over his arm.

  “You think you’ve bested me.” Her father writhed to one side as if to escape the inescapable. Perspiration beaded on his forehead despite the April chill. “You’ll not have Dubois. Not as long as I have breath in my body." He collapsed onto his back, his chest heaving.

  "If 'tis your last breath that stalls the deal, Reynaurd, then I shan't have long to wait. Your death-stench befouls the air."

  “Enough of your goads, Sire Gaston! I insist you leave.” Rochelle turned to escort him to the door and to send for Griselda, the witch-like servant Rochelle despised, but who had the gift of healing.

  Gaston whipped his sword against her stomach to block her path. She froze at the warning. Rochelle frantically searched her mind on how to rout the fiend whom no man had defeated, much less a woman. And yet, she must.

  “You are not lord here, Sire, and never will be.” Rochelle met his challenging gaze that always promised power by any means, preferably sadistic. “Now let me pass.”

  “Two of my knights are posted outside this chamber preventing any from entering.” He grinned his malevolence. “Or leaving.”

  He moved the sharp edge against her waist, slitting the fabric of her faded gown. Refusing to cower, she glared at him.

  “Your efforts seem well planned, Sire Gaston. As if you knew my father would suffer injury this day.”

  “For naught!” Her father slammed a fist upon the linens with a strength that surely strained him. "Never! Never will you have DuBois."

  "The pact. Remember?"

  "This wound you gave me canceled the pact!"

  Gaston shrugged. "Many arrows flew toward the stag. Perhaps another's pierced your chest. You have many enemies, Reynaurd."

  "You are the only one who benefits from my death. I should never have signed that devil’s bargain.” Her father gulped a breath. ”You made my life hell."

  “And your afterlife.”

  Confused by the argument, Rochelle stepped back from the blade, then turned to grasp her father’s hand as much to still the tremble of her own as to subdue him. "I don't understand mon Pere. What pact? What bargain?"

  Her father's eyes narrowed in desperation. "As he said, Rochelle, he's come to take possession of DuBois Estates. He's come for you."

  "For me? He has no claim!”

  “In truth, he does.”

  Her heart jolted against her ribs. Surely her father uttered a cruel jest while he groped for the tattered threads of his life. “On what pretense?”

  “No pretense, Lady Rochelle. By law.” Gaston rubbed his hand over the vair pelt covering her father as if judging the fur’s worth. "You'll have no relative after Reynaurd passes. As your father-in-law, I'll take control."

  Apprehension collided with her already frayed nerves. Stunned, she fixed her gaze on the hearth where flames devoured the defenseless firewood with as much voracity as Sire Gaston hungered to consume her land. Gaston - her father-in-law, due to her catastrophe of a marriage to his son, Marcel.

  Buried anger for her deceased husband’s viciousness boiled anew to the surface. And yet, Marcel had been an innocent in comparison to his father, Sire Gaston. Her own father ranked a distant third on the physical scale of abuse and yet equaled them all on the attempted annihilation of her emotions. The men in her slave-like existenc
e had been no better than debauched, self-indulgent beasts.

  No, she must fight to rule the Estate alone, without male domination, the only certain way to rebuild the greatness that once was DuBois, the only certain way to live a life free of cruelty.

  The only certain way to protect Pierre.

  The reminder of her secret half-brother squeezed her lungs. She had rescued him five years ago from a candle-lit hovel cursed by the plague. Her heart had fallen into her hands along with his slick body when he had barely escaped from the tomb of his dead mother. Aching for someone to love who would love her in return, she had tended him as if he were her own while trying not to raise suspicion about his parentage. For some mysterious reason, her father refused to acknowledge the boy as his bastard, which meant no other man would consider Pierre as more than a mere servant. Especially a predator like Gaston. Especially if he witnessed one of Pierre’s convulsions.

  So then, how to defeat the Evil Incarnate who postured before her in blatant confidence?

  With the truth?

  Rochelle faced the man who, unless she defeated him, would bring misery and suffering to all who dwelled at DuBois Estates.

  "Sire Gaston, you have no claim on DuBois, or me, because you are not, in actual fact, my father-in-law. Marcel never consummated the marriage before he died."

  "In verity? Or merely a plea of convenience?"

  He had not even paused for thought. He had already known.

  "And your proof, Lady Rochelle?"

  "Proof?" Rochelle had expected that. "Do you hope for an examination?"

  His eyes flashed lechery before he burst into laughter.

  Rochelle rubbed her arms as she paced past the center table to the hearth that yawned higher than her head. Smoke mingled with the odor of blood that would surely permeate her soul for eternity. Yet in spite of the blaze, the blast of heat failed to thaw the iciness that froze her chest and shivered her body.

  Trapped.

  No, she would not accept defeat. Both Pierre and DuBois depended upon her persistence. She would prove her virginity to a priest if she must. Gaston couldn’t wed her to gain the lands because he already had a victimized wife. And he had no more sons to force upon her, which meant...

  She had won!

  Fighting a triumphant smile, she brushed back the wayward edge of the wimple that covered her hair and turned to confront Gaston.

  "Sire, your son ranted numerous times about my blame in his inability to perform his husbandly duties. Servants overheard Marcel’s accusations. The news spread throughout the castle like the recent plague. The servants will also testify how he beat me on our wedding night and several times thereafter. If Marcel hadn't been slain by brigands while he traveled the road to Avignon, I'd have died from his abuse."

  Gaston raised a brow. "He didn't even prick his thigh to bloody the sheets?"

  Rochelle uttered a laugh. "And mar his precious flesh? You knew not your son to ask such a question."

  “Au contraire. You knew him not.” A twisted form of delight glowed in his eyes. “Besides, I bore witness to his admirable performance with wenches and willing ladies. ‘Twas only you who failed to stir his lust.” He shrugged. “Any man would beat a woman who affected him thus.”

  Hot rage flared against the cold tombstone of her memories. She fisted her hands at her sides and met the soulless granite of his eyes. "No other male will suffer such failure because of me, for I swear to you, no man will ever touch me again - and live."

  "Such a righteous declaration. But, erroneous.” A grin curved one corner of his too-full mouth. “If I am not your father-in-law, then I will claim your hand as . . . “ He nodded a slight bow. “Your husband."

  Rochelle's heart constricted. "You are already wed!"

  Gaston glanced down at the mantle draped over his arm. An insincere frown wrinkled his forehead as he stroked the black fabric with his thumb. "She's . . . dead."

  "Dead?" Rochelle drew in a tight breath. Trapped, after all. She threw him a glare. "Of natural causes? Or does the father have the same brutal inclination as did the son?"

  The hatred in his eyes responded to her accusation, as did the tightening of his grip on his weapon. He ambled past the center table and toward her at the hearth.

  "I refuse to wed you, Sire. I plan to---"

  "What you plan matters not. Reynaurd and I made a pact two decades past, mere moments after you emerged from the womb. In accord with the signed arrangement, since you are the only surviving heir and unwed, I take your hand and your lands. And despite your threat to kill any man who touches you, I will consummate the marriage."

  Rochelle's stomach roiled at the unbidden image of Gaston violating her body.

  "Bastard!" Her father threw aside his covers and struggled to sit upright, blood seeping through the bandage from the wound too near his heart. “Get out!”

  "Non, mon père! Be still!" Rochelle shoved past Gaston to the bed and urged her father to lie back upon his pillows. The chill of the Sire's laughter snaked up her spine.

  "You cannot stop the inevitable, Reynaurd. You'll be dead before the sun sets, then DuBois will be mine. I have already received dispensation from the Pope to plight troth with my not-quite daughter-in-law. As soon as a decent interval has passed, of course. On the morrow is soon enough for a wedding."

  "Get out!" Convulsions racked her father's body so hard that the gold-embroidered bed-hangings swayed. He pressed his hands against his chest and gasped for air, his life force seeping through his fingers like crimson tears.

  Rochelle whirled to face Gaston. "Wait below in the great hall. We will discuss this madness further, though 'tis a waste of your time. I will not wed you. Besides, I‘ve seen no proof of this bargain."

  Agitation flickered through Gaston’s eyes, overridden by assurance. “Reynaurd’s admittance is proof enough. But never fear, my betrothed, the papers exist.” He sheathed his sword as he sauntered to her side, then lifted his hand toward her face. Rochelle flinched, hating the instinctive reaction she had acquired after her abuse from Marcel. Gaston stroked his rough finger down her cheek and a shudder of revulsion slithered along her raised flesh.

  "My stubborn Rochelle, the madness is your refusal to accept what is. If the marriage was consummated, I have claim as your father-in-law. If my son failed as a husband, then French law declares you are not a true widow and must re-marry. And as of this morn, I am fortuitously widowed.” He faked a frown. “Ah, well. Today I grieve. Tomorrow I wed.”

  His expectant gaze chilled her to the marrow.

  “Sire Gaston, how could you have already received dispensation from the Pope if you didn’t kill her until this morn?”

  Gaston’s laugh frightened her more than his sword. “Naiveté and slander within one imprudent statement. Timing and technique aside, the bargain assures DuBois is mine. If you don't willingly agree, then I'll take you by force. As soon as the vows are exchanged your knights will swear fealty to me or become prisoners in my torture chamber." Gaston dropped his hand to his side and strolled to the door like a blasé paramour. "Come when he dies, my little dove. Which will be soon. He hasn't long." The door clicked shut behind him.

  Rochelle stared again at her father. Gaston spoke true. Her father's pallor paled ashen against the linens of his bed as if his earthly body had begun the reversal to dust. During the ugly moments with Gaston, her father had rallied with his anger, but his rapid descent to nonexistence frightened her. A wet rim glistened beneath his lashes. Only the specter of death could pull from him such a weakness. Surely, regrets weren’t the cause. If so, he’d waited too late for misgivings.

  What to do now? Many lives depended upon her next moments. Gaston’s guards posted outside the door would prevent her from going for Griselda in an effort to save her father. In truth, she knew he was beyond hope. And horror in the name of Gaston stalked the halls in anticipation of her father's last breath. No, she needed information. She needed a plan.

  Removing the bloodied
rags from his chest, she tossed them to the floor and pressed clean folded strips against the wound, then pulled the vair pelts up to his shoulders to warm his soon-permanent chill.

  “Thirsty.”

  She snatched the goblet from the tray that sat atop the high chest and raised his head, pressing the rim against his lips. Wine slipped past his mouth and dribbled down his chin as he swallowed. He closed his eyes as if exhausted. She returned the goblet to the tray and wiped his chin with a torn sheet.

  "Mon père, you must reveal to me this mysterious pact. Perhaps the telling will impart a solution of how to protect DuBois . . .” She hesitated, guilt-ridden, knowing her next comment would arouse his fury. "And Pierre."

  His eyes flew open. "Non."

  "Why won't you acknowledge him as your son? As of now, 'tis a secret between Pierre and me, but now that . . .” She squeezed his hand, unable to say aloud how near to him death hovered, although she knew he understood better than any. "I vow to always care for my brother, no matter your decision. But at this point, what do you gain by refusing to admit he is of your seed?"

  "His life."

  Rochelle felt the blood drain from her face. "I don't understand."

  "All the children but you, including bastards, dead. Slain." The words shoved from his throat in an angry rasp.

  “You declared they were accidents, or of natural causes.”

  “So I believed. At first. But surely one child besides you would have survived. I began to suspicion the others died from poisonings because their demise occurred at the same time each year, in the spring.” His chest rose as if with labored effort. “But Pierre is alive, you see, because no one else knows.”