Love Thine Enemy Page 10

  He stepped back as if burned. "Your eye has improved. Now, explain."

  She blinked to clear the fog that clouded her mind and stole her concentration, for she couldn't seem to remember the subject of their discussion. "Explain?"

  He scowled. "You crafty vixen. Tell me for what you search."

  "Ah. That." Rochelle moved her foot to retreat, then remembered the keys. Placing a hand on a cocked hip in an Angelique-like stance so that the hem of her gown swung out over the ring, she shrugged and released a sigh.

  "Très bien. I merely behave as an exemplary wife by helping to find the papers of which you seem so fond, but I expect no gratitude for my efforts. 'Tis but my wifely duty." Knowing he would never swallow such garbage, she held her breath in wait for him to draw his sword and make two of her.

  As if he heard her musings, he tightened a choke-hold on the hilt. "The papers? You hope to destroy the evidence?"

  She felt the blood drain from her face. "Non." Her voice sounded high and guilty, although she didn't know why since she told the truth. After all, she attempted thievery, not destruction.

  Becket lifted his gaze as if in prayer. "Oh, distance me from lying tongues."

  She scoffed. "A difficult request unless you send your tongue across the Pyrenees. And while you're at this blessed parting, you might increase the distance and send the rest of you over the Alps."

  "Ah, another challenge."

  He flashed a grin that sent mysterious waves of heat along her flesh.

  "For one, I refer to your lies, as well you know. But even so, you tempt me to demonstrate the diverse ways I can pleasure you with my devilish tongue to convince you I am best left whole." He turned toward the bed with feline grace and unfastened his sword.

  Grasping the chance, Rochelle knelt and reached under her skirt for the---

  Becket spun, and before she could yell, he had her sitting atop the chest with her back against the wall and his knee between her thighs. He had already run his hands up her legs and waist and moved toward her breasts. Instinctively, she splayed her hands over her bosom, but Becket grasped her neckline and yanked open her bodice. Buttons peppered the floor. Cold air chilled her exposed flesh. He stared at her breasts for several thuds of her heart, then he lifted his gaze to hers, apparently as shocked as she.

  "For what did you reach, Lady Rochelle?"

  She couldn't breathe, much less talk. She could only seem to stare at him, her mouth as wide open as her bodice. She attempted an answer, but nothing emerged, so she forced a swallow. "The . . . the keys." The incriminating admission floated out on a strained whisper.

  Puzzlement furrowed his brow. "Keys?" Then he glanced at the floor and chagrin flickered across his face. "Ah. Keys." He shifted his attention back to where she sat in total dishevelment splayed astride his thigh, her skirts almost to her waist, the edges of her unfastened bodice still gripped in his fists. She knew she should yell or fight, but amazement still stunned her that he moved with such speed. And yet, he hadn't harmed her, but had merely ripped all thought from her mind.

  She cleared her throat. "A form of knightly exercise?"

  "I thought you were going for a dagger." He scorched a lingering gaze along her legs, then raked back up and halted at her breasts. "My error. Pardonez moi."

  "You, a fierce warrior, fear an attack from a defenseless female?"

  "A quick slash across the throat or the back of the neck can end a life faster than a sword." He raised his ebony gaze to hers. "And I assure you, cherie, you are not defenseless. You possess a weapon against which even my armor has no protection."

  He shifted his weight, pressing his knee tighter against her womanhood. Sudden terror shoved her hands against his chest, but he grasped her wrists. "Now, where were we before we ended up in this exotic entanglement?"

  She had no idea. Still dazed, she moistened her suddenly dry lips.

  Desire pooled into his eyes like molten jet. "Ah, yes. Tongues."

  Rochelle's heart shuddered to a stop.

  Becket leaned toward her and he smelled of cedar and smoke and DuBois wine, and she wondered what punishment he intended. Surely he couldn't harm her with his tongue. But then, he might only intend to lull her into acquiescence and then strike out with savagery as had Marcel.

  His hypnotic gaze held her spellbound as he lifted one of her hands to his mouth. Prepared to scream, she tensed, in wonder if he might bite.

  "To demonstrate, my skittish falcon, the tongue is one of the most potent weapons of this mortal flesh."

  He stroked his tongue, all hot and wet, across her palm, and a shiver rolled up her spine.

  "Taste is one miracle. In this instance the flavor is slightly smoky, with a hint of cedar. . ." He gave her a knowing glance. ". . . from rummaging among my possessions."

  He intended harm after all. Apprehensive with this extraordinary form of punishment, Rochelle tugged against his hold, but he merely continued the moist caress down the tender inside of her wrist. Surely he felt the betraying beat of her rampant pulse.

  "Another marvel of the tongue is the forming of words, which can build or destroy, cause war, bring peace."

  She should cease this carnal use of her body, but curiosity ruled otherwise. She would merely remain on guard and unaffected in hopes passion overwhelmed his discipline and lured him to consummate the vows.

  "'Tis used for truth." He cocked a dark brow as his sharpened gaze pierced hers. "Or lies." Then like a giant cat, he laved her other palm and the sensitive flesh of her other wrist.

  Despite her aloof intentions, heat slid from his touch through her throbbing veins to unexplored regions of her body. She struggled to bolster her instincts that warned her to beware, but each stroke drained strength from her body.

  "Words topple kingdoms, inspire cathedrals."

  He lowered his mouth to the side of her face. Her wimple must have slipped, because his warm breath teased her ear, then his tongue dipped into the recess, and an extraordinary yearning melted into her breasts, into her womanhood. A hunger. An emotion never experienced before Becket, and yet, addictive. Suddenly weak, she sank against the wall, the voice of warning too faint to heed.

  "Tongues either comfort, or curse. Spout hate. Declare love."

  Her eyelids fanned closed and she felt the brush of his rough-smooth touch across one lid, then the other. Rochelle quivered to the marrow of her bones.

  "But the greatest gift of the tongue is given without words: The gift of pleasure."

  His wine-scented breath warmed her mouth, then he caressed his tongue beneath her lower lip. Rochelle stiffened with unbidden recollections from when Marcel had bitten her. Becket paused. When she glanced at him, she saw that he concentrated on her scar, his eyes narrowed, his mouth set in an angry line.

  "Lady Rochelle, how did you receive this?" Controlled revulsion slid out with his words.

  Sickened, she closed her eyes. He found her repulsive, flawed. And yet, what could she expect after the perfection of Angelique? She shook her head, unwilling to relive her nightmares. "'Tis of the past."

  He squeezed her hands but maintained a gentle hold, much like a wolf with a stubborn cub. "You'll find me a most obstinate man."

  Her eyelids popped open at that confession. "In truth, Sire? If you hadn't admitted to obstinacy, I would never have noticed."

  "Sarcasm flows with such ease from such beauty. I know not why the information is important to me, but 'tis so. Tell me."

  Insincere flattery again. But then, if she revealed the horror he might understand some of her fears. Rochelle glanced down at their clasped hands, hers white and rather delicate and fragile next to his which were large, darker skinned, more callused. Becket tightened his hold another notch as if to give her courage.

  "He . . ." She took his offered support and gripped in return, then cleared the persistent lump from her throat. "He bit me. Marcel. He pretended to kiss me, then clamped my lower lip with his teeth and bit through."

  "Bastard."
He inhaled a ragged breath. "And did he cause the scar around your nipple in the same way?"

  Pain speared through her memories. A soft cry escaped her throat as she attempted to wrest free and cover her ugliness, but Becket pressed her hands against the wainscoted wall, widening the opening of her gown, further exposing her imperfect breasts, leaving her more vulnerable to judgment. Unable to escape, she fought the urge to cry and inwardly withdrew to behind her stone wall, turning her head to hide the traitorous molten trails that slipped down her cheeks. She felt him shake as if enraged, but she couldn't stop the sob that wrenched within her chest and revealed her shame.

  "Don't weep, my little falcon." He licked at her tears. "'Tis unfortunate Marcel is already dead. For daring to treat you . . . any woman thus, I would have savored sending him to hell, one painful portion at a time." He caught another tear with the tip of his tongue. "Salty, like your nature. Mine, salted by fire. Yours, by persecution."

  Stunned, she studied his face through the hot tears that slipped down her face and between her marred breasts. Despite his blurred image, she sensed his suffering.

  "I, too, am scarred, Lady Rochelle. By Marcel's father, Gaston. And like you, most of my wounds are hidden deep inside where the world cannot see. Your scars are but badges of survival, laurels of the flesh to admire."

  He caressed his tongue over the blemish beneath her lip as if to heal, then swept a leisurely path between her parted lips,

  Rochelle caught her breath, shocked by his confession, his tender gesture, his intimacy that dared reach beyond her protective barrier. No, she must not allow his persistent assault to erode a lifetime of carefully placed emotional boulders else she would be unprotected against an excruciating cruelty beyond any she had ever experienced.

  He swept a path across one wet cheek, then the other, then around the shape of her mouth, and her defense-wall cracked.

  A mewling sound slipped out to expose her bemused arousal. His surrounding power engulfed her and she felt as if he absorbed her entity within his. Of a sudden her eyelids weighed too heavy to keep open. She never dreamt any woman, especially her, could experience such wondrous sensations. She lifted her chin to encourage him to touch his sensuous lips against hers, for she had much enjoyed his kiss that had caused, not pain, but titillation. Instead, he trailed a heated line to an incredible area beneath her ear she never knew existed, then down the side of her neck and along the opened edge of her neckline.

  Sensations bathed her flesh, warm, like the sun, like summer rain, like Becket. He ran his tongue to the valley between her breasts. Her chest rose and fell with labored breaths to draw in air that refused to reach her lungs, breaths that matched the heaviness of his. The previous places of his attentive labors cooled in various stages and she felt as if he still touched her with tiny feathers in all the former spots as well as where he now stroked her to liquid heat. Magic. A moan flowed from her throat.

  A low growl echoed from Becket, a telltale cleave of passion through his armor of control.

  "A cat, not a man. Wild. Feral." She whispered as an overloud thought.

  He growled again and swept his tongue a strength-stealing trail along the underswell of her breast. "And you, the cream. I would that I could drink my fill. Perhaps I shall."

  He might make her his. Hope increased along with her rapture. He moved in a spiral toward the peak of her breast, toward the permanent reminder of Marcel's bite. Painful memories battled her arousal. Instinctively, she fisted her hands and squeezed her eyelids in preparation for pain.

  "Have no fear, little falcon, I touch you only with my tongue, naught else." He continued his merciless assault along the circular scar around her aureole and instead of fear, a mysterious, primal ache unfurled from his attentions to virgin territories within her womanhood. Then he flicked his tongue over her nipple and her senses soared from her body like the falcon he had named her.

  "Why?" She whispered her confusion as she rolled her head from side to side, her eyes closed with her ecstatic torment.

  The silence beyond his ragged breaths revealed more than any excuse he might fabricate. "Because I can”, finally drifted out. Then he continued his sweet torture as if hungry, and she, a banquet. “You are within my power, mine to enjoy until the morn, in any way but one."

  He panted hot and rapid against her dampened skin. Wet trails tickled and cooled, reminders of his ardent labors. Then he caressed his tongue in a circle on the scar around her nipple and she gasped, pressing her breast toward his incredible mouth.

  "You seduce me, Lady Rochelle?"

  If only she knew how.

  He teased her nipple to a hard bead and a mystical pressure expanded from out of her chest until she hovered above herself.

  "We engage in an erotic battle of wills, my falcon. What lusty acts might you agree to in your maneuverings for my submission?"

  Her fortitude faltered at what he hinted. And yet he erred when he called her a falcon. She felt as a moth drawn to his flame, her heartbeat the thrum of her wings. His heat drew her towards him. His enticing heat.

  She felt him slide down between her thighs.

  "And I have yet to explore your silken body revealed by your tossed hem, your tempting flesh that guides me, lures me, to taste your womanly essence."

  His tongue touched her bared thigh and circled a tortuous path toward her indecently high skirt. "Soft. So soft."

  Heat slid from his erotic intimacy up through her melting womanhood and forced a weak cry of ecstasy from her chest Surely he didn’t intend to . . .

  Of a sudden he ceased and she whimpered a protest. She heard loud thuds, a male voice, mumbled words. In the haze of her vision she saw Becket push to his feet as he jerked down her skirt, then turn and stand in front of her as if to shield her from view. Her moth-like spirit dived and she had to swim upward from a deep pool.

  Becket spun to face her again, his eyes flames of fury, the keys in his shaking fist.

  "You are a master, Lady Rochelle."

  "In truth?" And yet he hadn't meant a compliment. Dread slid over her flesh like the brush of death. Struggling to clear her clouded thought, she pulled her bodice together and pushed her spine against the wall. She couldn't see past Becket's body to whomever stood at the door, but Becket's enraged expression screamed he wished he could strangle her.

  He shook the keys in front of her eyes. "You almost seduced me into believing you possessed an innocent soul."

  "I don't understand. I know I let myself into your chamber, but---"

  "Gaston. He has escaped. Aided by a woman. The guard heard the swish of skirts before someone attempted to crush his skull. And of all the women here, only you would have desperate enough cause to free that butcher. You warned me you would use any source, any power, to defeat me."

  Reality of his accusation and the consequences, slammed into her mind like an iron bar. His eyes shimmered his hatred and held her a doomed prisoner.

  "Lady Rochelle, you realize I must punish you. After I am finished with you, you will wish you hadn't played this dangerous game."

  He would kill her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Catch her. Kill her. Catch her. Kill her.

  Rochelle's heart pounded the certainty as she lifted her skirt and waded through the stream as icy as Becket's soul. She scrambled up the rocky side of the mountain toward the nightmarish cave.

  When Becket had confronted her about Gaston, she had darted past him and a giant of a man who had pressed his hand to the back of his head as if injured. And now her lungs hurt. Her sides ached. And somewhere behind her, Becket followed. But how far?

  Scraped and bleeding, she yanked her wet hem out from under her feet and limped past a boulder to the crest of the hill. She froze.

  The view. The spectacular, moon-bathed view. Rochelle pressed her hand against the stitch in her side, gasping cold air into her lungs as she wandered to the edge of the cliff.

  The DuBois valley sprawled between the Pyrenees mountai
ns and the Garonne River as a herald of Spring, of hope reborn---patches of renewing pastures, tilled fields already sown with seed, row upon row of budding grape vines that shone in the moonlight like a fan of silver streamers eager for a May Pole. The river cascaded down the face of the mountain and greeted her with inappropriately-joyous melody. The chill wind kissed her scratches and wrapped the damp skirt around her ankles as if to encourage her to pause, to allow the beauty to soothe her bruised body, her bloodied spirit.

  Before the magnificence wrenched tears from her soul, Rochelle turned toward the black misshapen entrance to the cave, a ghoul's mouth in a fossilized scream of terror. Except now, the mouth appeared hungry, eager to swallow her forever into its bowels. Rochelle shuddered. She hated that murky hellhole. And she had no torch to reveal what horrid creatures lurked beyond the moonlight. And yet, Pierre . . .

  Rochelle took a hesitant step toward the cave. Something moved inside. Tingles prickled her nape like frantic spiders. She stilled in wait for another movement but heard nothing more than her panted breaths.

  Becket had forced her to this dangerous pass. She clutched her bodice together to ward off the chill and spun to feast her eyes once more upon the land she loved. A tearing agony shafted through her heart. Then anger. The land's refusal to capitulate to winter shone as an example for perseverance. Surrender this? Never. She raised a defiant fist toward the heavens.

  "This I vow, Sire Becket. DuBois is mine. I will do aught to destroy you."

  "Even to releasing Gaston?"

  “Becket!”

  She whirled and took a step back---onto air! Her scream rent through the valley, then she felt a jerk on her wrist and she jolted against his chest.

  "You do not escape me so easily, my traitorous falcon. I have a more creative punishment planned for you."

  His too-controlled threat rammed a fist into her stomach. She had run because she feared he would kill her. Now she feared he wouldn't. Unable to stand on her boneless legs, she held onto the steel of his arms and concentrated on her next breath. Somehow, she must reach the oblivion of the cave before the devil exacted revenge.