Love Thine Enemy Read online

  He lifted his heated attention to her face. His eyes sparked confidence, anticipation. "I warn you, my untried virgin. There are many ways I can take satisfaction from your tempting body and leave your virtue intact."

  "I accept your challenge, knight." She slid her hands around his stubborn neck and pulled up to her toes. "I'll start with a kiss."

  CHAPTER NINE

  Believe in yourself. Believe you will succeed.

  Rochelle held her breath and lifted her chin to press her mouth to Becket's, but he didn't lower his head and she couldn't reach him.

  He grinned his superiority.

  Well, hex on the man. But she hadn't survived by being irresolute. What might be his weaknesses? She almost laughed. Arrogance. Pride. Love of a challenge. She traced a finger around the shell of his ear, determined not to enjoy the feel of him even though his lush hair caressed her flesh.

  "Frightened of me, knight?"

  "You're the one who trembles."

  "But 'twas you who backed away from the kiss while upon the parapet. Mayhap my nearness affects you more than you admit."

  "With your inexperience? Not so, my enemy."

  His rich-timbered avowal wavered her confidence. No, she must not doubt, or she would defeat herself. She drew her fingertip over his smooth cheek to the corner of his mouth, amazed that the simple action sent tingles along her spine. He didn't retreat, but stood tall and invincible, heat like melted stars within his eyes.

  "You speak true about my inexperience, knight. I never realized the pressing of one mouth upon another could arouse such enjoyable sensations. Would I feel thus with any man, or only with you?"

  The corner of his mouth twitched beneath her touch; the stars in his eyes flashed a brighter glow. "Some blendings are more pleasant than others."

  "Then Henri's kiss might affect me the same?" She smiled at his surprised scowl. "He is wickedly attractive, and I so desire another such pleasantry. Will he be my escort to the convent?"

  "Henri would not dare touch that which is mine."

  She released a heavy sigh and stepped back, oddly thrilled by his possessiveness. No, not possessiveness. Only determination to keep her a virgin and without child, blast his dark soul. The fact that her goal had been the same but hours ago flitted through her mind. But the situation had changed her goals. Even so, he deserved another bruise to his pride.

  "Then one of the other knights perhaps, although I would prefer Henri. But since I would like to experience one more kiss before I am secluded, and you have not the courage, I have no choice but to choose another."

  "For a woman who claimed to want no man, you now play the hussy? Besides, 'tis not a lack of courage on my part, but of interest."

  He leaned against the boulder in semi-dishabille, the image of boredom---except for his eyes. He had the feral gleam of an animal on the prowl, and she knew that he lied. She realized in that enlightening moment he preferred pursuit, not being pursued, control, not reaction. She would surely fail unless she seduced him into seducing her.

  Rochelle ambled toward the bluff, praying he didn't give her a shove and save himself the bother. She gazed toward the fog enshrouded Garonne River so as to see his reactions in her peripheral vision.

  "Your kiss would most likely be a disappointment anyway, knight. You merely surprised me the first time, 'twas all." She shrugged. "After Marcel, I would have reacted the same to anyone who didn't bite."

  "'Twould not be a disappointment." He pushed away from the boulder and strolled toward her with animalistic grace, but distanced, to the far end of the drop-off.

  She stepped back from the edge. She felt as if they were bull and matador, each sizing up the opponent, circling, studying. Cloud-cast shadows caressed them in passing, giving an other-worldly feeling of dark amorphous shapes and intermittent moonlight.

  Rochelle pressed her shaky hand on the boulder so like her opponent, rock-hard, and yet magnificent, then trailed her fingers along the rough surface as she ambled toward the narrow entrance.

  "In truth, knight, you are probably not even very good at the task."

  "Your reaction proved otherwise."

  "As you say, I'm inexperienced so I wouldn't know the difference. I need a comparison." She picked up the wool mantle, the warmth welcome against her breeze-chilled flesh, and continued her pace toward where the two boulders almost touched, much like the stubborn distance between her and Becket.

  "I'm surprised at your cowardice, Lady Rochelle. You forfeit?"

  "I but go in search of a mentor. I remember in the hallway when Henri offered to bed me in your stead. Perhaps he would agree to tutor me in the rules and techniques of this sensuous battle so that I will be more interesting to you, less virginal. After an hour or two of . . . experience . . . I might seek you out again to---"

  "Enough about Henri. This duel is between us." Becket slipped past her in lithe motion and placed his arm across the opening, his unbuttoned sleeve revealing his muscular strength, his jaw as tensed as her nerves.

  "I begin to think you're more anxious to mete out my punishment than you pretend, knight. You could have let me travel the distance to the keep and claimed victory, but you bar my exit. Why?"

  "If you are insistent upon tutelage, my foolish falcon, I will be your trainer." He pushed away from the stone and sauntered her direction. As he moved, forbidden glimpses of his chest taunted from beyond the opening of his pourpoint. "I will teach you to fly, but only as high as my tether will allow."

  The increased wind skimmed the cloud-shadows across them at a faster pace. His eyes glinted with each flash of the moonlight. She had baited the devil. He stole toward her, Satan ravenous for a human sacrifice. Rochelle took a step back, clutching her bodice together from the wind, from him.

  He followed. "You will soon hate my controlling leash, for you will ache to soar beyond the limits, but just when you think to break free, I will pull you back, time and again, until you will perform any feat for a mere moment's release."

  She retreated another step but bumped into the boulder.

  He came closer. "I'll teach you to use your claws, to trill with pleasure, to scream. And between flights I'll give you tidbits of the flesh, a taste, and then a juicier morsel, sensuous rewards to lure you to embrace my mastery. But I warn you, for each reward, I will exact a price."

  "Payment for services rendered, knight? Now you play the part of whore." She could barely breathe within the power of his nearness. And she dare not stare at his semi-bared chest, so she concentrated on his eyes, equally as sinful.

  He quirked an anticipatory grin. "Only women are whores. Men merely astute with finances."

  "And in return for a kiss?"

  "I would see your hair."

  She instinctively clutched her head-covering. He lifted his hand and she flinched, hating her tell-tale reflexes.

  "How peculiar." He drew a callused finger along where the wimple met her face, and she shuddered. "I've tasted your breasts, and yet you are appalled about exposing your tresses."

  He towered so close she felt his heat, felt his unseen force that overwhelmed her and left her dazed. Scrambling to re-gather her scattered composure, she shifted her attention to the mist-strewn valley.

  He leaned closer, his breath warming her temple, increasing her heartbeat. "And yet, Lady Rochelle, before I am finished, you will expose all."

  Shaken at what she had started, she glanced up at his too-near face sculpted by light and shadow, his lower lip licked by moonbeams, full, mouth parted, as if to devour her. Then he hesitated, inhaled.

  "I detect a fragrance other than death, smoke and the cedar from my belongings." Becket drew in another breath. "Mountain Laurel." He picked something from her wimple before she could protest, and held out a leaf. "You landed in a Laurel shrub on your flight up the hillside? He chuckled with amused sarcasm. "You are like a young falcon, brash and brave, and yet at times, unsteady in travel."

  "Only since you arrived, knight."

&n
bsp; "Do I daunt you, Lady Rochelle?"

  "I'm unused to fleeing from the devil."

  "You stumbled in my presence before you even knew of my purpose." He touched her wimple.

  Panic seized her as hard as her sudden grasp of his wrist. "Like any astute woman of finance, I do not give payment until service is rendered. I will first have the kiss."

  "What do you hide, Lady Rochelle?" He brushed the tip of the leaf over her mouth and she felt a strange tingle. "Is your hair unsightly? Are you bald? My curiosity is beyond bearing." He ignored her tugs on his arm as if she were of no more substance than fog, and fisted one hand upon her head-covering.

  "I do not give you permission, Sire. You trespass upon my person. First I will have your mouth upon mine."

  "Are you certain 'tis what you want? I see your war of emotions whether to flee or seduce---tensed to run, teetering to sink into my embrace, one hand ready to slap, your expression a steamy curiosity to further explore a sensuality you didn't know you could feel, the fear of where that exploration will take you."

  The truth brought an uneasy laugh from her throat. "Too much of a challenge, knight?"

  The wind moaned, breathing against her flesh. The moon hid, shrouding them in darkness. A warning? Shivers tingled her nape.

  "You know not what you begin, Lady Rochelle. Run. Now. Before you become enmeshed in a battle neither of us can finish to our satisfaction."

  An odd tangle of excitement and fear churned within her chest. Whatever had possessed her to try this insanity?

  DuBois.

  Pierre.

  "I will see this through, knight. Cease this delay. Kiss me."

  "Then the battle begins."

  He lowered his face and she felt the warmth of his breath against her cold mouth. She stiffened and willed her pulse to slow. She must remain unaffected.

  "Even ordinary things can be an enjoyment to the flesh, Lady Rochelle." He swept the leaf tip across her lips, then followed with his tongue. Pleasure fired through her body. He plunged his tongue past her gasp, claimed her mouth with his, claimed her strength. How could a mere kiss make her weak, and warm . . . no, hot? He caressed her tongue with his, strong, rhythmic, like the strong steady beat of her heart. He tasted of honeyed wine and spice, smelled of cedar. She slid her arms around his neck and entangled her fingers in his wind-tossed hair.

  "You must have imbibed much this day, Lady Rochelle. Twice have I kissed you and both times you tasted of DuBois wine." His whispered discovery into her mouth, singed through her veins like the heat of his kiss.

  "I have had no wine." She opened her mouth in encouragement. He delved his tongue again and drank.

  "Sweet fire."

  She inhaled his heady words, drank the taste of him and felt the intoxication soak into her very core. She would surely lose all unless she gained control of her reactions and inflamed his.

  He slipped his hand under the edge of her wimple. She tensed with the unfamiliar intimacy, feeling as if he stole beneath her skirts.

  "You behave as if I trespass where no man has before."

  She couldn't answer, her head spun so from his kiss. He fondled the hairs at her nape, rubbing the softness against her flesh, and she heard his stifled groan. Or perhaps, 'twas hers.

  "Like silk. Soft as the delicate hairs on a moth's wings."

  Moth to his spider.

  She whimpered and sank against his body.

  He reached further. "Satin braids. Coiled as tightly as your arms around my neck." He ran his tongue around her wet lips. "How long since a man has seen your hair, Lady Rochelle?"

  She felt a steady tug. The fastener under her chin released, then the wimple slid from her head in slow surrender. Her feelings sank again to earth. She fought the urge to shove his hands aside. The fabric slid past her ears, then cool air swirled upon her nape, and she felt naked.

  He captured her gaze. "How long, Lady Rochelle?"

  She swallowed. "Three."

  "Days? Weeks?"

  "Years old. Since the age of three."

  His eyes widened in shock. "Why?"

  "'Tis wicked. Père Bertrand says 'twould tempt the gods from the heavens."

  "Tempt me, Lady Rochelle. Show me what no man has seen. Let down your hair." He stepped back, and her body chilled where once he had pressed. "'Tis your price for the kiss. I will have payment."

  Thankful for the darkness, she unpinned her braids, then pulled them over her shoulders and combed her trembling fingers through to untangle the strands.

  The moon leapt out without warning, washing her with sudden light.

  His breath hitched. "'Tis the color of moonlight." He stepped near, stroking his hands down her tresses, fisting the ends in his palms, holding the strands closer as if in disbelieving scrutiny. "Spun from DuBois moonbeams, for only here does the light shine with this particular silver glow." He shook his head. "'Tis the trick of the night. But you are more than mere falcon. You are milk-white, like the most rare of royal gyrfalcons, a bird for kings. And yet, you belong to me. Mine to control. And now you will soar once more."

  He lifted his hand and she winced, not certain what to expect. The wimple covered her eyes and she grasped for his arms, but he secured the cloth behind her head.

  "I but hood you, my skittish bird. Your senses will be more alert if you cannot see."

  Rochelle swallowed a cry. She felt the tip of the leaf trail from her mouth down her neck, between her breasts, and she held her breath, willing her body not to be afraid, not to notice the tingles that shimmered along her flesh. Then she felt his hands at her waist, strong, masterful. In slow possession, they skimmed up underneath her hair that draped over her bodice, to her neckline.

  He slid his fingers beneath the edges of the fabric, then up to her shoulders, urging her bodice wider. Cool air caressed the inner part of her breasts. She fought not to pull away. Instead, she dug her nails into her palms and concentrated to minimize the rise and fall of her chest. He spoke true; her lack of sight intensified her awareness. The fabric parted more and she felt her hair slide over her nipples as coverage. And still the fabric moved, from her shoulders, down past her elbows. A breeze chilled her back, her arms. She should run. She should shove him away and hide from him forever.

  She would die first.

  The sleeves slipped over her hands and she heard the fabric sigh against the earth. Then she felt her waterfalled tresses slide from over her breasts and tumble down her back as if he had swept them out of the way of his vision. Her nipples tightened in the coolness, as did her lungs. She knew he stared at her as she stood, stripped to her waist, bared to his gaze, and a strange ache filled each exposed mound, almost as if they swelled.

  His breathing increased, but he didn't touch her, and she felt like screaming, not knowing what he would do to her. Mayhap touch her with the leaf again, or his tongue. She heard movement and she forced herself to stay as still as the rock behind her.

  Hot hands cupped her fullness and she gasped. He pressed her against the boulder at her back, pressed his body against hers, his fingers testing her softness, gently squeezing. She rested her head on the stone, and enjoyed the astounding sensations. He lifted one breast, then his mouth covered her nipple. Her spirit flew from her body and she arched, pressing against his tongue. Hot. Wet. He suckled, drawing molten heat from her toes through her body, and she whimpered.

  Driven to touch him in return, she threaded her fingers through his hair and urged his mouth tighter against her, encouraging him to taste his fill. He moved to the other breast, and she moaned, unable to control the wild sensations that surged from his mouth to her womanhood, a fierce ache, yet wondrous. A cry soared from her body with her feelings, never to return, and she would---

  Coolness feathered over her wet nipples and she knew he had retreated. The pressure eased from her body. She ached to call him back, but could only gasp air into her lungs. And slowly, with regret, her spirit sank again into her chest, but transformed, needful, restless,
and she knew she would never be as before.

  She would be cursed before she claimed the honor of being the only one affected by this carnal battle. And she didn't have time for maidenly shyness. Resolute, she straightened and yanked the wimple from over her face.

  She caught a glimmer of something unexpected in his eyes that he quickly hid, but what? She affected him more than he wanted? He stood there, all moonlight and ebony, heaven and hell, a fallen angel. And she must somehow make him fall even more.

  "I would touch you, knight. Sear the image of a naked Marcel from my memories. Show me your body."

  Surprise darted through his eyes, then challenge. "'Tis not part of the training." He retrieved the cloak and sailed it toward the bluff like a matador's cape. The black fabric settled on the ground like a spread blanket, and she wondered what he intended next.

  "I beg to differ, knight. The instruction would not be complete otherwise. Unless you wish me to meld his image with your touch. I might grow not to hate him after all."

  An angry grin lifted one corner of his mouth. "I am not as flawless of physique as he, thanks to his father."

  "Your laurels of the flesh? Your badges of survival? Press them to mine, knight. Give them something more wondrous to remember than pain."

  "No woman other than my mother has ever seen my scars, and she but briefly. She prefers perfection."

  "I have revealed much to you that no other man has seen. Let me see you as you perform these wondrous mysteries upon me. Burn the vision of Marcel from my mind as you have his touch from my body."

  Becket studied her for several moments as the waterfall filled the night with its crashing tumbles, as the breeze wafted scents from the valley of plowed fields and spring growth.

  With slow deliberation, he untied the tipped laces that joined his hose to his jacket, and slipped the fabric from beneath his scabbard belt. He then withdrew his pourpoint, baring his moon-carved torso, and her heart drummed a seductive rhythm. The released hose sagged from his waist but clung to his well-formed legs, his sword still slung from his hip.