Love Thine Enemy Page 13

Her breath caught in her throat. She knew why the angels had tossed him out. Jealousy.

  "I never knew a man could be so magnificent. I would see all of you, pleasurable torments of what might have been mine to enjoy---should I lose."

  He cocked a brow at her confession. She must have fed the flames of his arrogance, for he stepped toward her. "You have had your tidbit of the flesh. Now you will soar again."

  "I have not touched you." She reached out as he neared. He halted, but she moved against him and ran her hands up his arms and over the planes of his chest. "Your skin, so different in feel from mine, more exotic." He shuddered beneath her touch. She slid her hands to his sides, and felt the scars on his left ribcage.

  He tensed as if prepared to draw back. Uncertain how to make him as mindless as he did her, she followed his tutelage. She leaned down and ran her tongue over the raised flesh, then followed with wet kisses. As she straightened she brushed one breast against his side, scar to scar.

  "Remember this, my knight. Not the pain."

  He grasped her hand and held it at the juncture of his hose. He tugged on his lace and the weight of his manhood fell into her unexpectant hands. Rochelle let out a soft cry, then stared. "A stallion, in human form. Not like Marcel. Not like Marcel at all."

  He let her stare at his stiffness and his rounded fullness below now cradled within her palms.

  "And how did Marcel look?"

  She detected the strain in his voice. "Soft. Limp. Insipid in comparison." She stroked her finger up the length of him to the tip, and he jerked. As if discomfited, he turned from her and his manhood slid from her hands.

  "'Tis why he could not penetrate you."

  "'Tis well and good you don't intend to pierce me with that, knight, or you would harm me in a way Marcel never could."

  "Not so, my skittish falcon. And now you shall take wing again."

  Reaching for her, he tugged on her waistband, and her skirt pooled at her feet, leaving her naked except for her laced boots. Instinctively she covered herself.

  He shook his head. "Move your hands aside. I will see you. Feel you. Taste you. All of you."

  His mastery surrounded her and stole her will. She closed her eyes, assuring her virginal reticence that in order to win, she must lose. So she obeyed. While the waterfall crashed in hypnotic constancy, she felt him absorb her with his gaze. Then she heard movement again, and her nerves strained against her stillness, urging flight. Something touched her breast. She gasped and her eyes flew open.

  "Steady, my white bird. 'Tis but a feather, like that used during training to lure a falcon to the hunt."

  He circled her aureole with the soft stiffness and a cold shiver coursed through her molten-filled veins, the opposites threatening to shatter her defense wall.

  "Rise upon heated currents you didn't know you could feel, Lady Rochelle. Soar."

  He caressed her budded nipple, and she swallowed an animal-like mewl. She must not cry out or he would cease, and she wondered at her mutated rationale. He taunted her other nipple, her stomach, and her skin tautened, tingled. His breaths became more rapid, his eyes more feral as he concentrated upon the sinking movement of his tortuous weapon down her stomach. He brushed her nest of curls, and a galaxy of stars burst hot within her. A wail stuck in her throat.

  "I must feel you, my white falcon."

  Then his rough hands possessed her, strong, demanding, like the beat of her rampant pulse, stroking her arms, her back, her breasts---her heart. No, not her heart, but something inside her she had never known existed. Until now.

  He groaned. "Incredible. A softness I didn't know possible. If the DuBois breeze had solid texture, 'twould be your flesh." As if urgent, he ran his hands over the flare of her hips, her buttocks, and set her afire. He slid his hands down the outside of her thighs, then to the inside. She grasped his shoulders, swallowing the instinct to tell him to cease, to beg him to continue.

  "Spread your legs, Lady Rochelle."

  She closed her eyes but didn't move, unable to make herself be so bold.

  "You will do as I command." He pressed his knee between hers, then forced one leg sideways to widen her stance. A cool gust caressed her warm womanhood, and she wished she had never taken his challenge. But she'd had no choice.

  He ran his hands between her thighs, seared her, branded her, and her knees weakened. She must fight back. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, raked her nails down his arms, then up again. He moved his hands upwards, closer to her privacy, and surely she melted, for a moistness formed, warm in the chilled air.

  He stilled. "Scars on your inner thighs. Marcel?"

  Rochelle could only nod, the horrendous nightmare now dulled by Becket's presence, his power.

  "How?"

  She shook her head, unwilling to sharpen the memory.

  He tightened his hands upon her inner thighs. "How?"

  "While in a drunken rage, Marcel attempted to use his dagger to break my hymen. He cared not that I might die in the process. In escaping, I received cuts."

  "Bastard."

  Becket stroked his hands with more possessiveness as if to smooth her marred flesh. His breathing became harder, faster, his jaw and mouth tighter, his eyes darker. Then he touched her womanhood and a bolt of pleasure ripped through her body. She dropped her head back, and something like a trill rolled from her throat. She clutched his arms to keep from sinking at his feet, aching to touch him in return, but she dare not let go or she would collapse.

  He fondled her femininity much as he had the hairs at her nape until she feared she would go mad, then he stroked a finger along her cleft, touching something mysterious she never knew existed. Her cry sailed over the valley like a falcon's scream of pleasure.

  He released her, and her knees buckled. She stepped back to catch her balance. Her feet entangled in her skirt and she had a momentary vision of a semi-naked Roman god as she fell . . . into his arms. Her breasts pressed against his bare chest and swelled more full, ached more intense. She waited for her stretched out feelings to retreat to within her body, but the sensations wedged, part in, part out, as if too large to fit inside her again. He pulled her to a shaky stand.

  "Spread your legs, Lady Rochelle."

  Not certain if her limbs would support her, she widened her stance.

  "You train well, my white gyrfalcon."

  Incensed, she clamped her hand over his manhood. "Don't pull away, knight."

  He sucked in a breath, disbelief on his face, but he didn't retreat.

  "You train well, my devilish stallion."

  He laughed, then swept her into his arms and she feared he would toss her off the bluff, but he lowered her to the cloak. A strong gust of wind lifted her hair before her body touched the wool, settling the strands behind her. Cold mist from the waterfall dampened her flesh.

  He towered over her, muscle and moonlight, sensual energy, his hair ruffled by the wind, one hand at rest on the hilt of his sword, her wimple in his other hand, his manhood as hard as the rocks that served as their walls.

  "Mayhap you are of the land as you claim, Lady Rochelle. Your hair glows in a silvered fan like the DuBois grapevines. Your breasts are the Pyrenees foothills, your womanhood, the dark cave that lures a man to become lost in you. And like the land, I must tame you, control you. Would that I could furrow your field, plant my seed in you."

  He unbuckled his scabbard, and her heart thudded a louder beat. She tensed as he ran the engraved tip over her foot, up the inside of her leg. After her experience with Marcel, she should be terrified, but for some inexplicable reason, her aroused body overrode her fear. Of most import, retreat meant failure.

  "Widen them, my white falcon."

  His dark gaze challenged her to comply. She did as he commanded, and she felt vulnerable, exposed, and yet, titillated, as he had predicted. He caressed the scabbard up the inside of her leg to brush against her womanhood. She lifted her hips to meet the caress.

  "You are a beauty, Lady Rochelle.
Marcel's inability to play the husband lay not with your lack of charms."

  The confession expanded warm swirls of tension within her body. Then he knelt beside her and teased her womanhood with the tip of his hilt while he dragged the wimple over her nipples. She arched her back as the double sensations multiplied like hot snow in a hellish avalanche. He tormented her privacy to warm ambrosia, drifted the fabric along her stomach, down her thighs, back to her breasts and her sensitized body screamed for some type of release.

  "From now on, Lady Rochelle, think only of me."

  His sword clattered to the ground and he captured her lips with his, hot and wet, one hand in burning possession of her body, touching, stroking, dazing her mind, scorching her soul. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, marking him with her nails. He trailed his kisses down her stomach, to between her thighs and kissed her scars. Then she felt his tongue on that mysterious part of her and her womanhood released a honeyed shudder. A cry rolled from her throat and over the valley, returning with the same anguish as when created.

  He sat back on his heels, arrogant male superiority.

  Curse him!

  Rochelle struggled to catch her breath, all too aware her sensations were beyond retrieval.

  In a flash, she rolled to her knees, her now-damp hair in a wild tangle about her face and torso, her determination to win, a wild tangle of sensual revenge. She would not lose now, not after what he had brought to life in her.

  He met the challenge of her glare as if to say he had warned her.

  Like a large cat, she crept toward him, then leapt, shoving him to his back. She captured his mouth with her lips, captured his rigid maleness with her hand, teasing both, exploring, touching, manipulating.

  He groaned, then groaned again, and she sat back, a victorious grin on her face. His chest rose and fell with as much desperation as hers. Then his eyes narrowed.

  He grasped her breast. She grasped his manhood. He flicked his thumb over her nipple and lightning raced along her veins. She flicked hers over his male tip and felt a moist bead.

  "Now, my stallion, something ordinary upon your extraordinary flesh." Clutching her hair in her fingers, she brushed her tresses across his mouth, his chest, down his taut stomach, and he arched his back.

  "Not ordinary. Silken threads from the moon." He tugged on her strands and pulled her to him. Instead of meeting his kiss, she leaned the other way and sipped the liquid pearl from his swollen tip, ran her tongue over his turgid length. He bucked, moaned. Pulse raging, she straddled him and pressed her opening onto his maleness. But before she could sink onto him, he rolled her onto her back until he loomed over her in naked splendor, his knees between her spread legs.

  "You are no novice, Lady Rochelle. Mayhap not even a virgin."

  'Then mount me, my devilish stallion. Slip your hot length within me."

  A muscle twitched along his jawline. He worked a finger inside her and she bucked against his hand.

  "A valiant effort, Lady Rochelle. And you have a hymen."

  Silver-lined clouds scudded over the fading stars behind his head, alerting her that her time melted like her womanhood. Frantic urgency mingled with her carnal urgency.

  "At least rub against me, knight. Let me feel as much of you as possible before this time ends, for we may never share this ecstasy again."

  The sheen over his flesh glistened in the moonlight as he slid the tip of his manhood along her slick cleft. "A woman is built for a man's pleasure. I warned you that I can satisfy my lust without taking your innocence, and so I shall. 'Tis time for your final flight, my determined falcon."

  She couldn't imagine what he intended, but she must stall him. "First, fill me to my barrier. I must feel you inside me, even though not completely. Give me this to remember of you."

  "You think to ram me through you, but 'twill not work, Lady Rochelle. I'll pin your hips with my body."

  "I care not, knight. Or are you weaker than you claim and fear your control will shatter?"

  "I know what you do."

  "Are you not curious? Even though 'twould not be deep, 'twould be better than not at all."

  He didn't answer, and she knew he wanted to thrust into her as much as she wanted him to.

  "I would feel you, knight. Once. To last a lifetime."

  Weighting her to the ground with both his body and dark scrutiny, he rocked his hips against her, fluid, rhythmic, sensual, and the tension that hovered within and without, tightened, increased. She felt his hand between them, then a pressure at her entrance. He entered her! She soared from her body. Her mind too bemused to form a coherent plan, she only relished the sensation as he slid in, then out, then in again, but just at the entrance, not far enough.

  He trembled. The veins stood out on his arms, his neck, and still he rocked. A moan slipped from his throat. He clenched his jaw, then closed his eyes.

  Beyond her reach, her soul hovered like a moth before a flame, eager to fly into the fire and become one with the glow.

  "Becket." Her plea soared with her spirit. And still he rocked, but faster, and much too shallow. "Help me, Becket. I beg you."

  He reached between them as he rocked, rubbed that mysterious spot with his fingers, and she left the earth, spiraling toward an unknown destination. His teases thrust her into a hopeful madness. He would lose control. He would take her. She could taste the victory. Rochelle grasped his buttocks with her hands, encouraging him deeper, but he worked at the same depth, a faster cadence.

  Her head rolled from side to side. She groaned with ecstasy, forced a whispered confession. "I'm grateful you're not English, my husband. I would hate to slay anyone who makes me feel this heavenly hell."

  He stilled, then shoved away from her as if drenched with cold water. Her cry of failure rent the valley. Her plunging spirit impaled upon her broken dream. She had erred. She had called him her husband.

  He glanced down at his maleness as if to detect blood, then to her. "The sky lightens on the Eastern horizon, Lady Rochelle. You lose."

  Something shattered inside her, a pain so horrendous, she surely split in two. Already he had donned his pourpoint and now haphazardly secured his hose.

  She pushed to her knees and reached for him. "Non, I beg you."

  He pulled her to her feet and draped the cloak around her nakedness. "I'll take you to your chamber."

  A hatred she didn't know she could feel surged throughout her body. She spat in his face.

  He recoiled in surprise, then lifted one corner of his mouth in a sardonic grin. "A cold dousing. The perfect cure for hot lust."

  "I hate you, knight."

  "And I hate you. Be ready to leave within the hour."

  * * *

  "Locking your nemesis in? Or yourself out?"

  Becket turned at the sound of Henri's voice, thankful for anything to cleanse his mind of Rochelle. "Both."

  Henri laughed as he neared. "Caught up in your own punishment?"

  Becket gripped the ring of keys. "What know you of the matter?"

  "Not as much as I might. I followed in case you needed support, then decided you would run me through if I supported you in the battle you had instigated."

  "If you played voyeur---"

  "Not on your titillating escapade, or I wouldn't be able to sleep until old age. I merely attended the cave entrance while you attended your engaging enemy."

  Henri moved alongside as Becket strolled toward the stairwell to prepare for Rochelle's departure. "Don't think I don't appreciate your effort, Henri, but I paid heed to the cave."

  Henri laughed again. "An entire army could have approached your backside and you wouldn't have noticed."

  Becket snarled, angered at the truth. He had lost control, damn him, with almost disastrous results. Of all the women he had known through his active years, only she clouded his mind. He had even revealed his scars. His hatred swelled.

  "Never again, Henri. She will be away within the hour."

  "So I heard."
<
br />   "You behave as if you know all."

  "I know more than you."

  Dread stilled his breath. "Which is?"

  "I remained after you left the site."

  "And?"

  "And Gaston appeared. He stepped out of the cave, one hand over his side as if in pain, and watched you escort the fair temptress away. I'm surprised you didn't feel the visual daggers through your back."

  Becket halted, shaken by the news. "Then she planned to meet the butcher, after all. What an accomplished liar. Her angelic purity hides a diabolic heart." His hatred deepened to loathing. She had played him for a fool with her act of innocence and pretended passion. Rage torched through his body, as much for his own traitorous response as for hers.

  "Distracted you, did she?" Henri chuckled.

  Becket fisted his hand on his hilt as he stepped down into the great hall strewn with sleeping knights. "Did you just let him walk away? Didn't you think yourself capable of capturing an unarmed, wounded snake?"

  "The viper slithered back into his den. Even the two of us couldn't capture him in that blackness. 'Tis why I didn't bother to stop you. I posted soldiers to observe and report."

  "Rouse the others. I need six to escort the accomplished liar to her future prison as soon as possible."

  "Before she seduces the seducer?"

  "Before she discovers I participated in the chèvauchèe at Cotentin. Before she learns I'm an English knight."

  CHAPTER TEN

  "Becket is a dead man." Gaston pressed his hand against his wounded side and grabbed the reins, then winced from the pain. The smell of the cedar trees surrounding them mingled with the coppery scent of his own blood, but not for long. "Did you bring food and money?"

  "In the pouch."

  "Help me to mount."

  Gaston groaned as he placed his foot in the stirrup, then pulled himself onto the horse. Bile rose to his throat. His face felt as clammy as the cave, his clothes as wet as the waterfall.

  He wiped the dampness from his beard. "For one horrible moment I feared he would take her virginity."

  "But he didn't."

  "I hardly dared believe you when you told me hadn't consummated the vows. He committed a fatal error. His hatred for her will bring him down."