Love Thine Enemy Page 16

  Henri rubbed his fingers across the claw marks on his cheek left by Lady Angelique, then studied them as if to detect blood.

  "Do you think I don't understand, Becket? Since the age of nine you have had to take from others, dependent upon the generosity of your fellow man. But now, something and someone belongs to you. Yours alone. And now you belong somewhere and to someone." Henri wiped his hand on his jupon. "You'll never surrender possession of the land, mon ami. Or Lady Rochelle."

  Becket pushed away from the wall. "I have not the time for your inanities. I just spied a wimpled mouse dart toward the back of the stables, a mouselet in tow."

  "And you set the trap, n'est-ce-pas? 'Tis why you secured the curtain wall except for the main gate. Why you cleared the stables of all two-footed creatures with orders to busy themselves elsewhere."

  "She knew the cave too-well guarded. I merely gambled with her remaining options. And won." Becket took a step toward the stables.

  "What will you do to her?"

  "Just keep everyone away."

  * * *

  "Why do we ride to the king, Rochelle? Why not to our overlord, the Count of Armagnac? He's closer."

  "True, Pierre, but the Count might betray us as has that Judas Jacques. Now hurry and place the bit in the mare's mouth while I retrieve the cache. I shouldn't stop for this, but we need every coin." She nodded toward the nearby open stall. "And stay clear of that black destrier. He's restless and might strike you with his hooves."

  Rochelle glanced at the unfamiliar, although magnificent beast. A steed of the conquering army.

  Becket's army.

  Hatred flared hot within her chest, mingling with the sting of Becket's victory, of Jacques' betrayal, of her fear of capture and punishment.

  Rochelle grabbed the pitchfork to use for support and struggled to the top of the haystack piled against the wall. The scents of hay, animals and leather once soothed her but now suffocated. She craved the fresh air of freedom far away from Jacques. And Becket. And the too-quiet stables.

  Struggling not to slip on the loose straw, she propped the pitchfork against the wall. She dug her fingers around the edges of the ungrouted stone while she mentally re-mortared the broken wall around her heart. Except for Pierre and DuBois, she would never give her heart again.

  Love.

  An emotion for fools.

  "Pierre, after Falcon is bridled, snatch one of the stable boy's clothes for me to wear. I'll change after we're away. And hurry!"

  "What if the king won't admit us, Rochelle? What will we do then? We'll have nowhere to go."

  "Fear not, mon petit, the king will shelter us. Now, no more will be said on the matter until I see King Jean with my own eyes." Terrified of the dangerous delay, she forced her fingertips deeper into the rough crevice and tugged harder.

  "This is taking too long, Pierre. The devil will surely find us. I fear a trap. If I can't pry this out, then we'll . . ." The stone moved, the grating sound an odd contretemps to the loud thumps of her pulse. Releasing a sigh as shaky as her body, she grabbed the small bag of gold.

  "Rochelle, can we tell the king our secret?"

  "Hush, Pierre. No more until we are safely removed. Although the idea bears consideration. The information might destroy Sire Becket's claim." She worked the stone back into the opening, then grasped the pitchfork to use for a brace. "Is the mare ready? I'm coming down."

  Sire Spitz yowled.

  "Non! Let me go!"

  "Tell me the secret, Lady Rochelle. Or shall I encourage the information from Pierre?"

  Becket.

  Rochelle spun to . . . Her foot slipped on the loose straw; the pitchfork tumbled from her hold. She flailed for balance, her mind filled with the flashed image of Pierre dangling from one of the devil's grips, a hissing Sire Spitz from the other. Floundering, she stepped on her hem and pitched forward . . . toward the up-curled tines of the fallen pitchfork! Her scream echoed in the rafters as she hurtled toward impalement. Then she thudded. Against Becket's chest! He had leapt in front of her and had saved her from certain death.

  But for what purpose?

  Disconcerted, she lifted her gaze, and her breath caught.

  His lips hovered a kiss away---those same sensuous lips that moments ago had seared her senseless. And the virile strength of his jaw, the curls of his dark hair that wrapped around her fingers in soft possession, the masculine line of his Romanesque nose, the ebon of his eyes so afire with hatred and lust...

  The devil.

  And she wanted him.

  Desire slammed past her confused fear, shattering her newly re-mortared boulders into dust, leaving her heart vulnerable and dangerously exposed.

  Fool!

  Before she could repair the damage, he parted his lips and lowered his face. He would kiss her! Her unprotected heart skittered in a thousand different directions weaving trails of confused heartbeats all through her body. She opened her mouth, eager for the taste of him. He hesitated. His hot breath warmed her lips. If she lifted her chin---

  Becket curved a smirk, then her feet sank to the ground along with her foolish hopes.

  "An ungraceful flight, my disloyal falcon. You soar best when under my tutelage."

  Moon-gilt images scorched her mind. Images of her hunger. His denial.

  Rage dissipated her desire. She shoved against his armored chest. He merely tightened his hold as if to prove his mastery.

  "What shall I do with you, my lady? The dungeon is conveniently empty. Might Gaston risk all to free you as you did for him? Mayhap I could use you for bait . . . to trap a rat."

  "Let her go!"

  Pierre's frightened command jolted her to the reality of her brother's danger. His dark-tousled head jerked with each blow of his foot against what must have been Becket's calves. David against Goliath. Saint against sinner.

  "Sacre bleu, you little hellion. Cease that kicking."

  "Pierre, seek refuge with Père Bertrand!" Rochelle wrenched for release.

  "But Ro . . . I mean, my lady . . ." Pierre lifted his face and her heart lurched. Tears spilled from his large, dark eyes and she saw his fear. A fear that matched hers.

  "Go, Pierre. Now!"

  He gave her one last fearful glance, then clutching Sire Spitz to his chest, he scampered into the bright rectangle of light beyond the stable and out of her life. What would happen to him?

  Stealing time to control her tears so as to face her punishment with dignity, she concentrated past Becket's shoulder to the silhouettes in the sun-burnished bailey, the blurred figures of light and shadow reminding her of indistinct dreams, of obscure meanings, of her uncertain future. Many cast nervous glances at the stable, then moved on as if to maintain a purposeful distance---as if they had been ordered to stay away. A lone figure paused, waited, watched, but because of the glare she couldn't tell whether male or female.

  "How boring for you, knight. You expected me to come to the stables. You but awaited my entrance."

  "You would never be boring, my traitorous falcon. Challenging, perhaps."

  Mentally scrambling for a retort, she threw him a glower, then stilled, imprisoned as much by his midnight eyes as by his embrace. Her heart slammed against her ribs in rhythm with the slam of the restless destrier against the partition.

  Becket's gaze heated. "He wants her."

  Rochelle's pulse leapt. He meant the mare, you imbecile. Angry with her reaction, she glanced at the destrier, then gasped.

  "That huge beast and my Falcon? He's too powerful for her." Rochelle twisted from his grasp to retrieve her mare, then glimpsed the open doorway.

  Freedom.

  A quick dash and---

  Light from the daystar pierced into the dimness, highlighting Becket.

  Her intentions disintegrated along with her breath.

  He stood within the wedge of morning sunshine like temptation newly-formed, and tongues of hunger licked through her body. Shifting rays hazed over his erotically tousled sin-black hair, over
his wickedly magnificent body sheathed in crimson and mail. As if daring her to run, he gripped the hilt of his sword, the hilt he had used to tease her to near madness. Dust motes sparkled around him, drifting toward him, then away, then toward him again, much like her own reactions toward this man-god, her enemy.

  And somehow, some way, she would bring His Arrogance down.

  She heard an enraged whinny. A loud thump cracked the partition.

  The stallion burst from the stall, then reared behind Becket, an incredible beast of incredible power, and Rochelle knew in an instant, he belonged to Becket.

  The destrier charged. Her mare shied, stumbling in retreat.

  Rochelle reached for her mare's reins. "Non---"

  Becket's sword clattered to the ground. He grasped her waist. She sailed backward from his toss, thudding atop the haystack. Air whooshed out of her lungs from Becket's armored weight as he threw himself over her, black hooves flashing where but a breath ago, Rochelle had stood. He cradled her head within his hands, pressing his warm face to hers as if to protect her from the lust-driven violence of stud against mare.

  "I must save her!" Rochelle squirmed beneath him, the frantic scream of her mare like a knife in her chest.

  Becket tightened his hands aside her face and forced her to look into his soul-stealing eyes, eyes filled with passion, with disdain.

  "Stay out of his way, Lady Rochelle. He'll destroy anyone or anything that impedes his goal."

  "As would his master?"

  "As would his master."

  Apprehension prickled her nape, and yet unwanted desire swirled along her body wherever his weight pressed against her. Not certain whether from self-loathing or concern for her mare, she wriggled to slip from beneath him.

  "Fear not for your precious Falcon, my lady. Like your feelings for me, she fears him, yet wants him. No denials. I see the unsated hunger within your blue depths."

  "And I see yours, knight. Lust at war with hate.”

  "Hatred wins."

  Falcon screamed. Rochelle felt a gust on her ankles as if hooves had slashed too near.

  Becket rolled from atop her and grabbed a whip from a peg. He cracked the air above the stallion. "Out, Satan! Take her in the bailey!"

  Satan. She should have known.

  Red streamed down Falcon's neck where Satan must have bitten.

  Furious, Rochelle scooted from the pile of hay as Becket cracked the whip again. She lunged for her mare, but Becket grabbed her wrist as Satan herded Falcon through the doorway.

  "Our counterparts will mate in our stead, Lady Rochelle. The falcon and the devil."

  "He'll kill her!"

  Becket pierced her with a glare. "A possibility."

  Hot ice skimmed across her flesh. He had not meant the mare.

  Screams filtered in from the courtyard as people shouted warnings to escape the wild stallion. Would that she could.

  Becket ran the tip of the whip handle along the scoop of her neckline and tingles feathered across her flesh. "Is that not the penalty for betrayal? Death?"

  She jerked from his grip. "If so, then at least two will fall this day. You and Jacques. Now escort me to the nunnery. I'm eager for the purity of the convent."

  "Where you can plot my overthrow? I think not, my lady."

  The dank chill of the dungeon enshrouded her like a taunting premonition. He would surely torture her. Death wouldn't be far behind. But by all the power within her, she would unravel his tangle of mysteries before she died. She pressed her nails into her palms for courage and lifted her chin in defiance.

  "Why your secrets, knight? What have you to hide from King Jean?"

  "Confide your secret, Lady Rochelle. Why would this mystery between you and an orphaned peasant lad affect my claim to DuBois? Shall I guess?"

  Fear ripped through her fragile courage like a dagger through gauze. He would surely murder Pierre as he might have her father's bastards. She held up her crossed fists, taunting him to bind her.

  "Do your worst, knight. I am ready for your decree."

  He shackled her wrists within one hand. "My decree depends upon your cooperation to several stipulations."

  "My cooperation depends upon the stipulations. Name the first."

  He cocked a brow in acknowledgment. "Kneel before me and swear your fealty."

  "If I do, will you take me as wife?"

  "Non."

  "Then you would have as much chance as asking Sire Gaston to kneel at your feet." As soon as the words spilled from her mouth, she cursed her error.

  Hatred flared in his eyes. He studied her for an uncomfortable moment. Then as if he had made a decision that bode her ill, he forced her hands against his chest. She splayed her fingers upon the golden falcon of his crimson jupon, the silk a contrast to the steel of his armor, the steel of his heart.

  "I withdraw that stipulation, Lady Rochelle, for when you kneel before me, 'twill not be from force but of your own free will. A day I anticipate, for then I'll know I’ll have bent you to my will. But this I demand if you ever hope to see the sun again. Vow never to betray me again."

  Rochelle inhaled a controlled breath and prayed for wisdom. Becket trussed her with promises like a wild beast tied for slaughter, vulnerable, without resource, in wait for the blade. But Pierre . . .

  "And if I make such a promise?"

  "I will allow you to remain unfettered and at DuBois . . . for a time."

  Her heart leapt. "How long?"

  "Until the fall."

  "Why the fall?"

  His eyes narrowed. "You are too curious, my lady. You are dangerous whether you stay or leave. You diminish my options." He released her hands and stepped back.

  Diminished . . . to what? The dungeon? Torture? Then death? She longed to ask what would happen to Pierre after she died, but knew not to bring up the subject. She nodded.

  "I vow not to betray you."

  He lifted his gaze as if surprised, but victorious. "Another stipulation. Ask no questions about aught that is none of your affair."

  She would merely have to delve into his secrets without querying. And yet, all appeared too easy. She nodded again. "Agreed. And my punishment?"

  "You will obey me."

  Rochelle felt her eyes widen and her mouth drop open. "In what way?"

  "In whatever I demand."

  "But why that?"

  "'Tis the most disagreeable punishment for you I can surmise. And the most agreeable to me."

  She gave him her back as her mind raced for an answer. Obey? He obviously didn't want her body, nor would he throw her to his knights. What did he want? To manage the household? She would love such a duty. To work as a servant? She already did. To humiliate her in public? He already had. Torture her? Beat her? Marcel had done as much. What might he require that she would refuse to honor?

  The sliding sunlight burnished the row of bridles that hung upon pegs in front of her. Like Becket did with Satan, he bridled her, controlled her. And like Satan, she refused to relinquish her strong will. But at least Becket spared her life . . . for now.

  "I know I have no say in my punishment, knight, but I beg you not to separate me from Pierre. He is all I have. Also, I will not reveal my every secret. Other than those stipulations I will obey you. I give you my oath."

  "Acceptable. For now. But I warn you. I will know your secret before the day fades."

  And I, yours, knight.

  Rochelle heard movement, felt the whip handle dragged across the back of her neck beneath her wimple. A shiver rippled up her tensed spine.

  "Despite your oath, my sly falcon, I have the feeling you haven't surrendered. Do you hope to bedevil the devil?"

  "I but seek the solution to my dilemma." Rochelle reached over her shoulder and grabbed the handle, the leather woven as tightly as the knots in her stomach. "How do I tempt the Fallen Angel?"

  "Satan is beyond temptation."

  "And yet, Satan is tempted by Falcon." She tugged on the handle, pulled him toward
her. Although he outpowered her, he allowed the pull, moved closer, pressed his body against her back, bathed her with his heat.

  "Au contraire, Lady Rochelle, Falcon will carry Satan's seed. You failed. Remember?"

  "The moments are branded upon my pride. Even so, I request another chance."

  "All losers do."

  Her face burned with humiliation. Anger filled her like molten metal barely set. Hot. Strong.

  She spun to face him, bowing in mock obeisance. "Congratulations, mighty conqueror. You have won."

  "You play the part of the vanquished with too much ease, demoiselle. Methinks I'd best watch my back, and my wine. But as for now, satisfy my curiosity. Why your meager possessions? Unlike Lady Angelique, you had packed only your embroidered bed-covering, your tapestry, a faded gown and a brooch."

  "The fabrics, I worked with my own hands. Take them. May they remind you of your treachery. The gown is fit only for rags. The brooch I wish to keep."

  "A gift from your lover?"

  "God must have formed you from suspicion instead of clay. "’Twas my mother's. The only material possession I have that means aught to me."

  In a blur of speed he swiped the bag of gold from the rushes and held the measly amount in front of her face. "And yet you have coin. For Gaston?"

  "For grapevines, knight. For DuBois. What sous I had left after heavy taxes I hid from men like you who would spend them on whores and tournaments, on vanities and luxuries."

  "Surely not on DuBois. I've witnessed with heartache the estate's disrepair."

  "Where have you been for the last half-decade, knight?"

  He tightened his grip on the bag of gold. "I told you, no questions of aught that is none of your affair."

  Another secret.

  She shrugged, she hoped the image of nonchalance.

  "I meant the question rhetorically, knight. The Black Death decimated us five years past, the disease taking noble and servant alike, my mother included."

  "Is your mother also Pierre's?"

  Her heart jolted. "Non. I told you---"

  "That his mother died in the plague."

  "Pierre's mother was of the village." Her fingers trembled at the too-close question. To hide her discomposure, she ambled along the aisle, then leaned her back against the tack room door-facing, her hands tucked behind her hips, safe from his view, her heart tucked behind her newly reconstructed defense-wall, safe from his allure.