Love Thine Enemy Page 17

  Becket flicked the whip as if in idle concentration, repeatedly snapping the tip into a slithery coil.

  "Enlighten me, demoiselle. How did the landless Lady Angelique garner so much wealth? From bribery? Collusion?"

  "She has her own way of appearing with new and wondrous treasures. I don't interfere."

  "Whom did you send to take a horse to Gaston?"

  She pushed away from the facing. "Your head is as hard as your armor. I sent no one. You are the one with spies. Besides, how would you know of this?"

  "The men found blood on the other side of the waterfall, then two sets of hoof prints. You knew of the hidden exit." He glanced along the row of animals' rumps and switching tails." I will check the shoes of all horses." Then he slid his attention to the light-drenched opening. "Including those of your mare. But for now . . ."

  He faced her, the image of victory eager to test his dominance, smug grin, confident stance, cocky demeanor. Expectant hunger.

  And yet despite all his demands, she still had her self-respect, her pride, and the coins

  "Open your bodice, Lady Rochelle."

  Her heart thudded to a halt. "Pardonez-moi?"

  "Obey me." He ran his finger down the handle of his whip as if contemplating its use.

  "But . . ." She stiffened, appalled.

  His eyes darkened in anticipation, stirring her wrath. She straightened her wimple along with her dignity.

  "And why, may I ask?"

  "No questions, remember? Now show me the treasures you hide beneath your gown."

  Did he refer to her body? Or the gold?

  Hands on hips, she stormed to a halt by the haystack, close to the pitchfork in case she needed a weapon. "I've changed my mind, knight. I'd rather be imprisoned or tortured. Use that whip on me you so tauntingly stroke. I reclaim my word."

  "Too late, cherie. 'Tis given. And cease that raillery."

  "Cease that . . . You expect me to obey you . . . and not complain?"

  He grinned.

  She closed her mouth, shocked. Dear heaven. She had given her word to this lunacy.

  Cursing beneath her breath, Rochelle struggled with the top button, but between Becket's too-near disclosure about Pierre, and his---she sneered---his command, her fingers trembled like moth's wings after a lengthy flight. She released the first button, and then another.

  Although he pretended indifference, Becket's attention focused on her fingers like a thirsty man at a well. By the stars, she would exact revenge for such an order.

  "Soften your expression, fair demoiselle. Smile as if delighted to obey me. Play the part of temptress."

  She narrowed her eyes and gritted her teeth. "You will burn for this."

  "Bravo." Rage exploded, fanning the flames of revenge in his eyes. He clapped his hands in slow applause, the thin lash swaying with each pop of his palms. "Spoken like the true seed of Reynaurd. You only reaffirm my determination to make certain his bloodline dies with you."

  "I didn't mean, literally."

  "But your father did. And my father burned. Reynard is in your blood, Lady Rochelle. In most instances you may be successful in hiding your lineage, but I would wager DuBois that when desperate enough, you will reveal your breeding. Someday, despite your oath, you will betray me."

  Indeed, she might. Rochelle inhaled a deep breath and prayed for control. Shoving her mouth into a stiff upward curve, she batted her lashes Angelique-style and released another button, exposing the top of the tangled coins.

  "A treasure chest, indeed, my lady. But then, I knew so, even before I noticed the sous."

  "Not enough courage to retrieve them yourself, knight? Afraid I might hide dangerous weapons upon my person?"

  "That you do, mine enemy. 'Tis why I keep my distance, why I will not touch you. By the by, you would never be mistaken for a boy, no matter how you dress."

  Feeling oddly complimented, she released another button. As the fabric parted, the coins settled, revealing more of her flesh.

  Despite his supposed loathing of her, his chest rose and fell with deeper breaths, his attention unwavering.

  She unfastened one more, then caught the waterfall of disks and rushes in her palms. The man didn't even blink, so intent was his concentration upon her partially exposed breasts.

  "Offer them to me."

  Her nipples tingled. Furious that she seemed determined to misinterpret his every word, she fought the urge to throw the money in his face and instead, held out her cupped palms, her smile as stiff as her spine.

  "Take them, knight."

  He cocked a brow, then shifted his attention from her breasts to the money. "Ah, the gold. 'Twill do. For now. But you missed two treasures, my white-breasted falcon."

  A frightening thrill flashed through her body.

  Becket sauntered toward her, his concentration upon her open bodice so intense that she could swear she felt the heat.

  He reached out with his whip handle.

  "Don't prod me as if I'm leprous." She swatted at the whip, the coins flying from her palms and clattering on various objects like discordant music. "Although upon reconsideration, any object is preferable to your hands."

  He grasped her wrist, his breaths as hard and labored as hers. "Mayhap you protest because my hands most arouse your passion. I'll test my theory. First, the handle."

  As if daring her to look away, he stroked the stiff leather over the inner-swell of one breast. Desire swirled from the lingered trail down her flesh, but she would explode like a hot cinder before she revealed her weakness.

  "The sous lie at your feet, knight. If you detest me so, then why your feeble excuse to examine me?"

  He grinned, then slipped the handle beneath her bodice and encouraged out another coin. A coin!

  He but made certain to take all she had, the greedy swine. His goal had been the cursed money, not her body. What a ninny. What a foolish, foolish ninny.

  "Now, my hand, fair lady."

  "When hell---"

  "Obey me and be still. Your word, remember? Or are you more like your father than even you know? Besides, you still have treasure that is mine to fondle."

  Infuriated, she rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

  The ceiling.

  And right above, the knight's housing.

  She nearly choked with rage.

  "How foolish of me, knight. Yestermorn, when Judas brought you to the lord's chamber, I offered you shelter in the knight's quarters until your lame horse healed. And now look at the devil's game you play."

  She threw him a glare, then became even more furious when she saw his amused expression.

  "Not only does your, anything-but-lame, stallion strive to plant his seed inside my helpless mare, you now play lord of the castle and maul the chatelaine. But I tell you this, knight, I feel naught but loathing from your touch."

  "You tempt the new lord to prove his subject in error."

  He drew his fingers in melting torture over the inner-mound of her other breast, then in his thieving way, slipped his hand beneath her bodice. She nearly bit through her tongue to prevent a tell-tale gasp.

  Damn him. Heat shimmered from his touch. Molten threads of desire surrounded her fury.

  He delved beneath her fullness, pressing upward against her weighted bosom, fondling, manipulating, as if in search of something. Her traitorous knees weakened and she fought the urge to sink onto her back and let him have his perverted way. No, she must fight back.

  "What excuse this time, knight?"

  Then she felt the hardness of another coin. Another blasted coin. She yanked the edges of her bodice open and cupped her breasts, lifting them to give him easier access.

  "Here, knight. Now you can retrieve the spoils without contaminating my flesh in your desperate search for every last sou."

  His grin melted. His eyes simmered lechery. The falcon on his jupon rose and fell with each of his strained breaths, and she wondered for a moment if he would touch her. Then he fisted his hand over the
coin and shrugged as if unaffected.

  "The test but proves that my hands arouse you most. Be grateful I don't intend to touch you again."

  "I thank the heavenly powers, monsieur." Horrified at her brazenness, she forced a smile and pulled her bodice together. "'Tis gratifying to know that no man will defile me."

  "They are many forms of defilement, my lady. I will do what I will with you."

  "Except what a man does with a woman." She batted her lashes. "Unable?"

  He lifted his mail shirt and pressed her hand against his hardness.

  "Unwilling."

  "But not unaffected."

  "I'm disciplined, not dead."

  "How unfortunate."

  His jaw twitched, then he pulled her hand aside... "Gather the coins, Lady Rochelle. Give them to me."

  "I would have to kneel. I refuse."

  "You don't obey? So much for the trustworthiness of your vow. But then, I expected as much from the seed of Reynaurd."

  "And I expected as much from you. Steal the gold as you have DuBois."

  Satan whinnied. Becket glanced over his shoulder at the bailey.

  Like phantom images spun from rays of the sun, Falcon hesitated in the light-drenched opening. Satan mounted the mare from behind and thrust his victory.

  A rush of ecstasy burst within Rochelle and she cried out.

  Becket faced her, a triumphant glow in his eyes. "You felt the rapture. As did I. But 'tis not the same, my lady. A pity you will never know the difference. And now 'tis your turn to be conquered, my audacious falcon, but in a different manner. As punishment for your defiance you will suffer exquisite torment. I will stroke you to liquid submission with straw, leather, gold and other exotic textures until, in your unsated lust, you will do aught I ask, perform any act without hesitation." He grinned. "Even kneel at my feet. And while you writhe and moan for release, remember the feel of my hands, the feel of my body. Ache for my heat. Ache for fulfillment. Know that in my scorn I taunt you, tease you, enjoy your carnal responses. Know for eternity that I will never take you. Now, disrobe."

  "I am your wife, not your whore."

  "You are neither. Now, obey. Disrobe."

  "When England rules France."

  She stepped back. Her heel caught on the handle. She flailed for balance. The tines!

  Becket snatched her wrists, then lurched as if he had tripped on the same handle. She thudded onto her back on the hay. Becket slammed atop her, the shackle of his wide-spread hands pinning hers to the straw, his face mere centimeters above her exposed nipple that tightened as he watched.

  She expected a snide remark, but he had stilled, his concentration upon her breast that rose and fell with her desperate need for air, his panted breaths as hot as the fire in his eyes, as hot as her womanhood. He licked his lips like a cat who spied cream, then opened his mouth, lowered his face, came closer. His breath scorched her nipple and fanned across her flesh. Perspiration beaded on his forehead. He trembled.

  He wanted her.

  And dear heaven, she wanted him. Her breast throbbed. She throbbed. Taste her! She arched her back to close the distance. Just a taste.

  "Non!" He shoved to his feet. "I will not touch you. I will not!" He snatched his sword from the rushes, rammed the blade into the scabbard, then slammed her a glare. "You tempt me to rip the wimple from your hair, the clothes from your body and take you like a stud in heat. But I will not, Lady Rochelle. I will not!"

  "Which one of us are you trying to convince, knight?"

  He spun and stormed toward the opening.

  His shadow swept across the coins. In Becket's lust-driven distraction, he had forgotten the gold.

  Rochelle laughed as she watched him melt into the sunlight.

  Next time, knight. Next time.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  "You, Rochelle? You want me to teach you how to seduce Sire Becket?" Angelique's musical laughter tinkled in the air, her head tipped back at just the right angle to show off her swan-like throat.

  Why did men find such artifice enchanting? Rochelle felt like retching. And that heavy scent of violets . . .

  Angelique continued a charming chuckle as she straightened the too-full-breasted bodice of the lavender gown she had loaned to Rochelle. "If he didn't succumb to my charms, dear heart, you have as much chance as gnarly old Griselda, bless her warped soul. Of course, he still had smoke in his eyes from fighting the blaze when he refused me. Well, not refused. More like . . . didn't take advantage."

  "If you remember, Angelique, your future is linked to my success."

  Angelique's smile soured. "How unfair. However, I will do aught to stay out of that convent." She studied the droopy bodice as if desperate for inspiration. "Well . . . mayhap we could gather enough neckline fabric with your mother's brooch to give the effect of artistic styling rather than the obvious fact that your breasts are lacking. And your legs are too short, leaving the skirt to trail far longer than is fashionable. Even so, 'tis better than those rags you wear."

  "Sire Becket doesn't seem to find me unattractive. In truth, he seems . . . well . . . drawn to me."

  Angelique trilled with hilarity again. "Such an innocent. He but encourages you to perform obscenities for his entertainment. One wonders how he describes your behavior when drinking with his fellow-knights."

  Pain rent Rochelle's confidence and rekindled her hatred. She rolled her eyes heavenward to pray for control and to hide her threatening tears. She didn't want to choke Angelique before she had finished the first lesson. And she refused to weep over Becket. Ever.

  "Now, Rochelle, gather your skirt in front of you in one hand to lift the hem off the ground. Delicately, dear heart. With grace. Not like you're grasping laundry."

  Laundry? 'Twas Becket's neck.

  "Loosen your grip, Rochelle. Your knuckles are bulging. Better. Now, practice gliding with a sway to your hips and think, feminine, feminine. Let the back of your hem sweep the floor."

  Rochelle forced an exaggerated swing to her backside as she sauntered toward the window, praying she didn't wrench her spine. An injured back might hamper her from killing the arrogant bastard.

  "Make believe the wimple in your hand is a handkerchief and float the fabric from your fingers as you glide. Sire Becket---"

  Rochelle stumbled, grabbing the open window frame before her head hit the wall like a battering ram. Blast. Even the mere mention of the knave entangled her feet.

  Angelique groaned. "Mayhap you'll improve with practice. In retrospect, I doubt you would have had this problem with Sire Gaston. Might you seek his aid?"

  "Hah. With Sire Gaston, I'd be dead by now."

  "Mayhap. Well, keep gliding and swaying while I teach you about men. Simple creatures, really."

  Rochelle straightened to a shaky stand and cleansed her lungs with cool, mountain air. Releasing a resigned sigh, she turned into the suffocating aroma of violets and swayed another hopeless path across the floor.

  Angelique lounged against the corner of the writing desk in a sensuous pose. "Now, Rochelle. If you learn naught else, burn this in your heart. Men love to talk about themselves. And while they ramble on about their vanities, you must feign rapt attention as if their every word is the most incredible wisdom ever spoken."

  Sway. Sway. Feminine. Feminine. Nonsense. Nonsense. Rochelle pivoted at the hearth, kicked her overlong train behind her and swayed toward the window again.

  "And you must cease that horrid habit you have of pursing your lips like some old crone. Lick them when the men aren't looking to make them glisten, then blow out, puffing your lips a bit, thinking relaxed, pouty."

  Sway. Sway. Feminine. Feminine. Pouty. Pouty. Rochelle blew against the back of her lips. Pouty. Pouty. How dare Becket make her want him more than her next breath, then reject her like soured wine. Blow and puff. Blow and puff. And to think he may have even jested with the other knights about her licentious failures.

  "Think sensual."

  Think revenge.


  "Think beauty."

  Think . . . Rochelle slid her a wry glance. "Beauty?"

  Angelique flipped a hand. "I know. Femme fatale you're not. But pretend, dear heart. 'Twill better your chances." She tinkled a laugh. "Even more to your advantage, ply him with wine laced with a love potion. I'll have Griselda mix one for you."

  "He won't take drink from my hand."

  "Then mayhap he will from mine. After all, he did kneel at my feet, not yours."

  Jealousy twisted like a hot dagger within Rochelle's chest. Unable to continue the farce, she moved in front of the window and pressed her fingertips against her throbbing temples.

  "By the by, Rochelle. Where is Pierre?"

  Rochelle stiffened and threw Angelique a glare "Why do you ask?"

  "Sire Becket. He questioned me about the lad."

  A chill of foreboding slithered down her spine. "What did you tell him?"

  "That you have raised him almost like one of your own. A credible commitment, I assured him. One beyond my capabilities. Except . . ."

  Seemingly unable to hold Rochelle's stare, Angelique strolled toward the hearth, intent upon the gray ash. "I know you are frightened for the boy. If aught should happen to you, I . . . I . . ."

  Angelique shrugged and faced her, surprisingly subdued for such a wanton. "You have been kind to me, Rochelle, allowing me to live here after the murder of my family, never questioning me or judging me about my liaisons. I want you to know that if need be, I will watch after Pierre for you. I owe you at least that."

  Instead of a burst of gratitude, suspicion seeped into Rochelle's heart. "Merci. But what deviousness do you plot that assures your future is no longer joined with mine?"

  Angelique's eyes widened in apparent shock. "You slander me when I but offer you solace?"

  "What information have you to which I'm not privy?"

  "You twist my gift of the heart into wicked schemes. And here I am spending precious moments attempting the impossible when I could be the object of knightly worship at the celebration."