Love Thine Enemy Page 18

  Rochelle realized she had been too direct. If she wished to unearth secrets she must use more finesse.

  Forcing a breath into her stiff lungs, she ran her fingers through her now-dry hair and glanced through the open window at the river that shimmered like molten silver beneath the sun. Knights and ladies drifted in boats on a calm inlet. Tents dotted the landscape like toadstools in a meadow. White-draped tables laden with food sat in the shade beneath trees that edged the field. All to celebrate Becket's rape of DuBois. Even the servants had been given a day of respite. How clever of Becket. He sought everyone's adoration, the snake.

  Rochelle re-focused her attention.

  Becket.

  By the river.

  With Pierre!

  "I'll kill him!" Rochelle yanked up her hem and darted through the doorway.

  "You're not gliding, dear heart! Sway!"

  Rochelle tore down the hallway, holding the front of her skirt in her teeth while tucking her hair beneath her wimple. Terrified she would be too late, she lifted her gown and ran all the way to the fete. Blast Becket's dark soul. He had threatened to learn the secret before the day ended. Interrogating others was one thing. But to lure a small boy…

  Servants and knights smiled as if eager to say something to her, but she rushed past.

  "Pierre! Come here!"

  Becket and Pierre glanced up with looks that told her she behaved as if demented. The treasonous Sire Spitz mewled and rubbed against Becket’s ankle as if in need of attention. Curse. Becket had even won over the cat.

  Pierre held up something small with a tether attached. "Look! Sire Becket carved me a wooden boat. He's going to help me float it on the river."

  Rochelle snatched the toy. "Well, that is really low. That is despicable."

  Becket cocked a brow and swept his gaze over her form, stopping at her breasts. "New gown?"

  The insulting insinuation intensified her ire. She pressed the droopy neckline to her bosom. "Giving him a boat. Helping him sail it. I knew you were loathsome, knight, but I didn't realize how . . . how loath."

  "Now that you explain, I can see how vile my behavior. Whatever was I thinking to brighten a young lad's day?"

  "I know exactly what you were thinking. How dare you be so . . . so . . ."

  "Loath?"

  "You are not shy and retiring."

  "But you said---"

  "You know what I meant."

  He smiled.

  Her heart flipped like a landed fish. How cruel the fates to make him as handsome as the devil. Not only would his smile tempt the purest angel to wallow in sin, but his ebony eyes promised to drown all memories of goodness from her soul. And his body, hard and magnificent beneath his crimson velvet pourpoint that sheathed his torso like a fortunate glove, then flared over his hips, stopping so as to reveal every hose-covered muscle of his warrior hardened legs...

  Dear heaven. She lusted for her enemy.

  He laughed, jolting her to awareness of her lewd behavior.

  Pierre tugged on her gown and she glanced down, grateful for any excuse to hide her burning face.

  Pierre's dark eyes glimmered with unshed tears. "Allow me to keep the boat, s'il vous plait."

  He raised on his toes and she leaned forward so that he could whisper in her ear.

  "He hasn't asked me any questions, Rochelle. I won't tell. And I've never had a boat before."

  Rochelle closed her eyes, knowing that her shrewish behavior had merely made Becket even more curious, even more determined. She peered up at Becket but instead of his expected cynicism, she saw hunger in his expression, his attention locked on something below her chin.

  Her loose neckline.

  He stared at her exposed breasts.

  Her nipples tightened.

  Furious with her absurd reaction, she slammed the errant fabric against her chest and straightened to a hoe-handle stiffness, daring him to make a comment.

  His mouth twitched as if he fought a grin. Or most likely, a smirk as he determined just the right tone of voice to use when relaying to his fellow knights how, in her desperation, she bared her body to him at every opportunity.

  Becket spread wide his hands as if in invitation. "Remain with us, Lady Rochelle. Be Pierre's guard. Allow him a bit of pleasure."

  "And break his heart if I refuse? How dare you put me in this position."

  His eyes heated. "What position do you prefer?"

  Rochelle gritted her teeth. "Sail the accursed boat."

  Chuckling, Becket bowed in acknowledgment. "Merci, ma mère."

  "Hooray! Sire Becket, we can play now." Pierre pried the boat from Rochelle's inordinately tight grasp.

  Becket knelt beside the river, turning the carved wood within Pierre's fingers as if for inspection. "Lady Rochelle clutched the boat with such tenacity I expected to see dents. However, methinks the ship seaworthy, mate. Launch her. Let's see if she floats."

  Pierre sat on his haunches, the image of eagerness and anticipation as he wrapped the end of the long tether around his hand. He held the boat down for Sire Spitz to sniff his approval, then with almost worshipful concentration, Pierre placed the wooden model on the water.

  As the mighty ship caught the current and bobbed away, something akin to gratitude teased at her anger. No, Becket merely bribed the child. And yet, as they knelt, side by side, two huddled shapes against the stream of melted diamonds, they appeared as brothers, or father and son, not potential murderer and victim.

  "Psst."

  Rochelle glanced over her shoulder.

  The giant gestured with his head as if he wanted her to come closer without Becket knowing. Several knights clustered beside him. The same knights to whom she had hinted about Becket's impotency. Hmmm.

  She gave a studied check of Becket and Pierre. Occupied. Curious, she ambled toward the men, then remembering Angelique's advice, decided to practice her lesson in femininity. Concentrating on sweeping the ground with the back of her hem, she swayed toward the clandestine group, pressing her hand to her bosom in a coy gesture to hide her breasts from their taller viewpoint.

  "Oui, my courageous knights?"

  The giant cleared his throat as if embarrassed. "The men here . . . well, I mean . . . well, they want me to . . ."

  "Just give her the note, Banulf."

  "A note?"

  "We talked this over, Lady Rochelle, and came up with a suggestion to help your cause. You know." He gestured with his head toward Becket, his face as red as a poppy.

  "Ah." She gave a conspiratorial nod and pursed her mouth to keep from laughing.

  "We attempted to give Sire Becket some advice about the matter, but he became livid and refused to discuss the subject. He's never had this problem before, you see, but worry not, fair lady. We'll persist."

  "Why . . . ah . . . merci."

  How surprising that Becket hadn't drowned her in the river as soon as he had seen her.

  The knights merely stood there as if in wait for something. Did they expect her to read the note now? In front of them? How embarrassing. She unfolded the parchment, her face surely as red as theirs.

  Trail a long slow lick along the length of his---

  "What are you doing?"

  She spun at the sound of Becket's voice and clasped her hands behind her.

  "Rochelle, the men can see down your gown."

  She gasped and clutched her hands to her bosom.

  Becket snatched the note.

  "'Tis mine!" She stomped her foot. "I haven't yet read the message."

  "That makes two of us."

  Banulf stepped between them. "Now, Sire Becket, she's just a little thing."

  The giant must have seen down her dress. However, he had spoken in the singular.

  Becket cocked an intimidating brow. "Banulf, tend to Pierre."

  "Sire, you sentence me to watch over a child? And what about that cat!”

  “You are a knight! Surely you can defend yourself against a child’s harmless pet. Or do y
ou prefer to hide---in the dungeon?"

  The other knights drifted away as if suddenly eager to celebrate life.

  The giant grumbled and shuffled over to Pierre, and Rochelle knew in her heart he would never harm the boy. Becket, however . . .

  "Lady Rochelle, come with me to the bower."

  In the trees. Where no one could see her or come to her aid. Rochelle stiffened and took a step back.

  And yet, he might punish her. Her breasts tingled in anticipation. She took a step forward.

  How dare she react thus. He merely garnered obscenities for titillating tales around male campfires. Rochelle dug her heels into the ground.

  Becket sighed and crossed his arms as if in resigned boredom.

  And yet, if she didn't go with him, how could she seduce him? She moved forward.

  And yet . . . She halted.

  "Sacre blue." Becket grasped her arm and pulled her toward the copse of trees.

  "Unhand me, Sire! I prefer to walk there without your assistance."

  "I should live so long. Or do you intend to seduce me with the ridiculous swing of your hips."

  "Ridiculous?"

  "I should tie a scythe to your backside and point you down a row of grain. By the time you reached the end, you would have cut a wide swath."

  "How dare---"

  She stepped on her hem and pitched forward. Before she hit ground, he swept her into his arms and kept moving without missing a stride. Her pulse thundered from the intimacy. Pushing her wimple back from over her eyes, she hastily tucked loose strands of hair beneath the fabric as she lifted her chin in feigned dignity.

  "I'm surprised you didn't sling me over your shoulder like the falsely-bloodied sheet."

  "I prefer this view."

  She glanced down. Her bodice gaped. She slammed her hands over her chest. No, she should fire his lust. She pulled the silk out again. But he might think her breasts too small. She gathered the loose fabric in her fingers.

  Becket groaned, but the tone sounded more frustrated than aroused. He sniffed, then scowled with distaste.

  "Violets? You smell of violets? The dress, the walk, and now the scent..." As if disappointed, he sighed and shook his head. "Why even attempt to imitate that femme fatale?"

  Rochelle's heart cracked. He found her lacking in comparison to Angelique.

  As he ducked under the evergreen branches, cool, fragrant air caressed her flesh, the air pungent with the scent of cedar, reminding her of when Becket had lain between her thighs when in her chamber---right before he had rolled from her in rejection. The sound of the waterfall intensified, reminding her of their erotic encounter on the bluff---and of yet another rejection. And on the parapet. And in the stable.

  Becket set her on her feet by a rocky outcropping, but instead of releasing her, he held her, conqueror to conquered, male to female, hard against soft, and she wondered if he could feel the rampage of her pulse. Tension emanated from him like a wild animal who strained against a frayed leash of control.

  Curious, she raised her gaze to his eyes, and her breath caught.

  Fire. Hunger. Passion.

  Or did she merely see a reflection of her own? Wondering how to lure him past his stubbornness, she ran a nervous swipe of her tongue over her mouth.

  His hot gaze followed her movement, and if her lips had been butter, they would have melted as easily as her thoughts. Then apparently agitated, he released her, and she missed his warmth. He turned his back and grasped a nearby cedar branch while he inhaled what looked like controlling breaths.

  Now. She must seduce him now, that is, if she could gather her mush-like wits. The fates would not afford endless opportunities to entice him. In truth, she might never have another chance.

  Perhaps that's why he had brought her here, to inform her of . . . what? Imprisonment, after all? Banishment to the convent and be done with her? Did he merely plan how to word his vile judgment?

  Rochelle closed her eyes and fought off a paralyzing wave of panic. She must act first---before he slayed her hopes.

  Terrified of another, and perhaps decisive failure, Rochelle struggled to remember all Angelique had taught her---beside the swaying instructions. Maybe she had merely over-swayed.

  Then realization struck.

  For some unfathomable reason, Becket's approval meant more to her than seducing him for the mere consummation. She ached for him to appreciate her as a woman. The knowledge shook her fragile confidence and scattered the lesson from her mind. No, she must concentrate.

  Think feminine---sensual---pouty.

  Determined for perfection, Rochelle lounged against the boulder at her back in what she hoped appeared seductive. Blast. She had forgotten to glisten her lips.

  She looked up, and he stared at her, but she couldn't tell if he thought her manner sensual or ridiculous. She prayed not the latter.

  "Sire Becket?"

  He lifted one dark brow in question.

  "Sire, would you be so kind as to close your eyes for une petite moment?"

  He blinked as if confused, then his eyes went all sultry and he fanned his sinfully long lashes closed. Dressed in the crimson and gold of the flames of hell, he appeared the devil himself in anticipation of a wayward innocent, a vivid resplendence against the evergreen.

  She swallowed her nervousness. "Now, don't peek, Sire Becket. I'll tell you when."

  He shifted his stance and clasped his hands together over his groin as if to shield something.

  She hurriedly swiped her tongue over her lips, then blew and puffed.

  Think pouty!

  My word, how did women relax their mouths and be frightened of rejection at the same time? And now her lips had dried. She moistened them and puffed. And her sensual pose had stiffened. And the accursed breeze. Angelique must have meant this ploy for inside. She sank against the boulder again, then reswiped her tongue and hurriedly puffed.

  "Sire, you may open your eyes now. But hurry."

  She did a quick moistening of her lips and blew . . . then froze.

  Becket stared at her as if incredulous, and she wondered how long he had been watching.

  "You peeked, didn't you?"

  "I thought you were going to undress and I wanted to . . . What were you doing?"

  "You weren't supposed to see. You spoiled the effect." Then she stilled. "Undress? In the daylight? Out in the open?"

  Challenge flashed in his eyes. "In the daylight. Out in the open." As wind-stirred leaves skimmed wanton sun-dapples over his virile face and body, his heated look melted into something . . . sinful.

  "All that licking, reminds me of the note from my knights."

  Her heart lumped in her chest. He would penalize her. Dear heaven, she hoped so. He closed the distance, a tower of male magnificence, and of a sudden she couldn't breathe. Somehow he sucked all the air from around her whenever he came near.

  "However, my lady, to follow the advice in the note, you must kneel."

  He pressed his hands atop her shoulders as if to encourage her to bend her knees, but he needn't have bothered. Because of his hot touch and his nearness, her knees weakened of their own accord.

  Her lesson in femininity must be bearing fruit, for despite his declaration that he would allow her no more chances to seduce him, his tension increased as if in expectation, pushing her downward, encouraging her to . . .

  "Kneel?"

  Rochelle straightened from her half-crouch, appalled at how easily he manipulated her to his perverted will. Shoving her fists on her hips, she threw him a glare. "You clever devil. You spout any feeble excuse for me to grovel at your feet. To repeat your own vow, knight---I will not."

  Disappointment glazed his eyes, then disgust. "You're like DuBois wine in my veins. I risked losing control for a moment's pleasure, forgetting my vow not to touch you. But never again." He spun from her and gripped the cedar branch with both hands as if he imagined her neck within his grasp.

  Comprehension hit her with cruel clarity of why
he had wanted her to kneel. The note. A scheme that would surely have worked. She had ruined a ripe opportunity to seduce him.

  Fool.

  How to repair the damage?

  "Uh . . . Sire Becket?"

  "Non, Lady Rochelle."

  "But, Sire---"

  "Non."

  "I have a solution how to honor both our vows. If I'm correct about what the note suggests I lick, I could accomplish the task without kneeling. And you wouldn't have to touch me, for with my own hands, I would release . . . or rather, pull you out . . well, expose you---"

  "Non!" His knuckles whitened as if he gripped harder.

  For a man of verbose sarcasm he had certainly become terse. She edged a bit closer, for she couldn't give up. Not now.

  "In truth, Sire, when on the bluff as I ran my tongue along your . . ." Her face flamed, but she refused to quail. "I mean, I enjoyed the taste of your . . . you know, at the . . . the tip of your stallion part, the . . . uh . . . moist bead, and---"

  The branch snapped. He had just mentally broken her neck. She flinched as he ripped a cedar frond from the tree, the scent of crushed evergreen permeating the air. Perspiration gleamed on his brow. He seemed more agitated than ever. Rochelle doubted even Angelique's skills could overcome such wrath.

  Then she remembered another part of the lesson. The easy part according to her tutor.

  Men love to talk about their vanities.

  Thinking feminine, feminine, Rochelle sashayed toward the stream wishing she had a handkerchief to float from her fingertips. From somewhere above she heard a cuckoo, and wondered if the bird mocked. Once beside the churning froth at the base of the waterfall, she sank against the damp, moss-covered boulders in a pose that mimicked Angelique's when leaning against the writing table.

  Just when she had wriggled into the perfect position, several strands of her unbound hair slipped from beneath the back of her wimple and teased at her back. And the neckline of her bodice kept slipping off her shoulders. She hurriedly pulled up the fabric and stuffed her hair from out of view, but she felt the weight of her tresses ease down her nape, ready to tumble. And the blasted bodice slipped over one shoulder again. Forget it. Before her hair fell completely, she hurriedly sank against the damp moss and thought, pouty.