Love Thine Enemy Page 19

  Becket remained in his wide-spread stance, eyes narrowed, watching her every movement, an agitated wariness in his eyes, not even a hint of being affected by her sensuality.

  Ignoring the knot of fear in her stomach, she strove for a throaty, come-hither tone, voluptuous, yet with enough strength to carry over the cascading water.

  "Come, Sire Becket. Recuperate at the edge of the stream. You must be exhausted from all your . . ." She swallowed the word, treachery. ". . . strain." Equally as bad.

  He stiffened, obviously offended.

  How could she bungle such a mundane part of the lesson? Surely she could succeed with the easiest part. Rochelle smiled and batted her lashes.

  "You're such a fascinating man. Tell me about yourself."

  She pretended interest, but he wasn't saying anything. In truth, he appeared even more furious. His mouth had tightened into an angry line. His nostrils flared.

  Another failure loomed.

  No, he merely needed more encouragement. She cleared the ever-increasing nervousness from her throat.

  "Sire, where did you go after you left DuBois?"

  Anger shifted to growing hatred in his eyes.

  She bit her lower lip, frantic to ask him something safe, but her mind refused to cooperate. "I meant, how long have you been a knight with King Jean?" She winced. Another disastrous question. If glares could burn, she'd be ashes by now.

  "You're not good at this, Lady Rochelle. And methinks you purposely ignore your vow not to pry where 'tis none of your affair merely to irritate me." Rage simmered beneath his too-calm timbre. "I must reconsider your punishment."

  Rochelle knew with heart-rending pain she had failed yet again, perhaps with disastrous results. She had bungled the easiest part of attracting a male. Perhaps her father and Marcel had been right about her lack of femininity after all.

  Tears burned the back of her lids and she had the unbelievable desire to weep. How could she have been so dense? She cared too much, needed his acceptance too much, feared for Pierre and her future too much, making her try too hard. Well, no more.

  Cursing herself for the worst kind of fool, she crammed her fragile emotions behind her defense-wall, blinked away her tears, and readied for his abuse.

  Becket brushed cedar from his hands, then stole toward her, the beast in him about to snap the unraveling thread. "Did you suppose that by pretending ineptness, I would think you charming and reveal all I know like some pubescent lad?"

  “Inept?” In the time of one wet blink of her eyes, pain shattered the defense-wall she had spent a lifetime constructing. She choked on a sob, hating him, wanting him, hating that she wanted him.

  He grasped her shoulders as if he wanted to kill her, murder in his black depths. "For whom do you spy, Lady Rochelle? Gaston? The third conspirator?"

  Fury dried her near-tears. "I merely asked you to talk about yourself." She knocked his hands away. "I don't know how you earned the reputation for being simple, knight, for you're not. You're as complicated and indecipherable as . . . as---"

  "Simple? First impotent, and now simple?"

  "You don't do anything a man is supposed to do."

  "And what is that supposed to mean?"

  Rochelle crossed her arms over her knotted stomach and paced to the edge of the stream, the mist icy against her hot flesh. "Men are supposed to like women to glide and sway and have glisteny lips and pout, but you don't like any of that. At least, not from me."

  "Lady Rochelle---"

  She spun to face him, her temper spiraling out of control. "No matter what I wear, you claim 'tis unsuitable. No matter what I say, you accuse me of falsehood. No matter what I do, you find fault. You laugh at me and then tell your knights about my obscene failures around drunken campfires---"

  "Whatever are you talking about?"

  She had no idea. But the truth had to be in there somewhere. Then her accursed hair tumbled down her back in total disregard of her desperation for perfection.

  His breath hitched. In disgust of her disreputable appearance?

  She swiped at her traitorous tears that blurred his crimson and black image.. Irate with her weakness, she ripped the wimple from her head and flung the useless fabric into the stream. "You think my hips are ridiculous and my breasts are too small and my legs are too short. You make me feel things and crave things I don't understand and . . .and I can't breathe when you're around me---"

  With the quickness of a snapped leash, his hot mouth scorched hers while he entrapped her between the mossy boulder and the velvet-clad hardness of his body. Somehow, her bodice and skirt had pooled at her waist, for he cradled her bare buttocks in his hands and undulated against her bared privacy, the movement rubbing his velvet-clad chest against her naked breasts.

  Cursing the hose that protected his manhood, she wrapped her legs around his flanks and pressed against his thrusts. In reward, he shifted his incredible hands, one kneaded her sensitive breast, the other threaded through her hair. And as he plunged the slick heat of his tongue in rhythm with the primal cadence of his hips, her womanhood melted.

  "Ahh . . . Becket." Her tormented whisper soughed into his mouth.

  He groaned as if with savage urgency, then plunged his tongue in harder, faster, sucked the strength from her body, drowned her in molten passion.

  His kisses drifted downward, his breaths hot and fast against her throat, her chest, her breast. He bathed her nipple with his tongue, burned, branded, then suckled. Liquid lightning flashed through her veins, shoving her soul from out of her body along with a cry of sweet torment. Rochelle placed her hands aside his face, pressed him tighter against her now-swollen breast, then raised her head and pulled him toward her lips, hungry again for the heat of his mouth. She nipped his full lower lip, tasted his spiciness, mimicked his wild kisses, thrust for thrust.

  More. She needed more. She needed the feel of him in her hands. Rochelle worked her fingers into his hose and palmed his rigidness.

  He sucked in a breath. As if frantic, he lifted her from the rock, and with her legs still locked around him, he slid her down his maleness, then up again, rubbing her womanhood against his firm arousal.

  Frenzied, Rochelle clutched his shoulders in hopes to somehow meld his body with hers, the silkiness of the velvet in contrast to the steel of his muscles. As their blended groans mingled with their labored breaths, she moved her body with him, against him, matched his rhythm, her softness needing his hardness.

  If only he would slip inside her! She fumbled for the top of his hose, then yanked. Hard heat pressed against her moistness.

  A primal growl rolled from his throat. He shifted his hold. A hot pressure filled her opening.

  He would take her! Her soul tugged against a tether, wild, frantic.

  She felt him shudder as if beyond restraint. He threw back his head, then with a roar, he---

  Icy water sheeted over her body! She gasped a frozen breath. The waterfall! With her wrapped around his body, he had lunged through the cascade of melted snow and drenched her dreams. Becket practically dropped her onto the slippery rocks, then recoiling as if he escaped a poisonous viper as he repositioned his hose.

  "When I am with you I forget my hatred. I forget why I shouldn't bury myself inside your heat. I forget you're Reynaurd's daughter and my enemy. I never knew a woman so accomplished at innocence and yet so devious. Yes you're a virgin, but you have the soul of a seductress. Stay away from me." He charged out of the waterfall.

  Rochelle jerked up her bodice as she followed, horrified. "Sire Becket, heed me---"

  He spun to face her. "You heed me, Lady Rochelle, and heed well. Reynaurd's seed will be wiped from this earth even if I have to lock you in the dungeon and destroy the key to keep me away from you. Do you understand? His seed will die!"

  A shout wrenched her attention. She heard the crashing of brush.

  A sodden Banulf lunged into the clearing. "'Tis Pierre! He jerked as if in a fit, then fell into the stream and went under
. I can't find him."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  "Pierre!" Rochelle shoved through tearing branches, then plunged past a frantic Sire Spitz into the icy stream where she had last seen her brother.

  "Non, Lady Rochelle! You'll drown!" Becket grasped her arm, impeding her from submerging into the frigid swiftness that swirled around her thighs, tugged at her gown, fought to sweep her downstream.

  Panic welled as she twisted against his hold. "He can't swim! Not when he's convulsing. And the current is too strong."

  "You only delay me." Becket forced her toward the shore "Banulf! Hold her. Have someone cover her with a blanket."

  A persistent restraint prevented her from again throwing herself into the water. She scanned the roiling swiftness for Pierre's small shape. Slight awareness of weighted warmth on her shoulders filtered around the edges of her terror. Then the flashed image of red diving into the water further downstream.

  Becket. How had he gone so far in so short a time?

  Her eyes burned from the glare on the fluid silver, and yet she dare not glance away, so she watched, and waited, as her heart splintered into shards of apprehension.

  Becket emerged as if he resurfaced for air, then sank beneath the shimmery liquid, this time even further away.

  Oh dear heaven. Help them.

  Words spoken in a deep tone said something about not weeping, about Sire Becket finding the lad . . . something about begging forgiveness, but she couldn't concentrate, not when her soul swept along the iciness with Pierre.

  Reynaurd's seed will die.

  A prophetic judgment?

  Becket unknowingly risked his life for the very one he wished nonexistent.

  Too long! They were under too long.

  "Demons possessed the boy, they did”, floated on a woman’s tone from the gathered crowd.

  Rochelle heard several mumbles of agreement, people's usual reaction to Pierre and his convulsions. With no time for such ignorance, Rochelle wrenched from restraining hands and, snatching up an anxious Sire Spitz, clutched him to her breast and moved toward the knoll from where Becket had dived.

  “If only Lady Rochelle had allowed me to rid the boy of his devil.” Père Bertrand’s fear sounded within his berating scold. "I have tried for years to persuade..."

  The priest’s accusation vaporized into insignificance as her pace quickened, distancing her from the unrighteous righteous. Her gaze locked onto the sun-bathed rim of the hill, the light a contrast to the darkness of her spirits.

  Too long.

  A desolation so cold and deep that she knew she would never recover ripped a void in her heart. No, not a void, for a void meant nothingness, and she hurt with a pain she had not believed possible. Worse than with the panic of losing DuBois.

  Too long.

  Movement? On the rim? A red blur against the green, small in the distance, coming toward her . . .

  Becket!

  Had he found her brother? She couldn't tell.

  Overwhelmed with twisted opposites of joy and terror, she ran, stumbling over the rocks, over her hem, over the too-slow passage of time.

  He held . . . Pierre!

  Her heart leapt against her fear with the same frenzy as a wild animal to escape a cage. Pierre's small figure dangled over Becket's blood-red shoulder like a young deer slain in a hunt. Becket would never carry him in such a manner unless . . .

  "Non! Oh, dear God. Non!" Rochelle flew across the rocky ground, demanding a falcon's swiftness but held earthbound by her leaden soul. Her vision blurred hotter with each inadequate stride until golds, reds, greens and blues swirled as the world melted within her tears.

  Sire Spitz mewled as if he sensed disaster. She reached for Pierre.

  "Is he . . . ?" Her throat refused more. She hastened to where his dark-tousled head hung over Becket's shoulder. Her fingers trembled against Pierre's beautiful face. Cold. White. So very white. His lips bluish. Water dribbled from his precious mouth.

  "Oh, dear God, he's . . ." A sob wrung from her heart and buckled her knees.

  Becket spun and caught her against his body. "He lives, Lady Rochelle. He lives."

  Afraid she merely heard the prayers of her soul, she wedged her face in the angle between Becket's damp chest and Pierre's motionless legs, legs that had carried her brother in an incessant run as if to cram a full lifespan into too little time. The same legs that had repeatedly kicked the man who now stood as his rescuer. Sire Spitz leapt onto Pierre’s wet back, stretching his form along Pierre’s spine as if to transfer life to the boy he loved with all his heart.

  Fighting a resurgence of tears, she wrapped her arms around Pierre and Becket, squeezing them to her in dread they would vanish like some cruel nightmare. "When I saw him draped over your shoulder, I feared . . . I thought . . ."

  "The position helps drain the swallowed water." He ran his hand up beneath the heavy drape of her hair as if to comfort. "I worked with him on the bank until he drew breath, but I fear I didn't purge all. His link to life is fragile. We must warm him. And you as well."

  "Carry him to my chamber."

  Unable to let go of her brother, Rochelle grasped Pierre's limp hand and ran to keep pace with Becket's strides. And with each step, her heart swelled in gratitude for God---and for Becket. No, more than gratitude. Deeper. Something akin to . . . Love? Surely not. Not for her enemy.

  And yet, against her will, the swell pressed against her badly-patched defense-wall, loosening the cracked boulders until they toppled, stone-by-stone, littering the ground at her feet, tripping her as she hurried beside Pierre's savior. Rochelle screamed in silence to cease the destruction, but even so, the wall stood low and ragged, exposing most of her heart for Becket to seize, one vulnerable piece at a time.

  Once in the chamber, Rochelle tossed aside the embroidered bedcover. Becket laid Pierre on the linens. Sire Spitz sniffed at Pierre’s mouth as if to breathe vitality into his sodden lungs. So motionless, her brother. He looked like life had drained from his body along with the water. She couldn't lose the only soul who loved her and gave her purpose. Rochelle stripped Pierre of his wet clothes while Becket brought the hearth-fire to a bright glow. The renewed flames gave her hope--from ashes, to life.

  A rap sounded at the door, then the creak of hinges. Griselda waited in the doorway, holding a tray laden with tankard and chalice.

  "Addelty, paddelty, here’s some wine

  To help you pass the waiting time.”

  Startled by the servant's uncharacteristic benevolence-in-rhyme, Rochelle gave a dubious nod of approval.

  The containers clanked in time with the old woman's shuffles across the floor toward the center table. Rochelle moved to make room atop the surface.

  “Addelty, I’d not wish Pierre harm.

  Even possessed he has some charm."

  Then Griselda leaned closer as if in conspiracy.

  "The silver goblet contains a potion.

  For love. The violet lady’s notion."

  "What do you discuss in verses beyond my hearing?"

  Rochelle straightened at the sound of Becket's almost-accusation, her emotions in a tumble from Griselda's disclosure. A love potion? When Pierre lay ill? But if such mysteries held magical powers, might she fell the Fallen Angel? If so, how to persuade the devil to drink from her hand?

  "Lady Rochelle, I demand an answer."

  She jerked her gaze to his, uncertain how to give a credible response. "Griselda brings a . . . a blessing . . . from Lady Angelique.”

  She returned her attention to the servant who had treated Rochelle with contempt from the moment of her first memories. If not for her father's insistence, Rochelle would have re-situated Griselda, years ago.

  "Give praise to Sire Becket, Griselda, for because of his bravery, Pierre has a chance at survival. Now, have someone prepare a warm bath for the Sire. As to his sustenance---"

  "My steward will serve me, Lady Rochelle. You may go now, Griselda."

  Rochelle drew in a br
eath. A reminder of his suspicious nature. A reminder of why she must reconstruct the all-but-decimated wall around her heart. And yet, Pierre's rescue deserved her eternal gratefulness.

  The door swung closed.

  With Sire Spitz curled beside Pierre’s head, Rochelle tucked the covers beneath her sibling's too-pale chin and prayed for his bright smile once more, for the chance to revel in the beauty of his large dark eyes so filled with the wonder of life. If not for Becket . . .

  Despite her warning to her wayward emotions, she moved toward her enemy, ready to kneel at his feet in gratitude. Yes, kneel. But for gratitude only, naught else.

  "Sire Becket, you saved him."

  He stood, warrior-like, in front of the hearth fire that glowed red and gold behind his crimson-clad physique---like Satan borne from Hades on writhing flames. He watched her approach, his eyes enigmatic pools of liquid jet, serious, wary. She could almost feel his gaze burn her flesh, feel his power draw her nearer. Rochelle fought for her voice.

  "Sire Becket, you'll never know how thankful I am you risked your life for Pierre."

  "Thankful enough to reveal the secret?"

  She stopped before him, her knees in a quandary whether to bend, or lock.

  "I thought not. Nor would I press you at such a time. I, too, am grateful for his reprieve from death."

  Sighing to release her tension, she turned her back to the fire and ran her trembling fingers through her hair to help dry the strands, her attention mostly on the too-still figure beneath the linens, partly on the man beside her. "Mayhap you might name a safer matter for discussion, Sire. One more neutral."

  "I begin to wonder if such a territory exists between us." He watched her movements as if torn between desire and discipline. "And the only subject that haunts me at the moment is far from safe. At least, for me."

  She glanced at him in question.

  "Your hair, my lady. As fair as mine is dark. As light as the palest flame. And where still damp, stars glisten. But only at this moment, for when touched by the daystar, your tresses glow like a wintry sun. And at night, like silken strands from the moon."

  He lifted his hands as if to caress her hair. She tensed in preparation for the flash of heat that always followed his touch and melted her strength.