Love Thine Enemy Page 2

  Stunned at this new revelation, she searched his troubled eyes. "Who would kill children? Pierre is no threat, nor were the other bastards because only legitimate heirs can inherit. And why have I not been slain?"

  Her father merely groaned in answer, his teeth clenched as hard as her fists.

  Rochelle panicked that he might die before she knew the truth. “Tell me about the pact. Hurry!”

  The door-hinges creaked.

  Gaston? Her heart leapt to her throat as she spun to confront him. She relaxed at the sight of the old servant, Jacques, who had been at DuBois since before her birth, one of the few people she trusted. How had he passed the guards? Unless he had an order from Gaston to see if her father still lived.

  "Milady?" Jacques peered from the doorway, his white hair like wisps of fog atop his burn-scarred head. Scars contorted his face due to a fiery disaster that dated before her memory, but to her, he couldn’t be more beautiful. She noticed that his gaze focused on the open window instead of on her as if he couldn't meet her eyes. But then, they were all upset this day. She, more than any.

  A shadowy figure lurked behind him.

  Rochelle rubbed her fingers against the ache in her temple. "Jacques, is that one of Gaston’s guards behind you?" Perhaps, despite Gaston’s orders, she could appeal to him to summon Griselda. Not likely, though. Not if he valued his life.

  "More visitors, milady. Strangers." Jacques sniffed and swiped his gnarled knuckles over his nose. "A knight and his squire. Says his horse is lame. He seeks shelter for the night."

  “Visitors? You came straight to this door and no one stopped you?” Maybe Gaston had merely bluffed and she could escape the chamber after all. But Gaston never bluffed. And anyway, she dare not leave until she received vital information from her father.

  “Milady? What about the knight and his squire?”

  Rochelle swallowed a cry of frustration. She didn't have time to receive guests. Not when death panted and secrets skulked. "Take care of them for me, Jacques. Show them the knights’ quarters above the stable."

  "A knight, you say?" Her father gestured toward Jacques with unexpected energy. "Bring him to me."

  The illusive figure moved forward.

  “Non!” Rochelle whirled to face her father. "We have no time for this. You must tell me about the pact!"

  "Pardonnez-moi. Reynaurd de DuBois? I'm Becket, Le Vengeur, the king's knight."

  Rochelle stilled. Le Vengeur. The avenger. A dangerous name. As menacing as the underlying tone of his voice, sonorous and deep.

  Then hope straightened her spine. The king’s knight? Perhaps he would relay a message to King Jean about her plight. No, she had not enough time.

  "Entré, Sire Becket.” Her father struggled to sit upright.” Entré."

  Releasing an angry sigh, Rochelle smoothed the faded wool of her too-small gown, then turned to greet the intruder.

  Her heart tripped.

  The stranger stood tall, lean and . . . and provocative . . . a vision of shimmery silver. His vest of armored plate gleamed in the firelight like molten metal. He appeared as a god newly formed, dynamic, invincible. Mail sleeves hinted at well-muscled arms. A shirt of the same linked metal skimmed to below his hips. His well-shaped legs, firm and strong, confirmed the raw power beneath the metal plates on the front of his mail-covered thighs. He loomed a formidable knight in all his masculine glory. Yet despite his claim as a king’s knight, he wore no jupon with identifying coat of arms. How curious. The man pulled off the pointed iron bascinet that protected his head.

  Her heart stumbled again. His hair hung in soft curls of disarray to below his ears---thick, lustrous, as dark as ebon wood. Rochelle's response to the knight startled her, especially after her abuse from Marcel.

  Venom flickered in the midnight of his eyes as he stared at her father. Predatory. Dangerous.

  A burning chill rippled along her flesh. Why would the stranger feel hatred for a dying man who gave him shelter?

  He met her too-studied perusal, one dark brow raised, as if faced with the unexpected. The glimmer of his hatred blurred to surprise, confusion, doubt, then hardened to determination.

  The rapid flash of his reactions tightened her stomach another notch. Rochelle stepped back, bumping the stool, which teetered much like her courage. Lifting her chin in defiance, she curtsied. "Welcome to DuBois, Sire. I---"

  "Come here, knight. Rochelle, move aside until you're summoned."

  Damaged pride flamed her cheeks. She should be hardened to her father's treatment, but his offhand dismissal in front of a stranger humiliated her as much as a slap. And yet her father was dying, desperate. Which didn’t excuse the past two decades of maltreatment. Rochelle retreated to the open window in the deep reveal of the wall and pressed her hands against the coolness of the window frame.

  "Come closer, Sire Becket."

  A breeze swept away her father's whispered words as the gust lifted the edge of the wimple that covered her head and swirled past her into the chamber. Her damp nape chilled before the linen settled again against her neck. Rochelle inhaled the purity to cleanse the stench from her lungs, and to clear a mysterious knight from her thoughts. In spite of the stranger's hasty burial of his hatred beneath his nonchalance, an inner tempest seethed beneath his surface. She didn't trust him.

  Drawn by the allure of the land, she skimmed her gaze across the magnificent vista, never tiring of the view from their mountaintop perch in the Pyrenees foothills that overlooked the valley of Armagnac. She had two loves in her life, DuBois Estates and Pierre.

  And now Gaston plotted to pollute everything she cared for with his greed and treachery, to pilfer and leach the life from the land that meant more to her than the blood that flowed through her veins, to abuse her, and perhaps to kill Pierre. For if her father spoke true, and she claimed Pierre as brother, the boy might be torn from her protection, or slain. Either way, he would die. No, to protect Pierre, she would not allow any man to claim the land, or her.

  Rochelle inhaled another breath, then stilled. A glint in the copse of cedars caught her curiosity. The woodcutter, most likely, for no one else had permission---

  "A bit cool for your father, don't you think?"

  Rochelle gasped and spun toward the sound of the too-near voice. The knight towered less than an arm's length away and stole her breath.

  The morning sunlight washed across Becket's down-tilted face revealing a Latin ancestry, highlighting his Roman nose, his sensual lips, his square-set jaw. Thick brows, as black as coal, accented his wide forehead. And his eyes, like moonless skies, penetrated hers as if in search of her innermost secrets.

  Beware.

  He leaned closer and she caught the scent of cedar and leather, of outdoors and . . . and danger. Her pulse thudded a warning in her ears.

  He lifted his hand.

  Rochelle flinched. He meant to strike her! "You dare touch---"

  Becket reached past her; the room darkened as he closed the shutters. "There. Much improved." He flashed a smile that sent lightning through her veins. "I appreciate your hospitality, demoiselle. In payment, take a moment's respite while I visit with Lord Reynaurd. I'll inform you when I'm . . . finished."

  The deep timber of his voice, his nearness, his masterful virility, pulled the strength from her knees. Her shaky fingers brushed against his mail-clad arms as she reached toward the wall for support. Hot beneath cold. Muscle beneath metal. Hatred beneath kindness. She swallowed at the tight knot in her throat.

  "Sire, I saw a glimmer in the woods and I wondered who---"

  "'Tis a glorious day, is it not, my lady. But the magnificence pales in comparison to your beauty. Bless the sun with your presence and refresh your weariness."

  The ludicrous statement only heightened her suspicions. "You'll find me impervious to vain falsity and obvious distraction. Tell me, Becket, Le Vengeur. What do you avenge?"

  "Injustice."

  His hand tightened on the hilt, drawing her attent
ion to the ornate chasing revealed beyond his grip. Something familiar about the pattern . . . wings . . . no, too much remained hidden, like the man himself. She lifted her gaze and saw that he looked beyond her toward her father, and again the hatred, the sense of danger.

  "Tell me, Le Vengeur. What brought you here this day? A lame horse? Or, injustice?"

  The question seemed to stir him to action, for he grasped her arm and urged her toward the door.

  "'Twould be best if you left the chamber, Lady Rochelle."

  She twisted from his hold and stepped back, as unnerved by the peculiar heat that streamed from his touch as by his sudden urgency for her to abandon her father. "Why your eagerness for me to leave, knight?"

  "I would spare you the ugliness of death."

  Rochelle scoffed. "The plague half a decade past showed me how vile life's end. I remain here."

  "Your presence will not stay the reaper's claim."

  "Non, but perhaps 'twill delay him." She must delay him.

  "Impossible." Becket dipped his head in a slight bow, then strode with controlled grace across the rush-strewn floor to her father. His sword clanked at his side as if impatient to taste blood.

  The sight jolted her to defensive action. "Mon père, this man is not as he seems---"

  "Rochelle, leave us." Her father gestured with impatience toward the door.

  "But, mon père, I sense danger. Sire Gaston might have sent him to--"

  “Cease!” Becket spun to face her, fury like a barely hidden flame within his eyes. "If you love him, you will honor his wishes and give us privacy."

  Stunned by the stranger's audacity as well as his words, Rochelle slid a glance to her father, wondering if the odd tangle of emotions she felt for him could be called love. And yet, despite his coldness toward her, something unnamable buried beneath her scars longed for his acceptance, for his affection.

  Did he feel any guilt that he had never protested her harsh treatment from Marcel? Did her father remember how she had knelt before him, her face bruised and swollen, pleading for him to interfere, to protect her? He had merely echoed Marcel's accusations and had belittled her lack of femininity, berating her to be more like her companion, Angelique. He had demanded she accept her woman's lot without complaint and to try harder to please Marcel, to stroke her husband and to kiss him wherever he willed until his passion overcame his distaste for her. She had wondered why her father had sided with Marcel and Gaston instead of with her. And now he revealed a secret pact. The particulars of which she still had yet to discover. She returned her attention to Becket.

  "I give you privacy, but I refuse to leave this chamber."

  "Then you must live with the painful memories." He moved away from her and halted beside the emerald-draped bed, his robust strength in contrast to her father's frailty like a magnificent falcon beside a sick sparrow.

  A dying sparrow.

  Uncertain what Becket meant by “living with the painful memories”, she strolled to the hooded hearth and held her chilled hands toward the heat. The shifting coals reminded her of her future: hellish and unstable.

  The sound of mumbled voices piqued her interest. Curious as to what her father said to the stranger in such secretive tones, she glanced over her shoulder.

  Becket stood beside her father in deep conversation, one foot propped on the stool, one arm at rest on his mail-clad thigh, his helmet dangling from his fingers. Her father nodded and whispered in response, his expression intense. Becket jerked up his head and slammed her a stare mixed with icy hatred and stormy indecision, then he lowered his head again.

  Rochelle wondered again about Becket's hatred and for whom. For her father? For her? And of most import, why? And why had he glared at her in such a manner? The unanswered questions swirled into a rapid vortex of foreboding that sucked the breath from her body.

  Her father gestured as if to prove a point. The knight stiffened, then stilled.

  The fire hissed a warning.

  Becket placed his foot on the floor and straightened. He turned, then drilled his gaze into her fractured courage.

  Trepidation crawled up her spine and lodged in her throat. Angered with her timorous reaction she lifted her chin and met his stare, refusing to acknowledge her strained nerves that threatened to shatter like hand-blown glass.

  Her father lifted his hand, moaning from the effort. His chest heaved for silent moments as if he garnered strength. "What think you, Becket?"

  The knight stood beside the bed, his head at a thoughtful angle, his iron cap supported beneath his arm, the image of relaxed confidence. He perused her. No, more than perused. He appraised, assessed.

  "She's an attractive woman. 'Tis pride you should feel, not scorn."

  "You see her as a wench to rut, is all."

  Mortified, Rochelle clenched her hands. Heat stung her face. "You speak thus of your own daughter? Will not even death‘s presence---"

  Her father’s deep, hacking coughs brought from him a cry of pain. "Call the priest, Rochelle. Have him bring . . . papers. He'll know . . . the ones." He coughed again and his face drained of all color. "Make haste."

  "The priest?" Her heart plummeted. Even though her father had never shown her the attention she craved, the reality of his last moments, the finality . . . Rochelle rushed into the hallway and bumped into Jacques who hovered just outside the door. A lone knight guarded the entrance. Her lungs tightened. He would carry the information to Gaston.

  “Jacques, is this one of the Sire Gaston’s men?”

  The knight’s eyes narrowed as if she’d insulted him.

  Jacques shook his head. “He‘s the knight‘s squire, milady.”

  He was surely too old to be a knight's attendant, but the direness of the moment suppressed the inconsistency. As to Gaston’s missing guards, she gave thanks for the unexpected and hoped they remained absent. Shaking, she grasped the aged servant’s gnarled hands and noticed his were also shaking.

  "Jacques, call Père Bertrand. The master needs him at once. At once! Tell him to bring the appropriate documents. And bring him in secret. The Sire de Moreau must not know when Lord Reynaurd dies."

  Jacques nodded and hurried down the dim hallway, apparently as upset as she, as well he should be. If she failed to defeat Gaston, all of them would suffer.

  Panic slammed a fist into her feeble confidence and she grasped at the wooden doorframe for support. Her father mustn't die! Not yet. She hadn't learned the details of the bargain. She didn't have a plan.

  She hadn't told him she loved him.

  Startled by her sudden emotional weakness, Rochelle swiped at an errant tear, then stiffened her spine. Her father would be ashamed of the unexpected splintering of her spirit. He admired strength.

  Although her mind stumbled along the rocky path of her thoughts, Rochelle aroused a facade of serenity. She straightened her shoulders and brushed at her skirt the same dead color as the floor rushes. Then with a deep breath, she lifted her chin and re-entered his chamber. While she crossed the room, the knight’s wanton examination raked the length of her body.

  Curse his insolence. Ignore the knave and concentrate. Gaston awaited her father's last breath which hovered but a heartbeat away. The time for confrontation advanced as fast as her father's life drained from his body. She must decide what trickery would encourage Gaston to leave the chateau so that she could barricade the gate. Her strategy demanded her critical attention. One misstep . . . Rochelle stumbled and grabbed for the center table.

  As she fell, Becket lunged, caught her waist and pulled her against the hardness of his armored side. Heat flashed from his hands and up into her chest, singeing unexpected warmth throughout her body. Amusement flared in his dark eyes where once he had revealed his hatred. One corner of his mouth lifted in a sardonic grin. "Does someone distract you to the point that you cannot tread without mishap across a smooth floor?"

  "Release me, knight." Shocked that he read her so easily, she pushed against his chest, but he
pulled her tighter against his body as hard as her lungs.

  "Perhaps you merely long to throw yourself prostrate at my feet. Make another attempt and I promise to let you fall."

  Her fragile composure snapped. She shoved from his hold. Fists planted on her hips, she met his hot gaze, flame for flame.

  "Heed well, knight, you stare at steel named Rochelle, and I'll rust before I crumble into a heap at your feet, so keep your hands and your thoughts to yourself."

  Her father's rasping coughs belittled her ire. He gasped for air, then settled deeper into his cushions. "Rochelle is . . . rock-hard . . . the way . . . I raised her." He drew in another labored breath. "Someday . . . you'll thank me."

  Something mysterious hung in the air, unseen, but felt. What transpired between the two? She glanced up at the knight who watched her as if he anticipated a cause célèbre.

  "I protest your rudeness, knight. You study me as if I'm a ewe, up for purchase."

  Becket's smile widened, the display of a man with a winning bid.

  Alarmed, she looked at her father for clarification, then froze with the horrid realization of how rapidly he slipped into an unknown world. His face appeared waxen, bloodless.

  With a shaky hand he grasped the knight's arm. "The bargain stands?"

  He had told the stranger of the bargain, and not her? No. Intuition whispered they referred to a different covenant, one newly forged. A draft of suspicion swirled cold in her chest. A vise squeezed her lungs. Her senses leapt, alert, and pounded a warning in her ears.

  Rochelle studied anew the man who stood before her, the man with the too-handsome countenance, the man who exuded confidence, and who suddenly terrified her more than Gaston. She attempted to swallow, but the dryness of her mouth felt as if she had eaten sour grapes.

  Rochelle lifted her chin and dug her nails into her palms to prick her courage. "Knight, who are you----in truth?"

  Becket laughed, an unexpected reaction, then shrugged. "I've been told I'm God's gift."