Love Thine Enemy Page 20

  Becket halted mid-reach, curled his fingers into his palms, then turned and gripped the edge of the hood.

  "Your wimple, Lady Rochelle. Put on your wimple. Also, a gown with a more discreet bodice. Your ugly black one that closes at your throat."

  She stared, stunned, oddly pleased by his displeasure. "'Tis damaged, Sire, if you recall."

  "'Tis too short a hem, at any rate. You reveal the delicate turn of your ankle."

  "Then mayhap my most faded gown. The one when you first arrived."

  "Not that one. The neckline scoops too low. The waist too tight. The hem too high."

  "Then the multi-colored gown that I pieced as I grew. I added a flounce at the bottom--"

  "For certain not that. The fan of fabrics accentuates your womanly form, cups your rounded breasts that gleam like warm iridescent pearls . . . " He closed his eyes. A muscle twitched along his jawline.

  "Then I shall have to go naked, Sire, for I have no others."

  Becket groaned, faint as if swallowed, but thick. He shoved from the hearth and stormed toward the door. "Then I'll borrow priests' robes for you to don."

  Rochelle fought a laugh. "And mayhap gloves from the falconer and a veil from the beekeeper?"

  "Excellent suggestions." He continued his escape. "Inform me of Pierre's condition."

  Coughs sputtered behind her. With a wild leap of her pulse, she raced to her brother, so small, so fragile-looking in her bed, a mere wisp of goodness.

  Pierre shuddered with choking coughs. Water seeped from his mouth. She grabbed a linen cloth and dabbed at his face.

  Becket rolled Pierre onto his side and massaged his back. His hands moved in gentle strokes, but persistent, rhythmic. Sire Spitz danced upon the linens as if frantic to help but not knowing how.

  Rochelle leaned forward and brushed her brother's damp locks from his face. "'Tis well, now, love. 'Tis well."

  "Your bodice, Rochelle. Cover your blasted bodice."

  She clutched at the loose fabric. "How can you even notice such at this time?"

  "'Tis the male in me."

  Pierre whimpered a protest. "Rochelle? Sister?"

  Her heart fisted.

  Becket stilled.

  A tomb-like silence engulfed the chamber. A log popped, much like her hope of secrecy.

  For the longest time, only the sound of Becket's breaths and the hiss of the fire blended with the swish of the pulse in her ears. Rochelle stiffened, ready to throw her body over Pierre's, ready to fight the devil with her bare hands.

  With purposeful movements, Becket pushed to a stand, his face as white as Pierre's, as white as the knuckles of his clenched fists. He drilled her with a hateful glare. "Reynaurd's . . . bastard?"

  She should lie to protect Pierre but could only stare at Becket in horror.

  "His seed. His accursed seed." Whispered. More frightening than if shouted.

  With non-threatening steps, she edged around the end of the bed in hopes to place herself between Becket and Pierre before Becket struck.

  "I beg you, Sire. Spare the lad. He is of no danger to you. My father never acknowledged him as son."

  He merely stood there, his attention focused on Pierre. He clenched and unclenched his fists as if he contemplated strangulation. Sire Spitz arched his back and hissed a warning to Becket.

  Her heart hammered against her ribs. She moved around the corner of the bed, slipped quietly toward Becket's side, her mind in a whirl as to what to use for a weapon if needed, other than an enraged cat. Unlike with Marcel, she doubted she would survive the strength of Becket's rage.

  "Pierre. Your half-brother. The truth screamed for recognition. And yet, I refused to understand. Didn't want to understand. Why the secret?"

  "Surely you know, Sire. To protect him."

  "From me? Reynaurd didn't even know I existed until after the vows."

  "But exist, you did. And hated. And now all of your enemy's bastards are slain. Except for Pierre."

  "You accuse me?"

  "I know of no other who vowed my father's seed be eliminated." She edged between Becket and the side of the mattress, felt his heat, his power---his abhorrence. "I warn you, Sire, you will have to kill me to reach him."

  "You tempt me."

  He turned from her and moved to in front of the window that framed a dying day, the dilemma within him obvious despite his too-calm facade.

  Something flickered and she shifted her attention. The silver chalice winked in the writhing light almost as if alive.

  The love potion.

  Becket.

  The ultimate test.

  Despite his reticence to take drink from her hand, she took the chalice from the tray, then neared him. The fragrance wafted as she moved, fruity, but pungent. The potion. What if he noticed? Divert his attention. With her pulse like drumbeats in her ears, Rochelle paused at his side, then, praying for success, offered the wine.

  He angled his head, then studied the dark liquid that wavered in the silver bowl and revealed her nervousness. "Tell me, Lady Rochelle. What manner of deaths befell Reynaurd's offspring?"

  She swallowed her panic. "Poison."

  He lifted his gaze to hers. "Then 'tis obvious. A woman performed the deeds."

  "How so?"

  Becket's fingers brushed hers. Dear heaven, he took the container from her grasp! She dare not breathe, not move, not even blink, for fear he might realize his error in accepting drink from her hand.

  "Because, my pale temptress, poison is a woman's tool that takes no strength of body, merely a trusting male, like your father trusted in you. Methinks you performed the ugliness and but shift the guilt to suit your ambitions."

  "How like a male to twist the truth so as to divert the blame. You consider that not being caught is equal to innocence."

  To keep from staring at the chalice and thus increase his suspicions, she glanced at the darkening sky beyond the window. "When upon the bluff, I inquired if you had been scorned by a woman, but you buried your secret with a change of subject and distracting accusations." She met his hooded gaze. "Tell me, Sire? Why so little faith in the fairer sex?"

  "Because a woman possessed so little faith in me." He lowered his focus and swirled the liquid within the bowl.

  Drink, Becket.

  Want me.

  Love me

  He merely continued the rhythmic swirl as if to see the past within the ruby depths. "She refused my proposal because I was landless and she wished not to wait until I regained my birthright." He scoffed. "She had spirit, a misplaced sense of independence." He met her too-attentive gaze. "Like you."

  Watching her watch him, Becket raised the rim to his mouth. She fought to slow the pace of her telltale breaths. But instead of drinking, he inhaled the fragrance.

  Surely he noticed the added scent. Hating deception, she quelled the urge to scream the truth about the love potion, and yet because of his so recent arrival, he might be unaware of the difference in the wine’s bouquet.

  Becket studied the chasing on the goblet as if to admire the engraver's skills. "Then when her father grew impatient with her obstinate nature and forced her to wed a landed friend of mine against her will---as did your father with you---she poisoned him on their wedding night." He lifted the goblet in salute. "Just like your father died after drinking wine from your hand."

  With deliberate movement, he tipped the chalice. The dark liquid streamed onto the rushes along with her ludicrous hopes.

  Rent by painful disappointment, she clenched her hands to prevent striking his arrogant chest. "To blame me of murder is an easy accusation, knight. Prove my guilt."

  "Reynaurd gasped of betrayed trust, then pointed in your direction."

  "And in yours."

  "You held the tankard."

  She winced.

  He tossed the chalice onto the window seat. "If not you, Lady Rochelle, then who? Who slew your father's bastards? Who killed your father even though he lay but heartbeats from death?"

 
; "If not you, knight, then indeed who? And why?"

  He glanced at Pierre. "And why the children? Bastards are not allowed to inherit in France.”

  Hands fisted at his side, Becket strolled to the side of the bed and stared at her brother.

  "Despite what you believe, Lady Rochelle, I do not kill innocents. And until I understand why some evil soul thirsts for such deaths, I will keep your secret. I will protect Pierre."

  Joy burst past her fear. As did that accursed unquenchable hope. As did another piece of her heart, which by now must look like Swiss cheese. And yet, if he forgave Pierre and his tainted blood, might he forgive her?

  "However, misunderstand not, my lady. Although I tolerate Reynaurd's seed within Pierre, I will not allow you a child. In truth, the discovery forces me to a decision. I must have a legitimate heir. I will wed another as soon as I have signed the annulment papers."

  "Non!” Shattered hope pierced her already hole-ridden heart, then fury. “You swore your vows before The Almighty. Dare you risk God's vengeance?"

  "I have already tasted God's vengeance. When but a lad. When I promised him my soul in exchange for my father's life. He rejected me. I returned the slight."

  A creak sounded behind her.

  Becket jerked his gaze to the door. With the speed of lightning, he leapt and swung wide the barrier.

  Griselda gasped in apparent fright, her hand poised to rap.

  "What do you here, woman?"

  "Oh, addelty, ;paddelty, you scared me, Sire..

  Your bath is ready and by the fire.”

  His tension didn't ease. He merely nodded. "You may go now." After shutting the door, he pulled on the handle as if to make certain the latch held.

  As Rochelle watched him move again toward the hearth, her eyes widened with her realization that Griselda had unwittingly given Rochelle another opportunity. She cleared a persistent knot from her throat.

  "As chatelaine, Sire, 'tis my duty to bathe you."

  He paused as if caught off guard by her suggestion. "Stay away from me, Jezebel. I bathe myself." Then he continued his saunter toward the fire as if unaffected. And yet, in some almost-disbelieving part of her soul she knew her enemy felt drawn to her. The knowledge strengthened her determination.

  "In truth, my seductive falcon, a woman already awaits my message of victory. Lady Anne. I wondered how to inform her of the unexpected change in plans, for I never intended to exchange vows with you, vows that complicate more than you will ever know. But to conquer without shed blood---"

  "Except for my bleeding heart."

  He gave her his back as he studied the tapestry above the hearth. "Unlike you and my former betrothed, Lady Anne is a woman of a more compliant nature, quiet, shy, and will produce the required heirs. I will ask no more of her, which is best for all concerned. No expectations. No disappointments. No mind-clouding emotions to interfere with the important matters of life."

  "No love? No passion?"

  He laughed. "Such emotions are for women and fools. I surrender my love and passion only to DuBois."

  "As do I, knight, thus not all women are fools. And yet, you will never experience the sharing of such emotions with another, even if 'tis over DuBois, for Lady Anne will never love this land as do I. Her blood will not rush when a lark sings or when the morning light tints the snowcapped Pyrenees with the first blush of dawn. She will not swallow her tears of joy over the swelling grapes upon the dew-kissed vine."

  "And she will not poison me."

  "Neither will I, knight, although 'tis what you deserve. Besides, you gave me until autumn. I expect you to honor your word."

  He lowered his attention to the rushes at his feet as if in thought. "To prevent awkward confrontations, I will wed Lady Anne at her birthplace, dally there a while in hopes my seed will take root. I'll not bring her here until you depart."

  "And what of Pierre? He will die without me."

  He moved toward the door. "I'll arrange for him to accompany you to the convent until he is of age. Then I'll secure him a position as an apprentice in a trade."

  She caught his arm as he passed. "Always a perfect answer. But not for me, knight, for once he leaves, I'll never see him again."

  "Life isn't always as we choose, Lady Rochelle. Be grateful I protect him. Take comfort that he will learn, not the ways of war as do most lads of nobility, but a more gentle livelihood."

  "So, I am the only casualty in this battle of wills."

  "At least you live. However, I fear your farcical vow to obey me will strain the bounds of my graciousness." He removed her hand from his forearm, squeezed as if to signify importance, then released her. "I warn you, Lady Rochelle. Don't push me beyond the edge. No more attempted seductions. No more betrayals with Gaston. No more attempts to poison me."

  "Never, Sire!"

  "I smelled the bitterness."

  "Not poison. A . . . a love potion."

  "By whatever name, my scheming falcon, 'tis still poison. One more such treachery and you go to the dungeon. What will happen to Pierre then?"

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  "Becket had better be dead." Gaston plunged his hand into the waterfall, then swiped the iciness over his clammy face to ease his nausea. The throb in his side pounded like a red-hot anvil. "If he isn't dead, then why the delay?"

  "Becket keeps her here."

  "He consummated the vows?" Gaston swallowed bile and sank against the cold stone hidden behind the cascade of water. "Curse him to hell."

  "He hasn't taken her virginity. At least, not yet."

  "Then kill him before he does."

  "I am not without sense, Gaston. This very evening we tricked Lady Rochelle into offering him poisoned wine. She believes 'twas a love potion."

  Gaston released a sigh of relief. "I'll destroy her maidenhead tonight, even if in my weakness I have to drug her and take her virginity by other means. Then I'll exchange vows with her before Becket's body is discovered."

  "He's . . . he's not dead."

  "But you said---"

  "I saw him exit the chamber."

  "Did he stagger? Mayhap the poison hadn't had time."

  "He practically ran down the stairs in his haste to leave."

  "What about the chalice?"

  "I know not. You awaited here and so I---"

  "Fool! What if Lady Rochelle drinks the poison? All our plans will be buried with her. You are worthless to me. I should slit your throat, forthwith."

  "Then who will aid your cause within the walls? My mind is in a muddle, 'tis all. The boy. He almost drowned."

  "You risk all for a plaything? What if he does die? There are many young lads to satisfy your warped tastes."

  "But not like Pierre. His eyes---"

  "I suffer pain from this hellish wound, cheat death to accomplish what you do not, risk being caught by Becket's knights----they're thick in the woods. If they knew this area as well as I, I would already be rotting in that vile dungeon---and you whine about Pierre's eyes? I warn you, if our plans fail, you'll never see his eyes again because yours will be impaled upon a hot poker, right before I mutilate you so grotesquely that you'll have difficulty even having bodily functions, much less sharing your body with pretty little boys."

  "I told you before, don't threaten me."

  "Then make certain Becket and Lady Rochelle stay apart. Fuel the flames of their hatred. If you want the boy, then kill Becket. If you fail, then I take Pierre."

  He heard the gasp, then the rustle of fabric.

  "I won't fail, Gaston. Here, I brought you food and laudanum. In the bottom are additional gold coins. And to help you escape, I brought you a disguise."

  Gaston groaned as he grasped the sack and bundle of cloth. "My strength drains at a dangerous pace. I must hide until I heal. I doubt Becket has had time to fortify Moreau, but…" Inspired, he pushed from the wall. "Of course. Paris."

  "Why there?"

  "Our mysterious usurper boasts that he possesses DuBois on the king's order
s."

  "So? Who in Paris would you dare question about the truth?"

  "King Jean, mon ami. King Jean.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Someone watched.

  Apprehension prickled up Rochelle's spine and tingled her nape. She slid her gaze along the torchlit hall. What foolishness. Despite the late hour, myriad creatures might slip through the shadows, four-footed, or two-footed.

  Thankful Angelique had bolted the chamber door while she sat with Pierre, Rochelle shielded the flame of her taper and scurried along the hallway toward the family's private chapel. The need to pray drew her soul through the dark labyrinth, the need to express her gratitude for sparing Pierre, the need for guidance. The need for protection from the devil.

  As she ran down the last flight of stairs, Angelique's parting words circled like a millstone in her head, crushing her confidence beneath the truth.

  Apparently, dear heart, your sole talent is in firing Sire Becket's anger. Be prudent and keep your distance from the man. Why risk that dreadful dungeon?

  To remain at DuBois.

  Rochelle rounded the last corner, then stilled. A dim light wavered through the chapel doorway. As from a candle. Sounds scuffed, thunked, clattered. Inappropriate sounds for meditation . . . from an inappropriate intruder.

  Mentally silencing the wild throb of her pulse, she crept toward the entry. The intruder mumbled a curse. While in the chapel?

  How dare he!

  Rochelle strode toward the---

  A crash shattered her fragile composure.

  With her mind screaming for her to escape possible danger, she forced her feet through the doorway. "See here, you have no business . . ."

  Becket jerked his gaze to hers as he stood in a wide-spread stance, something strewn about his feet. Garbed in pourpoint and hose the color of midnight, he appeared as a shadow within shadows, as mysterious as his shadowy soul. "I have every business here, Lady Rochelle, but you do not. Leave."

  "I came here to pray and I heard a crash."

  He moved toward her as if he didn't want her to see what lay on the floor. "Obey me, Lady Rochelle."