Love Thine Enemy Read online

  "God's . . . gift?"

  A wry grin curved one corner of his mouth. "According to your father." He shifted his stance while he set his iron cap beside the wine tankard upon the wooden chest, then he straightened to face her again, legs apart, as if ready to do battle and certain of victory.

  She cocked a brow in response. "Pray, Sire, indulge my curiosity. Gift . . . to whom?"

  "To you, demoiselle. At least, 'tis what your father claims."

  Rochelle took a step back. "I demand an explanation." She retreated another step. Every instinct within her screamed for her to flee.

  Her father emitted a pained cry, his face death-like.

  Torn between whether to ignore her father who treated her with such contempt or to cradle him in her arms, Rochelle took a hesitant step toward the bed.

  "Rule her as you will, Sire Becket. “ Her father’s face contorted in a grimace. “But never allow Gaston . . . to have . . . DuBois. The agreement stands?"

  "Rule me as he wills?" Horrified, Rochelle jerked her gaze to Becket.

  He watched her, mischievous expectation aglow in his eyes. He rubbed his hand across his mouth as if in contemplation, then he nodded toward the door. "Lady Rochelle, look behind you."

  "Gaston?" Panicked, Rochelle spun to the open doorway, but no one had entered.

  "Hmmm. Quite pleasant. Now face the window."

  Bewildered, she glanced at the closed shutters, but nothing seemed amiss.

  "Ah, a delightful silhouette from every angle. How fortunate. Now to me, Lady Rochelle. Look at me."

  She froze with humiliated realization. He had turned her for his inspection like a prize sow. Anger stiffened her spine; heat burned her cheeks. She faced the roué with a glower that dared him to utter even one more word. "You go too far, knight, from misplaced humor to banality. I am not livestock."

  "True, demoiselle. You are bartered goods in a wicked trade."

  "Bartered goods?" While her anger rose, his lurid gaze assessed every curve of her figure. Suddenly, her neckline seemed too low, her bodice too tight, her hem too high.

  Becket gave her a slow wink, his face alight with devilish amusement. "She's acceptable, Lord Reynaurd. I’ll take her."

  CHAPTER TWO

  "Of all the . . . “ Indignation at Becket's humor drowned Rochelle's fearful suspicions.

  His cocky demeanor riled her defiance, his smug smile, the sparkle in his eyes, his arrogant stance that dared her to best him but said not to bother - the male of the species had won.

  So, he thought her a simpering female who would cower at his feet in subjection. Think again, Becket. Resolute, she crossed her shaky arms and pierced the stranger with her most insolent glare, determined to give him like-for-like.

  "So, you find me acceptable, do you? Well, I suggest you not scurry home to your mère with the news quite yet, for 'tis my turn to examine."

  She perused a studied path down his body. "Muscled thighs are evident beneath your armored plate and mail, but do you pad your calves? Non? 'Tis a distasteful fashion to pretend what you are not." Rochelle lifted her gaze to his startled expression. Good. She had confounded the King of Repartee. Fighting a triumphant grin she pursed her mouth and pressed one finger against her cheek in assessment. "Your brigandine vest seems molded over a muscular chest, but . . ." She batted her lashes. 'Tis most likely false, like your airs." His mouth dropped open but no sound emerged. Sweet revenge. Rochelle moved to eye him from the side.

  He followed her with his wide-eyed gaze, his feet planted on the floor as if rooted in place.

  Rochelle tilted her head to peer behind him. "You appear to have a trim waist and firm buttocks. Perhaps from overuse of forcing your way in where you do not belong?" She straightened, met the inky flash of his eyes and crossed her arms again, defiant. "Some women might consider you a fine example of malehood, but my regrets, knight, you are not acceptable to me."

  Becket burst into laughter. He dipped his head in a slight bow. "My compliments and my apologies, demoiselle. 'Twas a well-deserved rebuke."

  Rochelle stiffened at his unexpected reaction. She wanted his outrage, his scorn, not his humor, an emotion as much a stranger to her as the man who now smiled.

  Becket still laughed as he gestured in her direction. "I prefer this type of war, this clashing, this inferno of heated wills. 'Tis a challenge but more rewarding. How to touch the flames and not scorch the flesh?"

  "A commendable arrangement." The barely whispered words of her father shredded Rochelle's confidence. "'Tis the most emotion she's shown in years, Becket." His chest rose and sagged in a deep sigh as if he relaxed with satisfaction. "A good omen."

  Becket laughed again. "Then I'd hate to see a bad one. I felt like a piece of cheese admired at a distance by a charming mouse, then upon closer inspection, rejected for rankness."

  Rochelle wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Rank? True. And like in the cheese from Roquefort, 'tis most likely mold that runs blue in your veins not blood."

  Becket's eyes gleamed with a sensuality that leapt across the space to stun her senses. "Blue? Oui. But not from mold."

  He approached her, slow and steady, like the slow, steady tone of his voice, a tone only she could hear beyond the clank of his sword as he moved. His presence, like an unseen force, pushed at her to retreat, yet drew her toward him. He halted an arm's length away. Heat radiated from his body and threatened to melt her icy anger.

  "As you know, ma petite, blue is the hottest part of the flame. Because of you, 'tis liquid fire that scalds the courses 'neath my skin."

  Her heartbeat rampaged in response. His eyes promised both ecstasy and peril. She felt drawn like a moth to his blue flame. Yet, moths burned a most glorious glow before they perished. Might the ecstasy be worth the sacrifice?

  He smiled and the flame burst bright in his eyes. "Tempted, Lady Rochelle?"

  Yes. Shocked at her thought, she gasped and took a step in retreat. She didn't know how to protect herself from this new type of male. Because of her father, Marcel, and Gaston, she expected harshness and brutality, not humor and sensuality. Then she remembered that even Marcel had shown kindness until after the pledge of vows. The memory of his abuse chilled the heat of her confusion. Her instincts whispered that something dangerous lurked beneath Becket's facade. She must beware of the stranger's tactics.

  The sound of footsteps and fluttering robes broke Becket's spell.

  Père Bertrand passed her in a black blur as he rushed to her father's side. "Do you wish the last rites, Reynaurd?"

  "Waive the banns, Bertrand."

  The priest straightened, satisfaction on his face. "A wise move, Reynaurd. 'Twill spare us much grief."

  Rochelle's heart stammered a warning. "Waive the banns?" The stability of her tone belied the waver of her inner strength. She dug her nails into her sweaty palms. "You have no need, mon père. I will rule DuBois alone, as widow."

  He closed his eyes and his lids reminded her of the outer layer of an onion skin, thin and translucent, as if he turned more ghostly with each labored breath. "You will wed . . . Sire Becket."

  "Becket?" Incredulity jolted to her core. She jerked her attention to the warrior who stood defiant, dangerous, his fingers curled around the hilt of his sword, ready for action. Furious, Rochelle shoved her hands on her hips.

  "Sacre Dieu, knight. You are as bad as Gaston. You both lust after DuBois, the golden prize. And if I suffer in the bloody scramble for possession neither of you will care." She lifted her chin. "But I care. I'll fight you both."

  Becket's grip tightened on the hilt. Determination as hard as tempered steel slashed across his face, his intention obvious: If she dared to protest, he would take her against her will.

  Frightened, she forced her shocked attention back to her father and saw the verdict in his clouded eyes. He would not back down. She felt trapped between two converging forces. . . no, three, including Gaston.

  "You intend to wed me to a stranger who happened in because o
f a lame horse?" Rochelle cringed at the high hysterical tone of her voice. She clasped her hands so hard that her fingers cramped. "Please, mon père! Don't do this. I have plans. I'll rule DuBois alone as a widow. After all the hell I suffered from Marcel, I deserve the status, official or not."

  "Gaston . . ." Coughs ceased her father's argument.

  "But, mon père, your knights---"

  "Won't answer to . . . a woman." His words rasped out on panted breaths. A shudder rolled along his wasted frame. "Imbecile. Witless. Obey . . . like other . . . females."

  Rochelle closed her ears to the rude remarks he forced out with each dying breath. For two decades he had scoured her emotions with his abrasive tongue. With each degrading comment, with each castigation, she had placed a stone, and then another, to safeguard her heart. For mortar, she had mixed her silent tears with her pain, her humiliation, and the dried remnants of her hope. And her pride. She mustn't forget her pride. She thought she had built a sturdy wall. Thick, strong, impenetrable. But not so.

  The new turmoil plotted by her father forced her to move. She paced at the foot of the bed, frustrated, angered.

  "To remind you, mon père, you trained me not to be like other women." She spoke as much for the stranger's enlightenment as for her father's.

  Becket still clutched his sword as if prepared to take her by force.

  She clutched at her only weapon of defense: persuasion. She turned and paced the width of the bed again. "You allowed no softness from me. 'Be hard, Rochelle. Be tough. I forbid you to cry just because your mother is dead. Don't show your pain; 'tis but a broken arm. Don't grieve for your pet bird; 'twas but a worthless creature. Don't complain about an abusive husband; 'tis a woman's lot.'" She spun to face the man who had spilled his seed and then had named the results Rochelle. "Well, now I'm tough. I'm hard. And I will live my life without any man to treat me as if I'm naught but dung." She flashed a hateful glare at Becket.

  He sauntered toward her like the victor eager to claim the spoils. "I will protect both you and DuBois from Gaston."

  "I'll save DuBois, knight! I'll sacrifice to rebuild this estate. You'll waste money on tournaments and an extravagant lifestyle as did father and Marcel. I'll use the money to repair and improve. I'll---"

  "Cease, Lady Rochelle. You have no choice." Becket grasped her arm, his eyes like obsidian glass, dark and inflexible.

  She jerked from his hold with as much strength as her heart jerked in panic against her ribs. "Have you not listened, stranger? I will not marry you! Be forewarned. Your ambition may cost you your life."

  He had the audacity to show a sly, contemptuous grin. "Summon Gaston to your aid. I anticipate the meeting."

  "I mean me, knight. If Gaston doesn't kill you, I will."

  Becket cocked a dark brow and nodded. "A challenge? I accept." He studied her as if to search into the cob-webbed chambers of her soul. "I understand your concerns, demoiselle, but I'll not be a harsh husband."

  Rochelle flinched at his verbal touch of her hidden wounds. "I've already suffered through one devil for a husband. I'll not have another."

  "I'm not a devil, Lady Rochelle." He released his sword hilt and shrugged. "I'm but a man."

  "And the difference?"

  Becket laughed. "Shall I demonstrate the difference, my lady? My pleasure, I assure you."

  A peculiar heat slithered down her spine and threatened to melt her frozen terror. "You have already demonstrated more to me this day than I care to see. The hatred in your eyes. The greed. The lust for what is not yours. The clench of your hand upon your sword to force the issue if necessary. 'Tis enough for me to know you are of the same ilk as other men. You are like a catapulted stone, hard to the core and willing to crush all who step in your way. My experience tells me both the devil and the man are the same. Both take what they want with no thought for the suffering of others."

  "And you, demoiselle, are like your father."

  Rochelle caught her breath. His tone spoke clearly that he had not graced her with a compliment. She dug her nails into her damp palms. "I am naught like my father."

  Becket gestured toward the bed. "Reynaurd places all women under one title: Imbeciles. You consider all men devils." His sword clanked against his armor as he shifted his stance. He stroked the hilt of his weapon with his thumb in an affectionate caress, his midnight gaze locked onto hers. "You, my lady, are not an imbecile. While I . . . " He spread his hands in invitation for her to take visual fill of his physique. ". . . am only a devil . . . sometimes."

  He smiled and unwanted temptation snaked from her chest to her loins.

  "But after we wed, you might discover the devilish part of me much to your liking."

  She turned to liquid heat. Before he vaporized her into steam, Rochelle turned to the hearth and crossed her arms to hide her tremble. The trap encircled, tighter, smaller. Curse his smile that shone like the sun beneath the storm clouds of his eyes. He but seduced for his own gain. Marcel also charmed until after the vows, then he revealed his sick madness. No, she must protect DuBois, Pierre---and herself.

  Sparks exploded from the flames like her scattered thoughts, then drifted in aimless circles up the chimney past her view, glowing specks of agony against soot-covered stones. Or like flashes of lust in his sooty gaze.

  Rochelle turned to study again the mysterious knight who clung to her father's offer like a leech thirsty for blood. Something inside her yearned to know more about the man.

  "Your armor pricks my curiosity, Sire. The outdated combination of mail and plate reveals you are not a foot soldier, and yet to the grander scale, not a noble. Don't misunderstand, knight, for we will not wed, but what do you offer? What of your holdings?"

  A flash of anger swept away his humor and settled to seethe within his ebony depths. He clenched his hands at his sides, then straightened his fingers as if determined to appear relaxed.

  "I was born to nobility, but because of past treachery I'm landless, at least for the moment. Don't misunderstand, my lady, for we will wed, but I offer you treasures beyond monetary value and, 'tis obvious, beyond your experience. I offer respect as well as my protection."

  "Don't mock me. 'Tis greed that inspires you."

  Her father coughed. "Do this . . . for me."

  Rochelle's disobedience of her father's final wishes ripped her resolve into jagged pieces of remorse. She knew she caused him torment, but her future depended upon her refusal.

  "Non, mon père. You've lived your life as you chose. Now I do the same."

  "I'm dying. Your stubbornness . . . " He groaned as if in pain.

  Caustic drops of guilt spilled from behind her stone wall and seared holes in her determination. Surely words existed that would change his decision if she could but dig them out of obscurity. Her mind groped at the first unearthed thought.

  "This man is not as he seems, mon père. He possesses a hatred he seeks to hide, a danger--"

  "Silence." Becket grasped her arm as if anxious and nodded to Père Bertrand. "Wed us. Now."

  Panic tore along her nerves. Rochelle pulled from his hold. "Stay back, knight! Don't touch me!"

  Coughs racked her father's body. The bed shook. She shook. Torn between determination and guilt, she approached the bed. "I beg you, mon père ---"

  "Obey."

  Feeling trapped, she forced a breath into her lungs and backed toward the door. "And if I refuse?"

  "Will tell about . . . Pierre. He'll . . . die."

  Rochelle jerked to a halt. The ultimate treachery, her submission in exchange for Pierre's life. Well, curse him! She spun and swept clear the nearby table with her arm. Precious silver, jade and crystal crashed to the floor. Curse him! She couldn't stack the stones of her defense-wall fast enough. The pain ravaged her soul. Her body trembled with her rage, her futility. Tell him to roast in hell. Tell him to---

  Becket stepped toward her, the conquering knight.

  "Non! Don't touch me!" She backed around the table. Crystal crunch
ed beneath her feet like her broken dreams.

  "Cease, Lady Rochelle. The agreement is made."

  "But not sealed, knight. Stay away from me."

  "Reynaurd!” Père Bertrand swatted his fistful of papers on the bed. “You realize Gaston will seek revenge. 'Tis a dangerous folly. Even if you insist, you should give her more time."

  "Gaston won't have . . . DuBois."

  "But, the bargain---"

  "Is damned."

  The urge to fight refused to let her relinquish hope. No, she would not give up, only delay. Since her father opted for ruthlessness she would match him in kind. Defiant, she turned to the dying man she had struggled so hard to love.

  "Oui, mon père. I'll wed the man."

  Then she would annul the marriage. She refused to look at the knight, the greedy swine who sought to rape her of her land.

  "Lady Rochelle . . ." Becket touched her arm.

  A bolt like lightning leapt from his touch. Her gaze collided with his and she saw his hunger for victory. When he grasped her arms she flinched from the strangeness that coursed through her body every time he touched her, a heat, a flash of temptation.

  "Don't fight me, Lady Rochelle. You're in danger. More than you know." Something mysterious flickered in his eyes, in his tone. A warning.

  Her stomach twisted with pain as if Marcel had risen from the grave and struck her with his fist. Frightened, she pushed at Becket's hands, but he refused release. Her lungs ached. She couldn't breathe.

  Père Bertrand shook with rage. "'Tis a sacrilege! I refuse to be part of this travesty."

  Rochelle sighed as relief washed over her like a calming stream. The priest saved her from the devil.

  And yet Becket exuded confidence, not defeat. He nodded toward the door. "Henri. Entré."

  The man too old to be Becket's squire stepped into the doorway, sword drawn.

  Rochelle stiffened. Surely she misunderstood his intentions, for no man would dare threaten a priest.

  Père Bertrand went motionless. "You risk your soul by coercing a man of God?"