Love Thine Enemy Read online

  Becket shrugged. "The authority who wishes me as lord of DuBois ranks almost as high. The king."

  Shocked, Rochelle jerked her attention up to Becket's eyes so afire with dark determination. "If so, knight, why didn't King Jean send notice to my father? Why didn't you mention the news at first instead of all that pretense?" She narrowed her gaze. "Unless you lie."

  Père Bertrand gripped Becket's shoulder. "I would see the king's seal of authority."

  Becket shifted his gaze to the so-called squire named Henri. "Show him our authority."

  Henri ambled into the chamber, the tip of his sword pointed at Père Bertrand.

  Rochelle's blood drained from her face, leaving her cold and clammy. If Becket dared to threaten a priest, then a young unfortunate like Pierre would be swept aside like discarded refuse and left to die. And yet she must react to the crisis of the moment and protect Père Bertrand.

  Rochelle jerked against Becket's hold. "Let's be done with this mockery, knight."

  The priest stared at the papers he held in his fist, then at the sword, as if weighing his options. He retreated a step.

  Becket grasped her icy hand. She hated that she trembled. Summoning a facade of bravery, Rochelle straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, her body as rigid as her ever-thickening wall of defense.

  Becket pulled up to his full height. "Père Bertrand. Perform the service. DuBois is in need of a new lord."

  No. Only until her father died, then Becket would be dismissed. The priest would surely agree to an annulment. And although her father claimed otherwise, the DuBois knights would aid her cause, she knew they would. Also she would appeal to the king, explain how the royal coffers would receive increased taxes from a more prosperous DuBois if she ruled alone. As added surety, she would plead his majesty’s protection from both Becket and Gaston. Then at last, Pierre and DuBois would be safe.

  Somehow, Rochelle stood erect while the priest blessed what she would make certain would never be. She struggled to answer at the appropriate moments. Every time Becket touched her hand or her arm, that same frisson of heat unnerved her already shaky stability. Every time he spoke a vow, the fathomless timbre of his voice vibrated into her chest. Her heart thundered in response: Danger.

  Becket turned her to face him. Did he intend to kiss her? Were they now wed? Bile rose to her throat.

  "Now, ma femme, we must sign the papers." He guided her to the document-covered table where he scrawled his name with a flourish, then he handed her the quill.

  He called her his wife. Numb with shock, she stared at the sharpened feather, the vane stiff within her fingers.

  "Sign the papers, Lady Rochelle."

  The steely tone of Becket's voice prompted further hesitation, and yet Henri pressed the tip of his sword against Père Bertrand's side. She stared at the parchment that lay upon the wooden planks, the edges curled at each end as if impatient to scroll into its proper form and be done with the farce.

  Her signature.

  So official.

  Perspiration trickled between her breasts, soaking into her gown. One error and Pierre might die. With a prayer in her heart, she struggled to steady the tremble of her hand as she dipped the quill into the ink. She took a deep breath for control, then scratched her name on the certificate.

  She heard Becket release a deep sigh.

  Not for long, knight. You'll not have me, or DuBois.

  Père Bertrand glowered his anger at Becket. "Despite what you say about the king, unless you produce the royal documents, all is for naught. Gaston will still make a claim because of a previous bargain with Reynaurd, and since Lady Rochelle is still a virgin this marriage is not yet official."

  A derisive laugh rolled from Becket's throat, then down her spine.

  "A pleasant detail, priest. I'll bed her now. Before Gaston hears of the vows. Before she attempts an annulment."

  Rochelle spun to Becket. The quill snapped in her fingers. Terror and disbelief nailed her to the floor.

  Becket tightened his grip and nodded to the priest. "I'll bring the linens as proof."

  CHAPTER THREE

  "Non!" Rochelle's knees buckled like her spirit.

  Becket trapped her between his metal-clad side and the steel of his arm. She caught at a sob and shoved against his armored chest, but he merely tightened his clamp. Battling to control her rising panic, Rochelle stabbed him with a glare of hatred.

  "So, Becket, Le Vengeur, you reveal your dark nature as did Marcel, from charming to brutal.” She threw an accusatory glance at her father. "I warned you of hidden danger, but you would never dare pay heed to me, a mere female."

  Suspicion crept into the sunken depths of her father's eyes. "Who are you?"

  Becket dipped his head in a slight bow. "Your enemy. Back from the grave."

  "Enemy?” Her father's eyes widened in an alarm that surely mirrored hers. “Have we met before this day?"

  "Look to your past, old man. The mystery lies embedded within your treachery. Remember me, then know who beds your daughter. Revenge, Reynaurd. Revenge."

  "You dare to threaten us?" Rochelle clawed at his face. If only she could reach her knights . . .

  Becket winced and placed his hand over the red streak on his cheek. "You accursed woman!"

  Rochelle jerked from his loosened hold and turned toward the door. She collided with the center table. Pain rent from her hip bone, mocking her unarmored frailty, reaffirming her impotence against Becket's might, his steel, his sword. Ignoring the hurt, she sidestepped the table and ran for the doorway.

  Becket grasped her wrist and jerked her to a halt. "Restrain your impatience, ma femme."

  "I am not your wife!" She twisted against his vise-like grip and only stung her flesh. "I see the determination to conquer in your sin-black eyes, but I am as determined you will fail."

  "You are my wife. Now, accept your fate and show me to your chamber."

  "When hell comes to claim you."

  One corner of his mouth curved into a sardonic grin. "I'm already claimed." He pulled her toward the door.

  "Then go there!" She shoved him and darted through the doorway, then crashed into Griselda, the old disfigured servant woman who carried a tray of wine. Rochelle stumbled over Griselda's foot and fell. Pain slammed into her knees and jarred her wrists as she hit the rush-covered floor. Tankards shattered around her; the aroma of DuBois wine flooding her nostrils.

  Becket cleared the doorway and lunged for her ankle. "You little vixen."

  Her pulse surged like a wild beast and pushed her onward. Disregarding her aches and stings, she scrambled over the mess but kept stepping on her gown, then in frantic frustration, she jerked up her skirt and ran down the dark corridor toward the stairs to the great hall.

  "Halt, woman! I won't let one frightened female destroy a lifetime of planning."

  Lifetime of planning? Terror of being caught ripped the question from her mind. Surely she ran through an invisible river that, for some macabre reason, slowed her steps but not his, for his footsteps neared at too rapid a pace, his heavy breaths rasped too close. She would never reach the staircase. Rochelle forced air into her lungs and the beginning of a scream tore from her throat.

  Becket snared her waist from behind and clamped his massive hand over her mouth.

  Livid, she kicked back with her heels and sank her teeth into his palm.

  "Sacre bleu!” He jerked his hand away. "I doubt I'll ever again be able to hold my sword.” Tightening his arm under her breasts, he carried her like a captured lamb along the hall they had just traversed. “Now, which way to your bed?"

  She wrenched in his arms and struck backward with her elbows hitting muscle and steel. "Mon Dieu, knight, you're a worse brute than Marcel, for he didn't possess a third of your strength." She bucked against his body. "You'll not take me, Avenger. I'll do all within my power--"

  "Cease, bride."

  "Bride?" Griselda, who had been a servant at DuBois since before Rochelle's
birth, brushed wine from her brown woolen sleeves while she stood amidst the broken pottery and burgundy-stained rushes. Her gray hair straggled, witch-like, over her horridly scarred face as she wailed in a gravelly voice.

  "Take a bride and cause disaster.

  Doubt me? Addelty paddelty, ask her."

  Becket paused. “Addelty paddelty?”

  “’Tis filler words she uses to keep the rhythm. Now, let me go!” Rochelle pulled at his vise-like hands for release, but she had no more effect than the wind.

  “Out of my way, witch, or I’ll use you as filler for a new wall.” Becket continued his victorious stride toward the old woman.

  Griselda screeched like a madwoman, then crouched in Becket's path, pale eyes peering through a wild mane of white hair.

  "Marcel did try. And now he's dung.

  She's hexed. Bewitched.---"

  "And you'll be hung! Now, away!" Becket stomped toward Henri, his comrade-in-greed who leaned against the wall in apparent enjoyment of the scene.

  As Rochelle struggled, she marveled at her gratitude to the insane servant for her weird attempt at rescuing her lady. The woman made her nervous, always watching her from shadowy corners and appearing in odd places as if by sorcery.

  Griselda spun in a crazed type of dance.

  “War and death will come, and worse.

  On you I’ll put a deadly curse.

  Addelty paddelty, think ‘tis drivel?

  Take her."

  She halted her spin, pointing a finger to below Becket's waist.

  "Watch your manhood shrivel.”

  Becket froze, his face pale as he glanced at what would have been the direction of his male part if Rochelle's body hadn't blocked his view. Then he scoffed. "Nonsense. And 'tis none of your affair, woman."

  "Oh, addelty paddelty. Addelty paddelty." Griselda limped hurriedly along the dark hallway carrying the now-empty wine tray.

  Becket nodded to Henri. "Watch out for that mad woman and make certain no one warns Gaston until the proper moment."

  Proper moment. Lifetime of planning. Outwardly she stilled, but inwardly her pulse raged so intense with her fear and fury that surely Becket felt the wild throbs through his armor, felt the gasping heave of her chest above his iron-like clamp.

  Henri displayed a smug grin and raked her with his gray gaze. "Ah, the sacrifices men must make in battle. If you're not willing to make the thrust for victory, Becket, I offer myself for service in your stead."

  "This treasure is mine to claim, friend. And only my key will fit the lock."

  His deep-toned declaration rang like a death-knell to her womanhood. Becket swung her up into his arms in a possessive gesture and her heart near leapt through her bruised ribs.

  "Now, wife, tell me the way to your bed, or I'll take you into the first empty chamber I find."

  Rochelle struck him with her heels. "Leave me be! You will not bed me!"

  Becket stormed toward the room occupied by her companion, Angelique.

  Rochelle opened her mouth to protest, but Becket kicked the door against the wall.

  Bathed in window-light, Angelique screamed in alarm from where she held up a most-likely newly-received bauble from some dazed admirer.

  "Lady Angelique, hide!" Rochelle knew she struggled in Becket's arms like a sheep carried to slaughter, but if she could just break loose . . .

  Becket tightened his hold and strode down the hall.

  "Put me---"

  The garderobe door splintered from his kick. A startled Jacques sat in half-naked dishabille over the hole in the bench.

  Rochelle sneered up at Becket's stunned expression. "How romantic, and yet so appropriate. Excuse us, Jacques. Lord Becket has need of this space. He has a foul deed to perform."

  Becket laughed and met her insolent glare. "I admire your fire, ma femme. May you show such flaming passion when you lie beneath me in your bed."

  A vision of him sprawled nude across her, spiraled unexpected heat throughout her veins. Curse the man. And her body. And his tongue that bested hers at every verbal clash.

  "What the . . . " Becket spun and jerked his attention downward.

  "Don't hurt her! Put her down!" Pierre, her five year-old half-brother pummeled Becket with his fists, throwing several rapid kicks at Becket's armored shins. To make the situation worse, Pierre’s pet cat, as black as Pierre’s hair with a white splotch over its nose and mouth, and usually draped around Pierre’s neck like a fur ruff, spit at Becket, then launched himself at their enemy, claws bared, landing on the top of Becket’s head.

  "Sacre bleu.” Becket shook his head as if to dislodge the cat. “'Tis I who have been accosted---by crazed women, impudent scamps and wild animals. Now, cease those kicks and get this creature off of me before I use you both for fish bait."

  Rochelle emitted a soft cry of alarm. "Non, Pierre! Run! And take Sire Spitz. You'll both be harmed." She watched in helpless fear as her brother attacked, all moving arms and legs, his hair as black as Becket's, his eyes, hard coals of anger.

  “Don’t you hurt her! And don’t you hurt my cat!”

  Becket snarled. "Enough, scamp! I won't hurt her. As to this wild animal digging its claws into my head, I give no promises. Henri, get this beast off of me and grab this human windmill. Who is he, anyway?"

  Rochelle's stomach knotted. If she didn't distract Becket, Pierre might let slip his identity and be crushed in the greedy stampede for power. Sire Spitz yowled and leapt to the floor as she yanked a fistful of Becket's raven-black hair. "Cease, you brute! I'll tell you the way, but set me down and quit terrorizing defenseless women, children and pets. Quit destroying DuBois."

  He grumbled an oath, then nuzzled her wimple-covered ear, his hot breath sending prickles of apprehension down her spine. "If I set you down, I can trust your word, can't I, wife? You won't try to escape me again? You won't lead me into a trap?"

  She glared her hatred at his amused confidence. "Trust me as much as I trust you."

  "That little?" Becket laughed, then lowered her until her feet touched the rush-covered planks.

  He held her against his body and stroked a finger at the sweep of her neckline. A peculiar burn singed her flesh beneath his touch and confused her even more. His touch. So different from Marcel's. And yet, more deadly. He paused at the top button.

  Rochelle's gaze flew up to his.

  The corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement, the image of male superiority. "Of course, my lady, if you wish, here in the hallway is acceptable. Then we'll have witnesses to validate this glorious consummation." He worked the button between his fingers.

  Her gown fell open to the next fastener. She heard him swallow a groan, although whether from lust or disgust, she didn't know. Not certain whether to add insult or relief to her fright, Rochelle slapped his hand away. "Up the stairs and to the right."

  Becket showed a moment of surprise, then scoffed. "What an ironic twist of fate that I should make the final claim for DuBois in that particular chamber." He gestured for her to lead the way.

  Rochelle narrowed her eyes and shoved her hands on her hips. "What do you know about my quarters? Have you been in the castle before this day?"

  Instead of answering, he buried his momentary surprise under a mask of mystery like all the other emotions she had seen flash through his eyes since his arrival. Then he lifted her into his arms as if she weighed no more than goose down, and of a sudden she couldn't breathe.

  "Just to make certain, Lady Rochelle . . .” He carried her up the spiraled wedges like Sire Spitz with a prize mouse, proud of his catch and eager for the devouring. "In truth, 'tis best I carry you. So far you have stumbled when crossing your father's chamber, run into a table, and fallen in the hallway. However have you survived without me?"

  "Why you arrogant . . . " She gripped the back of his neck, part mail, part flesh, like the rest of him, wishing she could snap the cursed bone in her grip. But as he moved upward to the next floor, his sin-black hair brushed over h
er fingers in a soft caress, an opposition to his brooding eyes that gleamed in the torchlight as hard as the stone wall that curved to the upper landing. His breath wafted against her face, smooth and spicy, and something warm unfurled inside her chest.

  As Becket scraped upward another step, he lowered his gaze, then groaned again. She looked down to see what held his attention and saw that her gown gaped, exposing her. Well, curse him. She splayed her hand over the opening and lifted her chin.

  "I warn you, knight. You expect me to behave like a frightened sparrow, but you will find me more like a falcon with a keen mind and sharp talons."

  He grinned at her, his eyes stormy seas of lust and hate. "Then, my little falcon, I shall enjoy training you to come at my whistle and to trill in pleasure while I stroke my fingers upon your soft breast."

  Rochelle gasped and tightened her squeeze on his neck.

  Becket laughed. He stepped up on the dimly lit landing, then strode with her down the dark hallway toward her isolated turret room---where no one would hear her scream. Terror slithered along her nerves.

  Determined to find out more about the enigma called Becket, she curled her fingers into his hair and gripped. "What did you mean by a lifetime of planning, and by waiting for the proper moment before someone goes after Gaston? And exactly how much do you know about the DuBois keep?"

  Her curiosity must have only further irritated him, for Becket kicked open the door, violating her sanctuary with as much rage as he obviously intended to violate her body. The crash echoed within the stone walls and repeated the proof of his brutality, and then echoed again as he slammed the wooden barrier closed. Her heart lurched against her ribs, then faltered as he slid the bolt, locking her in with the devil, alone. Unprotected. Cruel memories of how Marcel had beaten her on their unconsummated wedding day tore at her courage. At day's end had come another beating. She had learned to hate the sunsets that glowed the same bruised reds and purples of her swollen and battered face. And yet this man possessed even greater strength.

  Becket stormed toward the bed.

  "Sire, I insist you put me down." Her voice sounded strained, most likely from being forced around her cowardly heart that had taken refuge in her throat.