Love Thine Enemy Read online

  He flung aside the pale blue silk covers she had made with such care, the silver embroidery glittering like starlight as the gossamer sailed to the rushes.

  "Yours to obey, my lady."

  Then he dropped her like discarded refuse atop the cool linens. Frantic, she rolled to scramble to the other side of the bed, but he shoved her back onto the mattress and placed his armored knee atop her stomach.

  "Get off of me." She twisted her body, beating her fists against the metal plate on his thigh. "'Tis humiliating enough to be used like a newly purchased slave, but even more degrading for you to accomplish this atrocity while dressed for battle as if you merely perform another bodily function."

  "Do you wish me naked, Lady Rochelle?"

  A sudden image flashed into her mind of him towering above her in bare magnificence. With stunned desperation, she shoved at his leg that pinned her like a lodestone to the bed. "I wish you didn't exist."

  "Then berate Gaston for his failure to slay me two decades past." He increased the pressure of his knee into her stomach until she ceased her defiant struggles. She could barely breathe.

  In defeated rage, Rochelle dropped her head back against the mattress and glared up at the knight who loomed over her like a black-maned, silver lion, master of his kingdom. Somehow she must convince the animal to abandon his prey before the kill.

  "Listen, knight, there is more involved here than conquering an unarmored female. You'd best examine the dangers you face. Your claim will not go uncontested." Nervous, she licked her parched lips, and his intent gaze followed the sweep of her tongue as if he were more interested in her mouth than in her words.

  "Pay heed, Sire Becket. What I say is of import. I offer you a bargain that will be well worth your consideration. I have land---"

  His attention leapt to her eyes. "I have land."

  "Only if you consummate this marriage. But I warn you. You dare ravish me, and I'll kill you at the first opportunity."

  "Such a welcome for your doting bridegroom." Confident humor rumbled in his deep tones, and yet his eyes revealed a swirl of hatred, lust, indecision, that hardened to ebony stones of resolve. "And I warn you, bride. I will suffer whatever I must to accomplish my goal."

  "Even to bedding me against my will?"

  The bed creaked in answer as he slipped his knee from her stomach to atop the mattress, then he weighed like a boulder as he straddled her hips, the victor over the victim.

  Trapped. A prisoner chained to the bed by his metal-clad body. Fighting hysteria, she stiffened as rigid as a marble statue, her focus darting between his hands and his face, waiting for the blows that would surely crush her jaw and cheekbones. She dare not lift her arms for protection until he struck, for he might tie her hands to the bed as had Marcel so that she couldn't defend herself. Her pulse lunged so hard that her entire body throbbed like a giant heartbeat.

  Becket caressed his gaze over the swell of her half-exposed breasts. "'Tis unfortunate the situation demands such haste and precaution, for I would rather feel your bareness next to mine, skin to skin, to explore your enticing curves with my hands, my mouth, but I cannot afford for Gaston to barge in and find me unarmed and unprotected. Ah, but next time . . .”

  His perusal stroked along her flesh as though he mentally peeled the gown from her body. Her breasts tingled as if bared to his gaze, and the unexpected response startled her to defensive action. "I wish Gaston would burst in to deal with this devil called Becket."

  Rage surely chastened his lust, for a muscle quivered along his jaw, his eyes sparked anger, his grip tightened on her shoulders. "In Reynaurd's chamber I teased that you might enjoy the devilish part of me, but perhaps I am too gentle and you desire cruelty, after all. Perhaps you prefer that butcher, Gaston, over me."

  "Nay, what I prefer is that you and Gaston slay each other and leave me to rule Dubois alone. I want no man."

  Becket's eyes widened in obvious surprise. He pushed back on straightened arms, pressing her shoulders further into the mattress, then seared his scrutiny over her face, her mouth, lingering on her open neckline before he slid his gaze up to hers.

  "Ah, little falcon, you tempt me with a challenge. Such pristine certainty goads me to prove you in error, to make you beg for that which you declare you do not want."

  With deliberate movement, he dipped his sword-callused fingers into the well between her breasts. Rochelle gasped at the intimacy, at the fearful memories of when Marcel had squeezed her breasts until she had cried out in pain, and she wondered if the same cruelty ran thick in Becket's blood.

  He partially withdrew his fingers in a slow, flesh-melting caress, then he slipped them into the recess once more, then out, and in again, slow, rhythmic, sensual, as if in demonstration of his future intentions. And with each stroke, a warm stream of sensitivity curled into her tightening nipples, then slid past her bewildered fear and settled like a warm ache in her womanhood. Rochelle released a soft moan, in wonder of the unexplainable sensations.

  Becket's eyes darkened to midnight, his hatred apparently overcome by desire, a different hunger than she had seen in Marcel's eyes, an emotion that confused her and cracked her wall of protection.

  A spear of sunlight from the window shimmered on Becket's mail as he leaned toward her, his full lips parted, his dark gaze entrapping hers. She went rigid out of instinct, not knowing what to expect. He smelled of cedar, and she knew the scent would forever remind her of when he stole her lands, her innocence.

  Cedar.

  The flash in the cedar trees.

  Bolstered by suspicion, an emotion she knew and understood, Rochelle placed a restraining hand on Becket's metal-covered chest and studied his too-near face to detect the truth.

  "Sire, earlier you closed the shutters when I stared out the window to see what caused the unusual reflection in the trees."

  Becket went motionless, but Rochelle sensed his hurried search for a response. She had caught him with his defenses preoccupied with carnality. A detail to remember for future use.

  "Who are you, knight? Who awaits you in the forest?"

  False innocence washed over his studied expression. "What is your preoccupation with the world outside the castle, ma femme? 'Tis inside the walls where your destiny lies."

  She searched his fathomless eyes, but the ebony pools remained hooded beneath his thick brows, an enigmatic combination of passion and abhorrence, both directed at her. She gathered her courage to push the subject. "Tell me, knight. Who is outside this castle?"

  "Ah, Lady Rochelle." He breathed her name like wind through tall grass while he drew his fingers down her cheek, the devil intent on seduction. "'Tis not the working of the earth outside the walls that interest me at this moment, bride. Another tilling hardens my plow."

  She shoved at his shoulders. "You merely seek to distract me, knight. I would have an answer. Who is in the forest?"

  All passion fled from his face, replaced by anger and hate. His gaze locked onto hers and she knew with ominous dread she wouldn't like the news.

  "My army, Lady Rochelle. They but await my signal to attack."

  She felt the blood drain from her face. "Your army? But King Jean would never allow you to take DuBois by force." She gasped. "You lied!" Fury flared within her breast, hot and vengeful, and she pounded his shoulders with her fists.

  "I tell you true, Lady Rochelle. I am the king's man on the king's mission."

  Before she realized his intent, he trapped her wrists in one hand and pressed them against the mattress above her head.

  "Now, accept your fate, wife."

  "Non! I'm not your wife! Not now, not ever! I will never again be controlled by a lying, cheating, manipulative male." She twisted, but to no avail. The pressure of his hands and body held her prisoner. He drew up her gown and forced his armored leg between hers protected only by the fragile veiling of her only, and threadbare, chemise.

  "Such a sweet sacrificial lamb. Take heart that this offering will spare the dea
th of those you love. Now, cease your struggles. You only bring more discomfort to yourself."

  He pushed up over her and worked both his knees between her thighs. She knew in a moment of blinding clarity he would not fail as had Marcel.

  "Please, Sire, don't do this."

  He ignored her plea as he lifted the edge of his mail shirt and stretched his armored body atop hers. The metal strips of his brigandine vest pressed as hard and complex as the man who wore them. His breaths increased. His eyes steamed that he wanted her, and that he hated that he wanted her.

  Rochelle bucked to throw him off but only tightened the pressure against his manhood. "Beast!"

  "I had hoped to make this more pleasant for you, Lady Rochelle, but I will have you. And there is naught you can say or do to stop me from taking both you and DuBois."

  Becket locked his gaze onto hers as he reached his hand between her legs. Then through the gossamer of her chemise she felt his rigidness press against her femininity. In one thrust he could pierce through the delicate gauze and through her innocence.

  Panicked, she arched her back in an attempt to pull away, wrenching against his body, but his weight held her to the bed and at his mercy. He rocked his hips into the wedge of her legs. His maleness rubbed against the silken barrier that covered her womanhood, teased, taunted, hot against her chilled flesh. Tension tightened like a bowstring along her spine, for once he made the plunge for victory, she would forever belong to him like chattel, his to do with as he willed, to abuse at his whim---released from bondage only by death.

  Becket leaned forward and brushed his lips against her temple. The scent of cedar sifted into her senses. "Lady Rochelle, 'tis either the surrender of your virginity, or the attack of my army. You choose."

  And then Pierre and others she loved might be killed, for certain.

  Rochelle stiffened in defeated resignation and retreated behind her stone wall of defense where no one could touch her or hurt her. Against her will, tears slipped from her eyes in slow surrender; her lips trembled; the pulse in her throat beat like a trapped bird lunging against a windowless prison.

  "I submit to your strength, knight, but I pray no child comes of this loveless planting."

  Becket stilled, and the unexpected act pulled her from behind her protective wall. He had closed his lids, shutting off his hidden secrets. Then he fanned open his lashes and studied her, his eyes revealing a mysterious inner struggle, but why, she couldn't imagine. All she lived for and loved would become his with one thrust. And yet, without doubt he fought an internal war, for his body trembled as if he didn't want to take her, as if he did.

  "A child." He rocked his hips again, once, twice. Then ceased. Perspiration beaded his brow. "A tainted mingling. A permanent reminder." He closed his eyes. "And yet, I must do this for DuBois."

  He pulled aside the hem of the chemise to give him access to her, and cool air swirled over her damp flesh. She felt exposed, shamed, vulnerable, available to his cruelty. Knowing in a heart-rending moment she had lost, she tensed in fear of the pain of when he would tear past her maidenhead. He drew back his hips, then...

  "Non!" Becket rolled from atop her to his feet, rage emanating from him like a tangible force. "Never fear, wife. I have not the stomach for this after all." He turned his back and adjusted his maleness to beneath his braies.

  Disbelief stunned her to inaction, then her face burned with a mixture of relief and humiliation, for she had won, and yet he had rolled away from her in revulsion. A dubious victory. She scrambled from the bed as her mind scrambled for insight.

  Fumbling to button her bodice, Rochelle watched while Becket studied the tapestry on the wall above the hearth, the one she had created with her own hands, the one with the maiden surrounded by gentle creatures of the forest---and no men. A fortunate woman.

  And then she remembered Becket's threat that he would claim DuBois by the consummation of the marriage, or by war. Insult jolted her already fractured self-esteem. Becket preferred battle to bedding her, although she berated herself for the stupidity of that thought. He must consider her as loathsome as had Marcel, or even more so. Then panic sliced through her chest that she had perhaps ruined her only chance to spare Pierre and DuBois the certain slaughter. She must reach her knights in order to warn them to barricade the gates. If she could escape the chamber before Becket ...

  "Milady?"

  Jacques' voice sounded in desperation from the hallway, then Rochelle heard a pounding at the door.

  "Milady, your father cries out for you. His time is near."

  Rochelle's heart constricted.

  Becket spun to her. "The sheets---"

  "If you think to take me now . . .” An errant ray of sun glinted on the dagger at Becket's side.

  "Milady! Make haste! The lord is dying."

  With no time for second thought, Rochelle snatched the weapon and rolled onto the center of the bed. Modesty be damned, not after what she had experienced. She pulled up her skirt and exposed her thigh.

  "Cease!" Becket lunged and grabbed her wrist.

  "'Twill only be a small cut."

  He seemed confused.

  "Blood . . . for the sheets. 'Twill solve both our problems. You will have your proof and I will remain unmolested. Now, unhand me!"

  Becket wrenched the weapon from her fingers. "Get off the bed."

  "But---"

  The pounding sounded at the door again.

  Sacre Dieu. She would be too late. "I come, Jacques." She reached for the dagger.

  Becket placed his armored foot on the mattress and lifted his chain-mail shirt. Before she could stop him, he pierced his thigh above his hose. Blood dripped dark and red upon the snowy linen. "There. Any more and they'll be certain I'm the savage you claim." He placed his foot on the floor.

  Becket's mouth twitched a determined line. He yanked the sheet from the bed, a strange type of satisfaction aglow in his eyes, an anticipation, a hunger, as if he already tasted the sweet possession of DuBois.

  But she still had her maidenhead. She had won. At least part of the battle.

  "Milady! Make haste!"

  Jacques' urgent tone increased her alarm. Despite her father's treatment, she loved him; she ached to be with him when he drew his last breath, but the safety of DuBois came first. She must reach the DuBois knights. Rochelle took a step, but Becket caught her arm.

  "Pretend the marriage is consummated and I will not force you. But if you whisper a word of this before I give you leave, I will take your virginity where all will see and not doubt. Do you understand, Lady Rochelle?"

  She couldn't claim total victory. Not yet. But soon. She nodded.

  "A promise. Give me your word."

  A new complication. She would merely find a way around the oath. "I . . . I promise."

  "And if you go past your father's door instead of entering his chamber, I will know you go to your knights and I will signal for attack before you reach the stairs to the great hall."

  Rochelle closed her eyes in defeat. Fighting tears, she unbolted the door and ran down the dimly lit hall and down the stairs, passing Henri who tensed and grasped the hilt of his sword. She burst through the doorway and into her father's chamber. "Mon père!" She rushed to his bedside.

  He paled a yellowish-white, his eyes glazed and distant.

  "Père! Je t'aime! Do you hear me? I love you!" A sob escaped her throat. Tears welled hot behind her lids and blurred his image. Rochelle grasped his hand, cold, like a grave, like death.

  Becket stepped beside her and she glanced up, then stilled with surprise. He had donned a blood-red jupon with a golden falcon on the front, wings uplifted in motionless flight. He must have received the coat of arms from his fellow knight, Henri.

  Her father's gasp reclaimed her attention. His face showed fear. "You! Mon Dieu, what have I done? Run, Rochelle." Her father's words sounded low and harsh, barely heard. "Should not have wed . . . . danger . ."

  "Danger?" And yet she had known all alo
ng. Panic squeezed her lungs and paralyzed her limbs.

  A roar echoed from the hallway.

  Gaston barged into the chamber, sword raised. "Where's the bastard who steals my land? I'll kill him!"

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Rochelle stumbled and grasped the emerald velvet bedhanging as Becket pushed her behind him in a protective gesture.

  In blurring swiftness he unsheathed his sword and spun to face Gaston. "At long last, Butcher. I've hungered a lifetime for this battle."

  Gaston threw a glance over his shoulder as Henri blocked the doorway, then he shot his attention back to Becket. He stilled on the other side of the center table, his bushy brows drawn together in a frown, his attention a studied focus on Becket's jupon. "Who are you?"

  "Is the crest familiar, Gaston? Dig through the rotten sewage of your memories. Think fire, treachery, greed. Shall I show you the burns on the left side of my body?"

  The mysteries streaked through Rochelle's mind like lethal lightning. A past altercation between Gaston and Becket. Becket's hatred. Knowledge of her chamber. Lifetime of planning. A connection with the secret bargain? Cold doom squeezed her lungs and froze her breath.

  Gaston's pewter eyes widened in recognition before they narrowed. "The boy. I thought you---"

  "Dead? I survived hell for this moment, Gaston. 'Twas what kept me alive. Hatred burned more intense than pain. Revenge lured stronger than death."

  "Then die by my sword, Becket. You'll not have DuBois!"

  "As empty a threat as your soul." Becket grabbed the center table with one hand and flung it into splinters against the wall. Gaston lunged and thrust, but Becket spun aside in a blur of red, silver and gold, then jabbed and feinted with the speed of a wolf after a kill. Gaston shouted in rage and slammed his sword against Becket's chest.

  Rochelle screamed in fear for Becket's safety, then wondered why. Most likely because Gaston posed a crueler threat. Even so, her heart wedged in her throat as she waited for Becket to fall.

  Becket merely shoved Gaston backward and slashed with the force of a pagan god. Gaston swung again, but Becket deflected the blade; the clang echoing within the walls.