Love Thine Enemy Page 7

  Becket stared, suspicious, hateful. One corner of his mouth lifted in a sneer. "Do you think me without sense, Lady Rochelle? Do you think to poison me as you did your father?"

  Her mouth dropped open. "How dare you accuse me of his murder. How dare you refuse drink from my hand in front of witnesses."

  "I protect you lest I die a premature death. You'd be the primary suspect."

  "You accuse me to hide your own guilt. You had as much opportunity with my father’s demise and more to gain. How would I benefit?"

  "The final revenge against your father."

  "You bastard!"

  "Not bastard, Lady Rochelle. The rightful heir. Now, place your hands between mine and kneel at my feet. Swear your loyalty."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  "Non!"

  Rochelle's cry resounded a repeated chorus of denials from the unyielding stones of the hall, unyielding like the knight who demanded her surrender, her soul. She turned and fled, shoving past familiar faces frozen in sympathetic shock, past strangers in blood-red jupons with golden falcons emblazoned on their breasts.

  A knight in red reached out to grasp her!

  She ducked beneath his arm and bolted toward the stairs.

  "Leave her!"

  Becket's echoed command blended with her dying denials until "leave" and "no" intertwined in fading argument. His footsteps crashed behind her.

  Sacre Dieu! Help her!

  She ran up the steps, past the landing to her father's floor where he lay in his chamber, stiff and dead. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Her lungs burned.

  "Lady Rochelle!"

  Dear God! He clambered up the steps behind her! What would he do to her? She stubbed her toe on a wedge of stone and fell against the spiraled steps. Her shin stung from the blow.

  "Lady Rochelle!" Becket's call blared more near.

  Like a hunted animal she pushed to her feet and scrambled up the spiral to the third floor. Her lungs ached, her sides cramped, her breaths rasped her fear, her desperation. She raced past her chamber to the door at the end of the dark hall, then burst into the cold glare of the April sun.

  The parapet wall loomed between her and the Armagnac valley. Rochelle ran down the wall-walk to the niche in the corner. Her niche in her corner. She collapsed against the cold, hard stones, cold and hard like her father, like her heart, like her future. Like Becket. She pressed her face against the chilled surface as her lungs labored for air. Tears burned her eyes, then snaked trails down her cheeks to the neckline of her gown.

  Rochelle straightened and gripped the edge of the wall. She swept her blurred gaze over the land she loved, over the beauty that spread before her like God's jewels. The brilliant opal sky. The lake of liquid sapphire. The emerald cedars. The molten diamonds of the river that cascaded from the Pyrenees to the amber valley, then on beyond the amethyst ridges.

  DuBois.

  The sight swelled the pain from her chest into her throat. She drew the icy air into her lungs and welcomed the sting. The breeze chilled her tear-dampened face and lifted the edges of her wimple like air under a dove's wings. Would that she could soar into infinity.

  "Lady Rochelle." Becket said her name with the same gentleness as the caress of the wind.

  She swiped at her tears and straightened her spine. A boulder blocked her throat and prevented a response.

  Becket stepped up to the wall, beside her. "Lady Rochelle, I . . . " His breath hissed, then he stilled.

  She dared a glance at his face.

  He stared at the vista beyond the wall, rapture in his eyes. "I'd forgotten how magnificent. In truth, I'd remembered the beauty, how much I loved this land, but I'd forgotten how incredible the sight from this vantage point. I used to come here as a lad. I had a stool upon which I stood so that I could see over the wall into the valley. Sacre Dieu. I had moments when I feared I'd never see this land again. And now . . ."

  A shudder shivered his body and she knew his soul bore the brand of DuBois as deeply as did her own.

  He released a sigh and lowered his gaze to hers. "Is loyalty too much for a husband to ask of his wife?"

  "I . . . I . . ." She closed her eyes and forced her mind into a coherent thought. "'Tis all so overwhelming."

  Unable to handle the warring emotion that threatened whenever she looked at Becket, an emotion she could neither explain nor understand, she focused on the Pyrenees that thrust snow-capped heads toward the opalescent heavens.

  "Ever since my father's injury during the hunt this morn, I've felt as if torn asunder by vicious dogs that must first devour me to get to the prize kill of DuBois. I need time to . . . to reconcile my fate."

  "And time to plot how to oust me from DuBois?"

  She froze, then dared meet his gaze. "I don't deny the accusation."

  He cocked a brow in apparent surprise.

  "I tell you true, Sire, at this moment, even though I know 'tis impossible, I'd give all for an annulment."

  "'Tis possible."

  Rochelle's hope soared like the bird she had hoped to become such a short moment ago. She studied his face, his posture, struck by how much he blended with the jewels of DuBois---his eyes and hair of jet, his armor of silver, his jupon of ruby and gold. As if he belonged. Her hope faltered.

  Becket clasped his hands behind him and widened his stance, the confident warrior. "Before I honor your request, I'd best explain the direction the water flows, which, by the way, is always downhill."

  Not certain she could handle more ill tidings, Rochelle held her breath, her hands fisted at her sides with nervous apprehension. She felt alone and unprotected as he towered over her, all muscle and armor.

  "I came this day to take DuBois by battle or by guile. I had determined that before the sun sank below the Pyrenees, I'd slay Reynaurd and reclaim what is mine. Then I would plan how to take back Moreau."

  Fingernails of foreboding rasped along Rochelle's nerves. Her lungs constricted and refused to breathe.

  "I never dreamt I'd be given DuBois by the devil's own hands. I never imagined I'd wed the enemy's daughter, but I saw an opportunity to accomplish my goal without bloodshed, without the destruction of DuBois. And then to have Moreau become mine with such ease . . ."

  She could only stare at him, in wait for what she felt most certain she didn't wish to hear.

  Becket tilted his head downward and returned her studied examination as if he watched to see her reaction to his next revelation.

  "I will honor your request about an annulment, Lady Rochelle, in fact I insist. But I warn you. I refuse to relinquish DuBois."

  Dread oozed over her raised flesh. What did he mean by such opposites? Becket's gaze drifted out over the valley and she could sense his unease, yet why, she couldn't imagine; he had risen from pauper to lord within mere moments.

  A breeze ruffled the black curls of his hair, swirled the hem of his blood-red jupon. "All this day while the land sifted into my hands like manna from heaven, I have been tortured with my oath to Reynaurd, the man who slew my father. Do I honor the vows, or do I not? Do I bed his daughter? Do I send her away?"

  A cry rent from her heart. "Send me away? You make no sense! You insisted upon the vows. You flirted, you teased, you almost . . . almost . . . " Remembrance aroused her fury. "If you never meant to retain me as wife, then what purpose did you intend with that rude inspection in my father's chamber as if I was but livestock, and then later with that threatening scene on my bed where you pretended to take me by force, only to turn away in revulsion? To portray me as a fool? Did you believe that to steal my land wasn't enough, you felt urged to humiliate me as much as possible?”

  She saw him wince, but he stared beyond the stone walls as if unwilling to face her with his perfidy. "At first I had decided to do aught in order to take what belongs to me. And then in your chamber, I realized that once I thrust into you, I accomplished more than the mere joining of our bodies. I would thrust into a permanent bond with all I hate. Your obvious dislike for me, for
any man---or, so you claim---solved my dilemma."

  An uncontrollable shiver radiated from the center of her bones and all through her body. "Now I understand why your display of humor as my father lay dying; 'twas the overflow of your uproarious laughter you kept hidden lest we discover your treachery before you accomplished the theft."

  His chest rose with a deep sigh, then he turned his gaze to hers. The unbendable determination she saw in his eyes intensified her shiver.

  "Lady Rochelle, I understand your hurt, but I doubt another man would have been as generous as I. You are still alive and unravished."

  "How magnanimous. You merely think to shove me into oblivion while you take all. I remind you, Sire. You made an unbreakable knight's bargain with my father. You signed the papers. The deed is official."

  "Cherie, your desires spin so quickly from one opposite to another I grow dizzy. You are the one who wanted an annulment, n'est-ce pas? You hated the thought of my bedding you so much that you said you would give all to be rid of me. How like a female; I accept your request and now you protest."

  And how like a male to throw her words back at her for his own argument. Rochelle turned her back to the valley and lifted her sight to the peaks of the Pyrenees that rose from behind the square towers and round turrets like lofty extensions of the castle.

  "Sire Becket, see how the mountains reign like royalty, crowned with snow, robed in purple shadows trimmed with ermine clouds, unaffected by human tragedy, there long before us, long after us. And yet like DuBois, I am dependent upon their existence, for I couldn't bear not to be blessed by the sight of them, not to stand upon a windswept cleft and heal my bruised spirits." With her pulse as loud as a death-knell, she turned and threw him a pleading gaze.

  "Sire, I am as in need of the DuBois air as the fish in the river is of water. DuBois wine flows in my veins. My soul is of the fertile earth, with roots that reach deep into the soil. Uprooted, I will surely die."

  "Ah, so 'tis not the loss of my charms that brings such distress to your eyes the hue of blue gentian flowers. Honesty is a sharp weapon." He shook his head. "And yet you know me not. What if I decided to beat you, to torture you for your father's sins? Would you still wish to remain?"

  Her mind screamed in silent panic. "I . . . I . . . please don't, Sire, I---"

  "Or will you suffer that which you fear most in the world, the sharing of our bodies? However, to reveal a secret, I think your virginal protests hide a temptation to taste the fruit forbidden."

  Pride leapt to her defense. "Non! But---"

  Becket laughed as he shook his head. "You don't pant with eagerness to share my bed, Lady Rochelle? You've stabbed my self-esteem a most brutal blow. So, you don't wish me to beat you, or bed you. Out of curiosity, what do you propose?"

  What indeed? Her thoughts tumbled along a torrential stream as rapidly as her uncontrolled future. Her life depended upon DuBois. Pierre's life depended upon her nearness. She must sacrifice anything to stay. Her courage quailed at what horrors that anything might entail. And yet she had survived past pain and abuse. She swallowed her fear, then raised her chin a notch.

  "I wish to remain as your wife."

  He trailed his gaze a lingered path of heat down to her toes, then back up her body to burn upon her breasts, then up to scorch her face, her eyes.

  His unexpected examination flushed her cheeks. Her breasts tingled as if he had touched her. His inky eyes flashed lust and confused her all the more.

  "'Tis an enticement, my lady, for you are a woman to stir a man's loins to readiness. You tempt me to teach you the wonders between a man and a woman, to hear your cries of passion."

  Rochelle's heart fluttered like a hundred butterflies in search of nectar. Her lungs threatened to split as she forced in a deep breath to control her rising hope. "Then I am to understand that you will allow our status to remain as is?"

  "Mais, non."

  Her hopes shattered beneath his heel of refusal. Trembling, she reached out to the wall for support. The rough stones scraped her fingers as the valley's colors blurred in her withheld tears.

  "You do tempt me, Lady Rochelle, and that knowledge irritates me more than you realize, but . . ." Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw him shrug. "You are my enemy."

  "And you are mine. 'Tis true we would never share a love for each other, but we share a common love for DuBois."

  "Lady Rochelle, your proposal to remain as my wife only creates more problems. I will never take you to my bed and I refuse to live a celibate life."

  She remembered when in her father's chamber she had felt like a moth lured to his flame. But like a changeling, he had switched to a handsome spider who wove a web of reason and deceit between her and DuBois. With each excuse he drew another strong thread to assure her separation. How to tear down the web and not become the next victim caught for slaughter? She must destroy each threat, each argument, before the sticky lines of silk entrapped her and left her helpless.

  She dared to face him, as determined to win as he. "'Tis not a problem you expose with your refusal to bed me, Sire, but a solution. I could retain the responsibilities of the estate and you could take a leman."

  His mouth curved into a sardonic grin. "How inventive. I should be pleased. How rare for a man to be offered such privileges by his wife."

  Her crushed hope struggled to re-form what could never again be whole, at least not without scars, but she bore so many inner scars that a few more might never be noticed once the rawness dulled. Hope, even disfigured, shone better than despair.

  His obsidian eyes met her desperation. "Your suggestion poses another quandary, my lady, and one I fear you cannot solve. You see, I must have an heir. And an heir must issue forth from the womb of my wife, thus my dilemma while in your chamber."

  Despite the chilly wind, perspiration beaded on her brow. He wove another strand of separation she must destroy. "I would bear your child. Surely we could tolerate each other long enough to accomplish your purpose."

  "Ah, the ultimate sacrifice. The offer of your maidenhead to your enemy. Your desperation to succumb to such revulsion reveals how much you love DuBois. How well I understand, for I have clawed and suffered every moment of my existence from my father's murder until this day."

  He understood. She struggled to remain calm despite the leap of optimism within her chest.

  "But you see, cherie, I would never plant my seed in your womb, for then Reynaurd will have won. I refuse to allow his evil blood to mingle within my child."

  Despair crushed her hope once more, perhaps never to recover. He wove such a dense web of separation she could barely see the chateau through the silken strands. And the more she fought to tear down his sticky logic, the more entrapped she became.

  "And because of who sired you, Lady Rochelle, I cannot even toss you to my knights for their pleasure since any breed you issue might someday threaten to take DuBois. Which means I can never allow you to bear a child, which means you have no purpose here. You can be neither wife nor leman, not for any man. Reynaurd's seed will die with you, wiped from the earth for eternity."

  Pierre.

  How far would Becket go to obliterate Reynaurd’s seed? How far had he already gone?

  Rochelle licked her lips, knowing she must say or do anything to stay, at least until she received outside aid, for once she left, she would have lost. And what about Pierre’s convulsions? The thought of him somewhere alone and dying, either by illness or by Becket's revenge because her father had sired him, pierced panic through her chest. Only one more argument still stood among her slain suggestions as a weapon against the web and its creator. She stared into his eyes as dark as twin caves.

  "Then, Sire, I'll stay here to help run the estate."

  "And have you, my enemy, as a constant reminder of my hellish past?"

  He grasped her arms in a too-strong grip. And yet, 'twas her heart he crushed within his grasp.

  "You are fortunate I don't slay you on the spot, Lady Ro
chelle. At least I allow you to live, a kindness not shown to my father."

  She jerked from his hold and backed against the wall. He moved toward her until he loomed a mere silken strand away, entrapping her between the cold stones and his dangerous warmth, the spider about to stab the fatal sting. No, she must find his weakness and thrust first for the kill.

  His weakness.

  His claim.

  She inhaled a breath for courage and peered up at his relentless expression.

  "How do I know your heirship is true? Where is your proof? Perhaps the accusation of your father's heresy held truth. You were but a lad at the time. As for Gaston---"

  Hatred flew from his eyes with a falcon's swiftness and shoved her harder against the wall. He drew to his full height, his mouth a tight line as he raised his rage-trembled fist in front of her face. Frightened, she shoved at his chest. "You dare to strike---"

  "Never call my father a heretic! As for Gaston, do you think he will aid you even though he is chained below ground? Or do you taunt me because you know the third person in the unholy trinity?"

  He grasped her shoulders and she winced from pain as his fingers dug into her flesh.

  "Who, Lady Rochelle? Who is he?"

  "I . . . I know not, Sire. I only heard this day of the bargain and I have yet to learn all the facts."

  "You lie!" He raised his clenched hand to strike.

  A scream leapt from her throat. She lifted her arm to block the blow.

  Becket slammed the side of his fist upon the wall. He smashed the wall again as if he wished he had hit her, instead. "I would never be able to trust you."

  Had he been contemplating her staying until she erred with her tongue and sealed her fate? Bile stung her throat at her tragic stumble.

  He pinned her like a moth to the wall with his anger, the hatred in his eyes more pure, more bright. "I refuse to live with the worry you might attempt a poisoning in my wine, or a stab while I sleep. As of now, Lady Rochelle, I consider us annulled."

  "But the linens! You showed them as proof."

  "'Twas blood from my thigh."

  "And I'm your only witness."