Love Thine Enemy Page 8

  He narrowed his eyes until they seemed as black graves of doom. "Heed me, and heed me well, Lady Rochelle. If you refuse to confess the truth, then you will spread wide your lifted knees for an examination by the priest, or an entire board of priests, or atop the table in the great hall for every knight at DuBois if necessary, even if I have to tie you down for the inspection."

  The horrid image of his words knocked the breath from her lungs and the strength from her knees.

  "Is that what you want, Lady Rochelle? If not, I suggest you not contest my demand. You have no choice. You will live the rest of your days in a nun's cell."

  Hysteria clawed up from her chest into her throat and erupted into furious desperation. "And leave DuBois? Leave the land I love, for eternity, while you feast upon the DuBois grapes and inhale the scent of flowers and grain and cedar? While I rot?"

  He didn't even blink, but the power that emanated from him pushed her harder against the wall.

  Rochelle's pulse pounded so hard that she shook with each beat. The web strung so thick around her she couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Frantic, her mind scrambled for words that would stop the spider before he destroyed her, destroyed Pierre.

  "Forgive me, I . . . I apologize for what I said about your father. And I conspire not to---"

  "Cease before you spout more lies, Lady Rochelle. I am immune to your wiles."

  "Wiles?"

  "To say or promise anything merely to accomplish your goal. You think because you haunt me with those sad eyes, tempt me with the pout of your mouth, that I'll allow you to stay."

  "I do not tempt and pout. 'Tis your treachery that appalls me. You should kneel at my feet and beg forgiveness for the deceit you have wreaked this day."

  He drew up to his full, arrogant height. "I kneel to no one. As a lad of nine I once did so in front of Gaston when I begged him to spare my father's life. He laughed, torched the brush that surrounded my father, then torched me and left me for dead. I vowed, then, never to humble myself again in such a way, except when I would swear fealty to my liege lord upon knighthood."

  Hurting for the small boy who had been so callously scarred, she touched his hand. He flinched, but didn't withdraw.

  "Sire Becket, I'm horrified with the possibility that Gaston and my father might have committed such hellishness, but I am not to blame for their deceit. I am not as they."

  "You think I don't know your ploy, Lady Rochelle? You plot to ensnare me with your intriguing mélange of brittle aloofness and fragile innocence, of sweetness and fire."

  He turned his palm up, enfolding her cold hand within his warm one, and her pulse leapt. He stroked his gaze over her face, her mouth, a peculiar expression in his dark eyes, as if he wanted to kiss her, as if he didn't.

  "You are like the DuBois wine, Lady Rochelle. You entice me to sample what is mine to taste, in the misguided hope your sweetness will lure me to overindulge, will burn inside me and render me senseless, then while I'm dazed, drown me."

  He stepped so close that the front of his thighs touched hers. Light-headed from his nearness, she tensed, uncertain what he intended.

  "But what you don't know is that I'm a man of discipline. I can sip the wine and not over-imbibe, touch your flame without being scorched. Taste you without being consumed."

  "I . . . I don't understand, Sire. I---"

  "Shhh." He pressed his fingers to her lips, then rubbed the rough pad of his thumb across the swell of her bottom lip. "Soft. So soft."

  Surely he referred to the breathiness of his tone which sapped her strength and muddled her mind, or perhaps ‘twas his warm touch which made her limbs go weak and trembly. For certain he left her confused.

  "Lady Rochelle, what fragrance is yours when you don't reek of death?" He closed his eyes and inhaled. "A hint of snow? Non, 'tis but the breeze from the Pyrenees." He caressed her cheek and brushed her wimple. "And what color is your hair? Fair, I'd say, for your long lashes and curved brows are like pale gossamer."

  She pressed her hands atop her head to keep her head-covering in place as Père Bertrand had lectured. "Why your interest? Would the color affect my destiny?"

  "Merely curious, Lady Rochelle. Curious of so many things about you, like . . ." He cradled her head within his palm, then he lowered his head, his mouth barely above hers. His breath blew hot against the ice of her mouth and stole her thoughts as easily as he had stolen her lands.

  Rochelle stiffened like old wood, uncertain how to react, bewildered by his change from tyrant to suitor, befuddled by her battle between her body and her anger, her fear. A memory of when Marcel had leaned down to kiss her, then instead had bitten her, roared into her mind like a goulish warning. A frightened whimper escaped her throat.

  Becket brushed his lips over hers for the briefest moments. Instead of pain, tongues of fire licked along her flesh and down her spine to simmer in her womanhood. Startled, she leaned into his chest.

  Fight. Protest. What about Pierre? Furious with herself, she pressed her back against the wall, her hands fisted at her sides.

  Encourage him, tempt him, so he won't send you away. She leaned into him, reveling in the feel of his hardness against her softness.

  You fool! He merely attempts seduction to glean the name of an unknown collaborator. She stiffened and leaned back.

  Becket emitted a soft chuckle. "Temptress."

  Then his mouth claimed hers and caught her gasp. He pulled her away from the wall and wrapped her in the cocoon of his arms. Heat surged past her frozen fear and jolted her icy numbness to heated awareness. She groaned. His tongue slipped into her mouth, then retreated before she could think to bite. He nibbled at her lips and she went rigid with sudden fear, but then shivers of surprised desire flooded into unfamiliar territories of her body. How could the mere touching of one mouth against another explode such rapture within her bemused being?

  She sank against his chest and slid her hands up the rough mail of his muscled arms to his shoulders. Becket groaned and she felt him tremble. He smelled of DuBois---cedar, leather, the outdoors, and something musky like . . . sin. His tongue slid again into her hungry mouth and shared his taste of spices and slick honey. She should bite the wicked invader. She brushed her tongue against his, pressing her lips tighter to his, tangling her hands in the thick luxuriance of his wind-tossed hair.

  "Like the DuBois wine: Sweet fire." His mouth moved over hers, his breath burned as hot as his words.

  She moaned with sheer ecstasy. His hair felt like nothing she had ever touched before, silky like a cat's but thick and lush, hair that surely breathed a life of its own for the strands curled around her fingers in soft possession. Rochelle berated herself for succumbing to his advances. She tightened her arms around his neck and raised on her toes to press her lips and body closer to his.

  An urgent moan rumbled deep in his chest. His tongue teased her lips; his hands teased her back, her buttocks, her . . .

  Becket released her and stepped back, apparently as shocked by his behavior as she. The golden falcon on his jupon seemed to breathe as his chest rose and fell from his labored pants. Then his surprise melted into revulsion, but whether at her or at him she didn't know.

  Fury drowned Rochelle's unwanted but all too wondrous sensations. She had allowed him to humiliate her. "Do you toy with me again so as to give you more weapons for your amusement?"

  He cocked a brow as if to hide his passionate lapse of control. "I but confirm my instincts, demoiselle."

  She struggled for an incensed breath. "And what, pray tell, did you confirm?"

  "That if I choose, you would melt beneath my touch like the Pyrenees snow under a hot sun. But I do not choose. How sad. You'd make a comely camp follower."

  Rochelle swung a slap; her hand stung from the contact, as did her emotions from the hatred that struck from his eyes.

  "You will go to the convent as soon as your father is buried, and good riddance." He spun and strode down the wall-walk. Sunlight flashed from his armo
r, glistened from the rippled folds of his jupon of ruby samite woven through with golden threads, from the blue-black glory of his hair----the victor over the victim. The spider who had entrapped the moth.

  Shaken to the point of collapse, Rochelle leaned her head back upon the stones and closed her eyes. He had given her until her father's burial which meant she had three days.

  Three days for the moth to trap the spider.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Becket stepped from the bailey into the doorway of the great hall after having inspected the vineyard, the portion of land of most import to him, pleased at the extraordinary care given the vines even with the shortage of labor since the plague. And then the incessant death-knell had bombarded his nerves until he wanted to strangle something.

  Against his will he scanned the room past servants and an incredible beauty dressed all in violet, searching for Rochelle. He spied her, then caught his breath, his unwanted reaction whenever he saw her, despite her ill-fitting, almost ugly gowns. Now she wore black bombazine, not a good color for her.

  Black.

  For mourning.

  Rage built like a sudden storm. He scanned the chamber again. Black cloths draped the walls. Reynaurd lay upon a white-clothed bier upon the dais at one end of the hall as if king of the realm. Rage destroyed Becket's tentative composure.

  "Sacre bleu, woman! I will not tolerate this blatant display of respect for the man who killed my father and stole my lands."

  Rochelle spun from where she and the young hellion who had attacked him earlier hung even more unwanted drapes. She stiffened, her usual response to his presence.

  Becket stormed to the dais. He ripped the black cloth from the wall, flinging the fabric to the floor. "You will not honor this bastard!"

  She pressed her hand to her chest as if to stop an ache, her eyes wide with terror.

  Furious, Becket swept his sword at the floor-standing candle holders that stood like sentries around Reynaurd. Candles crashed to the floor, flames licking through the dry rushes toward the bier, tasting, then devouring the white fabric. Becket swiped his sword and four more candles clattered in defeat.

  "You'll burn him!" Rochelle appeared panicked and furious at the same time, then ran to beat at the fire with her cloth. "Water! Someone douse the fire!"

  Becket snared her waist with one hand and snatched her from the spreading inferno before her gown ignited.

  The human windmill launched himself at Becket, beating and kicking. "Don't you hurt her!"

  The bothersome cat on the lad’s shoulder spit in Becket’s eyes.

  “Curse that---“

  Rochelle rammed her fist underneath Becket's chin. "Don't you harm him!"

  Becket winced from his bitten tongue, then sidestepped the lad's well aimed kicks. "Henri, snare this fearless wonder before his arms and legs fly off. And skewer that blasted cat!”

  “Non! And my father . . .”

  Despite her attempts to tear him apart, Becket set Rochelle aside, barring her way when she attempted to dart around him to the bier. "Stay back, Lady Rochelle. Let Reynaurd burn like he burned my father. Too bad he's already dead."

  Haunted by memories of his father's screams, Becket turned and swung his blade. Two iron candleholders tipped onto the bier, the blaze slithering along the cloth-draped table toward Reynaurd's corpse. Smoke curled, black and foul, burning his eyes, his nostrils, and he welcomed the sting.

  Rochelle hit Becket across the face with a cloth. "You'll destroy DuBois!"

  Becket stiffened. Destroy DuBois? He stared at the hungry blaze, then he tore the fabric from her hands and beat at the flames. "If not for DuBois, I'd let him burn."

  Servants rushed past him with buckets and poured water on the flames until the floor rushes smoked black ooze. Black charred the wet bier-cloth that once draped as white as the mountain-top snow. In spite of the turmoil, and while Becket's pulse roared in his ears, and his heart pounded, and his mouth tasted like burned grass, Reynaurd slept a timeless sleep, unperturbed, and Becket felt certain, with a hint of a smile upon his face because of the insane attraction Becket had toward Reynaurd’s daughter.

  Becket spun to Rochelle. "I want this bastard below ground by Vespers!"

  Rochelle thrust her hands on her hips and glared at Becket. "I'm ecstatic to honor your command, Sire. Pierre, tell Père Bertrand to prepare a grave wide enough for two. This bastard, Sire Becket, wishes to join my father."

  Becket felt his mouth drop open, then he burst into laughter. What a firebrand, his temporary bride. He wiped tears from his face with the ruined cloth, then stilled as he caught sight of her again.

  He knew he stared at her like an animal hungry for his next meal. Black streaked her face, her wimple at a rakish angle, her mouth a tight line, the most beautiful blue eyes he had ever seen narrowed in rage, all in all, as tempting as sin.

  "Your face is smudged, cherie."

  She sank a little as if her knees almost buckled, and the sight shot heat all through his body. He wanted to go to her, but he remained where he stood, not trusting himself to retain control when within touching distance. He had already had two soul-shaking experiences when she had lured him past rational thought: atop her in her bed, and with that arousing kiss upon the parapet. He hated his weakness for reacting thus to his enemy.

  A vision in violet glided toward him, catching his attention. "Sire Becket? Did you say the burial is now instead of in three days?"

  Becket saw the fear in Rochelle's eyes, the betrayal, the dismay, as if the number of days held great import. She glared at the lavender-clad beauty, her hands fisted at her sides as he had discovered was her wont when irritated or distressed.

  All that focused wrath encouraged him to take a closer look at the female siren---the come-hither invitation in her violet eyes, the slightly parted lips, full, tempting breasts, narrow waist, a pleasing flare to her hips. A fulfillment of male fantasies. No soot or grime on this woman. And yet he had remembered seeing her when he had first entered. So, unlike Rochelle, this perfection of femaleness had not dirtied her beauty for the cause. He stroked his gaze back up her body to her eyes which said she knew he liked what she offered.

  "And you are?"

  "Madáme Angelique. Companion to Lady Rochelle.”

  "Ah." Becket sauntered toward her.

  Angelique's expression heated. She made clear he need not sleep alone that night. The innocent Rochelle must have confided to this femme fatale about the annulment. Did the woman think to take Rochelle's place? He stopped in front of her, and the scent of violets reached through the smell of smoke. Too cloying. Too obvious. Like the woman herself.

  He wondered what scent Rochelle might wear when not saturated with death, or smoke, not that she would be there long enough for him to know. And yet, for some inexplicable reason, curiosity tempted him to discover that insignificant fact before she departed.

  "Madáme." He bowed to the woman, confident he knew her coming reaction. "I feel less guilt knowing Lady Rochelle will have companionship during her exile."

  Panic darted through Lady Angelique's eyes. She ran her tongue over her rouged lips and curved a quite determined, quite seductive pouty smile, then fluttered her dark lashes.

  "Although I would miss Rochelle, she will have all those dedicated nuns to keep her company. Whereas I am certain you will need a woman of breeding to . . . to handle your . . . " She lowered her focus to below his waist, then lifted her eyes and latched onto his gaze. "To handle your estate. I am a lady of excellent lineage, originally of the Chandeau's of Normandy before the English took possession." She pressed an embroidered linen square to her mouth, then let the cloth drift to the floor. "Excusé moi. I dropped my handkerchief."

  Becket met her sensual eyes, eyes that sizzled with sexual promise. He stared at her for a long moment, then knelt to retrieve the fine linen, and while kneeling, held up the handkerchief. Angelique's mouth curved a victorious smile.

  He heard Rochelle's gasp and glanced
her way. She held her hand over her mouth, her color as pale as the Pyrenees snow, her eyes filled with pain and humiliation. He had shamed her. Although they knew the marriage a farce, the others of DuBois did not. They would wonder why the new bridegroom knelt at the feet of another woman. He wondered why he cared about Rochelle's feelings.

  "Sire, may I oversee the preparation of your bath . . . and any other needs you desire?" Gloating with success, Angelique tucked the linen in the low-swept neckline of her gown, then patted with well-manicured fingers as if to make certain the handkerchief stayed in place. She need not flutter her hands to draw his attention to breasts that only a dead man wouldn't notice. This woman exuded danger.

  Becket pushed to his feet. "I venture to guess you have much experience in overseeing male needs and desires, Madame."

  Her grin widened. "I know how to please a man in quite creative ways."

  He leaned toward her so as to speak without Rochelle hearing. The woman practically purred in anticipation of his words.

  "Forgive me, Madame. If you were a camp follower, I might be interested. With ladies of nobility, I prefer the path less traveled." Becket bowed, then cocked a brow. "And you will accompany Lady Rochelle to the convent."

  Angelique's eyes flashed surprised insult, then rage, and he gave thanks he wore armor.

  Becket turned toward Rochelle---the only true victim in his effortless conquest of DuBois. Guilt pierced his euphoric victory. She stood as a statue, her stone-like mask in place as if she had erected an invisible barrier. Sacre blue. He felt challenged to rip the barrier down, but he dare not. He must hide her in the convent before she discovered his secret and used the information to bring about his death.

  He took a step toward her, knowing he shouldn't. Something unexplainable possessed him when in her presence. He must make certain he kept his distance until she left DuBois. As Becket neared, he saw that she wanted to run. He wished she would. He must make her hate him so much that she would be glad to be away from him and DuBois.

  He stopped in front of her. Rochelle's eyes glinted blue ice. And yet he had seen them melt with passion. Some part of him, deep inside, longed to see her eyes widen again with newly discovered sensualities, then glaze with a desire she didn't know she could feel, emotions that she felt only for him and no other.