Love Thine Enemy Page 9

  Rochelle's breath hissed. "Angelique boasted that, despite your oath, she could have you kneeling at her feet within moments. Even so, do you not have the decency to wait until I am gone before you break your marriage vows and commit adultery?"

  "I suppose I could have pierced the handkerchief with the tip of my sword. Be reasonable, Lady Rochelle. I but retrieved the linen, not pledged homage. Besides, you were the one who suggested a leman."

  "You could, at least, show discretion instead of shaming me in front of my servants."

  "My servants. I---" He heard a commotion behind him and turned toward the door, then cursed. Père Bertrand strode into the great hall like a redeemer in search of a lost soul, not stopping until he halted beside them.

  "What is this about Lord Reynaurd being buried today? Do you flaunt religious traditions?" He glanced at Rochelle. "Straighten your wimple."

  Which Becket noticed she did with amazing haste as if caught in the act of some horrible sin. Her reaction challenged him to view her hidden tresses before she left the next morning.

  Unwilling to anger the church and thus risk a charge of heresy, Becket swept his hand to indicate the carnage. "As you can see, Satan is eager to claim his disciple. He sent the fires of Hades as invitation for Reynaurd to hasten to his new abode. To save DuBois, we must place him beneath the earth before Beelzebub breathes another blast of impatience."

  Becket attempted a casual expression, knowing with his next statement another type of hell would break loose. "And, Père Bertrand, before this day is ended, you will annul the marriage between the fair Lady Rochelle and myself. She seeks the peace of a nunnery."

  Rochelle came to life, from ice to fire. "Non! You presented the stained sheets as proof."

  "'Twas blood from my thigh. And I warned you of the unpleasant results if you should pursue such an action."

  She shifted her terror-filled attention to the priest. "He accomplished the sworn fealty of the knights with those sheets."

  The priest nodded, obviously stunned by the conversation. "'Tis so. Without the consummation, you have no claim."

  "I claim as the rightful heir to DuBois. This land belonged to my father before Lord Reynaurd stole the property." Becket caressed the hilt of his sword for affect. "If you don't accept that truth, you may be more comfortable serving at a holding other than mine."

  The priest’s eyes widened with surprise, then his gaze bored into Becket's with the hardness of tempered steel, but behind the facade, Becket saw the shock, the man's weighing of options.

  Père Bertrand shifted his attention to Rochelle. "Your pulse has always raced when you lied, a means of my knowing whether you spoke the truth. But there is only one way to truly prove the consummation true or false."

  Rochelle stiffened as if prepared to face an execution. "So be it. I request an examination to prove he took my maidenhead. I . . . I request you come to my chamber after the funeral."

  The vixen had accepted his flippant challenge! Becket's blood ran as cold as Rochelle's eyes. What if she had lied about being a virgin? Or what if she hadn't, but intended to change her situation by other means? The thought that in her desperation she would willingly mutilate her own body, sickened him. He must call her bluff and hope he hadn't misread her innocence.

  She whirled toward the stairs but before she could dart away, he grasped her arm and felt how she trembled. "I agree to the examination of your virtue, Lady Rochelle. But the priest will do so now, before you have a chance to alter your status by your own hands."

  She spun to face him, her eyes wide with alarm. "Non! Not yet, Sire Becket. First we must bury my father. I . . . " She swallowed. "I but go to retrieve my cloak."

  "What a terrible liar you are, my temporary bride. The examination will be now, or not at all."

  She pulled against his grip, as panicked as a surrounded doe. Tears welled in her eyes. "First I . . . I must go to the garderobe."

  He shook his head. "I'm not letting you out of my sight before the inspection."

  Her obvious desperation revealed her quandary, then she lifted her defiant chin, and his gut tightened with apprehension.

  . "Then, Sire, I suggest you come with me to my chamber. To repeat your own words as you lay atop me on my bed, we will have this over with."

  Panic shot through Becket's chest. He knew she lied, but he dare not take the chance. He must use another tactic, another threat, one he had witnessed before, used by her father.

  "What is Pierre to you?"

  A ghost couldn't have turned more white. Becket realized he had just discovered the weak link in Rochelle's armor. She opened her tempting mouth, but nothing emerged, then her throat rippled in a swallow.

  "He's but a . . . a servant lad." Her frantic gaze darted to the priest, then scanned the hall as if to see who listened, finally settling on the boy in question.

  "Me thinks you have a fondness for the servant that goes beyond the expected." He glanced at the lad who looked as if he wanted to run a sword though his new master. "Pierre, come here."

  Rochelle gasped. "Non!"

  Tasting a sour victory, Becket turned at the sound of fear in Rochelle's tone, and his curiosity for the boy intensified into an undeterred quest for the truth. "Lady Rochelle, tell the priest about the sheets."

  Defeat flooded Rochelle's eyes along with her tears. And he wished like hell he could take her in his arms and kiss them away.

  "Sire Becket merely pricked his thigh. I am still a virgin."

  Becket released his held breath, feeling like the very devil she had named him. "Go bury your father, Lady Rochelle."

  "Sire, I beg you---"

  "You will leave at dawn."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  If she could only find those papers.

  Rochelle let the tapestry fall back into place against the wall. If the documents proved rather than disproved heresy, then she could take the evidence with her to the Count of Armagnac and from there to King Jean of France as proof to reclaim DuBois.

  She had searched the lord's chamber, now Sire Becket's, ever since her return from her father's funeral. The new lord and master-thief still celebrated his triumphant victory with raucous debauchery in the great hall below. She hoped he devoured and imbibed his fill of DuBois food and wine until he staggered into a perpetual stupor. And thanks to Angelique's "I'll having him kneeling at my feet within mere moments", Rochelle knew she didn't have a chance of seducing Becket before the first rays of dawn. Which left only one option. She and Pierre must flee tonight.

  With the papers.

  As tense as a mouse in a cat's hideaway, she patted her waist to make certain her Chatelaine's ring of keys still snuggled between her gown and the bottom edge of her bodice. If Becket saw the keys, he would realize he had forgotten to confiscate them along with her position, and yet they were her most viable means of escape---through the postern gate after the knights sank into inebriation. And if for some horrid reason she had to flee the keep without the key ring, she would be forced to return for Pierre through the secret passageway in that vile cave. She shuddered and clutched her hands over her stomach. Just the thought of feeling her way through that death-trap made her queasy. And then to drag Pierre through . . . No. She must find the documents and leave before Becket returned.

  Renewed with purpose, she hastened to the fireplace, dragged a bench to beneath the center of the angled hood and climbed atop the seat. She ran her fingers over the stucco carving of two crossed swords topped by a quartered shield, searching for anything loose, a possible hidden cache, then she stilled. A clammy chill slithered over her flesh like dead dreams.

  The upper left quadrant depicted a falcon with wings uplifted in motionless flight---the same as on Becket's jupon.

  Fighting the urge to curse her father to eternal damnation, Rochelle pressed her trembling hands against the fire-warmed bird of prey and willed the symbol to disappear. She had noticed the crest every day of her life, and yet she had never really studied the des
ign until now, a design she may never see again. Unless she found those papers.

  Rochelle stepped down from the bench and rushed to the side of the hearth. She worked down the crevice between the fireplace and the paneling, digging her nails into the tiniest crack, shoving against fire-warmed stones, tugging against the edge of the wood molding. She only dared search a few more seconds. Becket might stumble in any moment. And then he would beat her for certain. Or worse.

  Rochelle knelt and ran her hands over the gritty, time-worn hearthstones, the scent of wood-smoke strong, her face hot from the flames, her insides, ice. A log popped like the sound of a closing door, and her heart leapt into her throat. A burst of heat scorched her face. Sparks scattered like her courage and drifted up to nonexistence. Shaken, she inhaled a smoke-filled breath and willed her pulse to slow.

  Brushing her hands free of ashes, she pushed to her feet and threw her gaze around the fire-lit chamber for something she might have missed. She had already pulled and poked at anything suspicious on the walls, the bed, the floor. Only the chest and armoire remained, and they had already been emptied of her father's things and filled with Becket's. But what if one of them held a secret compartment?

  With her mind screaming for her to leave, and right that minute, Rochelle hurriedly opened the carved lid of the hip-high chest beside the bed and fumbled around the sides between soft fabrics and hard wood, but nothing. Placing the front of her thighs on the edge and scooting forward until her feet were off the floor, she leaned over and worked her arm past layers of cedar-scented silk, wool, luxurious fur, until her fingers touched the bottom. She should have taken time to have emptied---

  "Tidying?"

  Startled at the sound of Becket's voice, Rochelle released a soft cry and shoved backwards, jamming her elbow against the lid, which slammed down on her head and rammed her into the chest, trapping her half-in, half-out. Unable to secure enough leverage to lift the heavy top with her back, she had to crawl inside the box before she could push up the lid and leap to a stand among his now-jumbled attire.

  Becket stood poised at the door, garbed in slim-fitting jacket and woolen hose as black as his hair, his eyes---his soul. Fury radiated from every portion of his warrior-hardened physique, at least the part not covered by the scantily-clad, dark-maned, far too sumptuous hussy that had practically molded herself to his body, a different hussy than Angelique.

  The insatiable lout.

  An unexpected pang of jealousy stabbed through Rochelle's thudding heart and aroused an angry offense. "How dare you flaunt that strumpet in front of me." She adjusted her wimple as she fought for footing among the slippery piles, then straightened to a stand from within the chest. "I insist you take that . . .” She flipped her hand at the female intruder. "…that woman out of here."

  Becket cocked a dark brow. "For someone who suggested a leman, you protest overly much. Now, what do you here?"

  The knowledge that she and Pierre would be away before the morn, gave her an insane courage. In regal defiance, she crossed her arms to keep her heart from pounding right out through her chest and confronted the entwined twosome. "I request a téte-a-téte."

  The wanton tightened her death-hold around Becket's neck and stroked her bare foot up his shin as if she meant to crawl right up onto him like a cat in heat. Her shift fell to expose one luminescent shoulder which the roué promptly possessed with his hand. Becket fisted his other hand over the hilt of his sword.

  Rochelle couldn't help but be shaken by the comparison---affection for the strumpet; hatred for her.

  Refusing to crawl out of the box like a looter caught-in-the-act, Rochelle grasped the edge of the lid to steady her uneven stance and scowled her distaste. "Tsk, tsk, you have an empty arm. I'm surprised Angelique isn't draped over the other side of your body like another conquered banner. Or are your knees still too sore from groveling at her feet?" Her ire intensified with each degrading memory, with each too-tight breath. "Or perhaps you have already bedded her and merely take your conquests one at a time. Too exhausted from so much treachery in one day?"

  "Tell me for what you search."

  "You honor my request, and I'll honor yours."

  Becket glared as if he wanted to throttle her, then he lowered his head and whispered in the trollop's ear.

  The strumpet stuck out her bottom lip in a pout. "Mais, mon chere---"

  "Later." He slid his hand from her bare shoulder down to her hip, then caressed her buttocks before he urged her toward the door.

  That arrogant thief intended to share the lord's chamber and . . . and DuBois . . . with that . . . that prostituée, while Rochelle lived in a hellish convent, which she realized seemed a contradiction of words, but---

  The door thumped closed.

  Rochelle gulped. She must keep him on the defense, divert his mind from her impropriety. "How dare you sneak in upon me. What do you here?"

  Becket's nostrils flared his rage. "What effrontery. You are the one who doesn't belong in this chamber."

  "I don't belong?" She swallowed the word, thief, before the accusation leapt from her tongue and further incited his temper. One foot slid down between his scrambled belongings and the inside wall of the chest. She flailed her arms for balance, then flattened her hand on the wainscot. "Where else would a bride be on her wedding night?"

  He blinked as if taken aback, then his brooding eyes narrowed. "Most true brides would be among the sheets, not among the groom's possessions, as appropriate as that might be. But this is not your wedding night. And what were you doing going through my things?"

  "Au contraire, Mon Mari. We pledged vows and signed documents this very day that state we are husband and wife, and no other papers exist that prove otherwise. So this is our wedding night."

  "Answer me, Lady Rochelle. For what do you search?"

  The man stayed on the subject like a hound to the trail. Although loathe to give up her height advantage from atop his garments, Rochelle lifted her foot to step down out of the box, slipped on the fabrics, became entangled in her long skirt, and dismounted with as much grace as a one-legged sack-racer on a downhill slope. She barely stumbled out before the lid slammed shut. Straightening her shoulders in feigned composure, she brushed at her waist again to verify that the keys were still in place and nodded toward the shut door.

  "Sire, I remind you that even a woman such as her is paid for her services. You render coin to her in exchange for her body, which, I might add she can give many times for barter and is most likely rolling in sweaty wealth by now. I insist you render me something of value for your theft of all that is mine and that I can never again surrender."

  "You equate yourself with a whore?" While he unbuttoned one tight-fitting sleeve to the elbow, then the other, Becket locked his gaze on her as if to make certain she didn't escape.

  A moment of fear skittered down her spine that he might undress in front of her. No, not fear, but something---unnamable. She lifted her chin and met his accusatory scrutiny.

  "I am not a whore but of noble birth, which in your warped sense of honor makes me of lower status. You rape me of all but my maidenhead, then throw me aside and leave me with naught, not even dignity. I demand recompense."

  "I only take what is mine." He unfastened a button at his neckline, then another, revealing a glimpse of his broad chest.

  Rochelle forced air into her stiff lungs. "Even if your assertions are true, I lay longer claim. You resided here for less than a decade, while I have done so for two. In compensation for my sacrifice I am due a consummated marriage. At the very least, a home at DuBois."

  "I give you your life." Flames leapt in fiery reflection upon the ever-present sword at his side as if daring her to commit even one more error. As he released another fastener and revealed more of his decadent chest, he took a step in her direction.

  Rochelle braced for his attack, but instead of launching himself at her in an insane rage as would have Marcel, Becket prowled toward her like a confident animal a
fter already-trapped prey.

  "Tell me why you are here, Lady Rochelle."

  The man had the concentration of a miser over a stray sou. He neared, surrounded by that powerful force of his that both lured and frightened.

  With her courage fleeing as rapidly as flushed quail, she gulped and took a sideways step toward the hearth in hopes to dart around him to the door.

  No, she should seduce him. Rochelle sidestepped toward the bed.

  And yet, if he imprisoned her with his body on the mattress, he might mete out cruelty in retribution as would have Marcel. She shifted in the direction of the door.

  And yet, this might be her last chance at enticement . . . She inched again toward the bed. And she should be flirting, or something. Rochelle batted her lashes in imitation of Angelique, the traitor, calling herself the world's most hopeless fool.

  Becket's feral saunter slowed and a peculiar expression crossed his face. "How . . . uh . . . charming, Lady Rochelle. You dance for me. Shall I hum a roundelay?"

  Her face stung from embarrassment. Wishing she could disappear, she stepped back but bumped against the chest. Something thudded on her foot. Her blood turned to ice.

  The key ring.

  The ring that held the key to the postern gate from where she and Pierre would escape that night. Without them she would be forced to navigate the evil passage through the cave. Her heart cramped. She jerked her gaze to Becket's, but he seemed not to have noticed the keys beside her foot. Desperate, she fluttered her lashes again, this time harder, to keep his attention away from the floor.

  He halted in front of her and angled his head, an obvious false concern on his face. "Pray tell, have you something in your eye?

  She could only stare in return. Something about his nearness caused her insides to somersault and her mind to turn to cheese. He studied her for half a lifetime and she tried to read his thoughts, which seemed a dark tangle of anger and curiosity and . . .