Love Thine Enemy

  “But, Sire . . . “ She leaned to the side to look past him to his fallen comrade.

  Becket stepped in front of her as a shield “You vixen. You siren. Tempting all mankind with your beauty. Even the guards upon the wall and the peasants in the fields cease their labors and gape at your loveliness. Where is your wimple? Where are your ugly gowns?”

  A pleased expression flitted through her confusion. She edged the other direction. He moved with her.

  “But, Sire---“

  “I shall lock you away so that no man can fall under your spell.”

  She fanned her lashes upward and spiraled heat through his veins. “In your chamber? I pray not, my lord. I prefer the dungeon.”

  He heard Henri snort behind him as if he fought a laugh, making Becket feel even more the fool.

  “You do not prefer the dungeon, my lying falcon. Unless you think to charm the guards into releasing you. They are not as disciplined as I. Admit you prefer my chamber.” An insane demand. Of course, he wouldn’t be there. Mayhap he should imprison her in his chamber.

  Rochelle’s mouth curved the sweetest of smiles. “What you say is true, Sire, but I fear I would bore us both with my shameful pleas for your attention. In truth, your constant rejections are quite tiresome. Even so, you misunderstand my intentions.” She again attempted to move aside so as to catch the obviously amused Henri’s attention, but Becket blocked her view.

  “Whatever your purpose with Henri, ‘tis forbidden. Do you hear? Forbidden.”

  She released a sigh of defeat and turned to face a still stunned Sir John. “I had hoped to spare you such boldness, Sire, but the situation demands that I personally request your presence at the keep.”

  Sir John dropped to his knees, then grasped her hand and slobbered on her delicate flesh like some mad dog. “My lady, whatever you desire I will most gladly provide. “

  Becket roared, then lunged. “You will not provide! Do you hear me? You will not provide!”

  Surprise crossed Sir John’s face, then horror as he scrambled to his feet, right before Becket leapt between John and Rochelle, accidentally slamming John into his horse. The steed whinnied in protest.

  Henri’s snickers turned into rude snorts of obviously withheld laughter.

  Rochelle tilted upward her defiant chin. “I but seek to welcome the stranger to DuBois, Sire. Of course, the welcome won’t be as spectacular as for the last stranger. He ended up as lord. But in this peculiar age when visitors become masters and the English seek to become French, I’m certain DuBois can provide a worthwhile diversion for a weary traveler.”

  “You will not welcome him. You will not freely offer him a diversion I would almost give all to possess.”

  “A bath and sustenance? You would almost give all for a bath and sustenance? I wish I had known sooner, Sire. I would have been spared much humiliation.”

  Henri, curse his soul, beat the ground with his fists as tears of laughter washed his cheeks.

  Sir John appeared shocked. “You say you pleaded with Becket for his attentions, and he rejected you. You? ‘Tis beyond belief. Then, ‘tis not idle rumor about his . . . uh . . . problem.” He ‘tsk-tsked as he moved from behind Becket, the sound much like a man saddened by a sudden loss---as in the loss of Becket’s sanity. Or manhood. “A bath and refreshment are both sadly needed, my lady. However, duty is an unfeeling master and will not allow me the pleasure of basking in your beauty beyond vespers.” John had the temerity to lean down as if to whisper in her ear, most likely for an excuse to nuzzle in her incredible hair. “My lady, Sire Becket’s behavior startles me. He has always shown extreme control, not these surly outbursts.”

  “I have known him no other way, Sire. Mayhap ‘tis the---“

  “Rochelle---“

  “---strain.” Rochelle smiled up at John as if Becket weren’t staring daggers at her. “Custom dictates that the woman who tends your bath be both the chatelaine and not a maiden, so I hope to rectify that dilemma by---“

  “You will not rectify, blast you!” Becket grasped her shoulder. The silk slithered from her alabaster shoulder and grasped his fingers, urging them to rip the fabric from her body and making her his, right there in the middle of the road. He jerked his hand away and curled his fingers into his palm. “You will not rectify your status.”

  With evocative movement, she repositioned the fabric. “I but suggest Lady Angelique, my lord.”

  “Lady Angelique.”

  “Oui, Sire.”

  “So you say. And what do you intend with Sire Henri?”

  “To request that he escort your visitor to his chamber. But you forbade me, thus I must do so myself.”

  “A convenient answer. And you will not do so.” He marched over and prodded Henri’s shaking form with his foot. “Escort Sir John to his chamber.”

  Becket spun and jammed the missive into John’s hand. “Guard this well. Many would hope for such a secret.”

  “Truly?” Sir John unrolled the parchment. “Which part? The one that says, ‘Instead of the rim of his ear, my lady, this time trail a long, slow lick along his---‘“

  “Not that one!” Becket grabbed the note and shoved the other scroll into his hands.

  “Your ear?” Rochelle burned him with a steamy look that set his blood aboil. “Your reading skills are almost as lacking as your love-making.”

  A semi-standing Henri collapsed onto the ground again, writhing with rude humor. Sir John shook his head as he offered Henri his hand, pulled him to his feet and then they mounted their steeds. “If that advice has no effect, Henri, then all hope for him . . . “ The obvious end of the comment became buried under the sound of hooves.

  Becket had never made such a complete ass of himself. Summoning a non-existent dignity, he mentally scrambled for control by scowling an accusatory glance at Rochelle. “And what trickery do you intend with me?”

  Her mouth twitched as if to hide a smile. “To lure you into the woods and seduce you. I plan to start with the part about the long, slow, lick, but since I am inexperienced, ‘twould most likely require practice until I mastered the technique. However, your titillating demonstration of the pleasurable sensation of tongue against flesh has inspired me to give you my best efforts.”

  His traitorous manhood throbbed with anticipation of her delicate pink tongue laving his . . . Becket groaned. “Then expect disappointment, for you will not have the opportunity. I will never again risk being alone with you.”

  She sighed as if disappointed. “As you will, Sire.” She had the audacity to give him her back and saunter down the road toward a copse of trees.

  “And where do you think you go, my sly falcon?”

  She didn’t respond, just continued that knee-weakening walk of hers to the edge of the forest.

  He lunged after her. “You think to force me to attend you, but I will not. And I will not be alone with you. Do you hear me?”

  “Quite loudly, Sire.” She slid between the branches onto an animal trail.

  He plunged in after her. “You plan an ambush? Hah. ‘Tis exactly what you intend.” He drew his sword and scanned the woods. “I pray ‘tis Gaston.”

  “I only plot an ambush of your stubbornness, knight.” Rochelle didn’t even beg him to follow. She pushed aside a branch, then moved on, letting the branch slap him across the chest and didn’t even apologize.

  He ripped the offending whip from the tree and stormed after that bewitching backside that seemed tethered to his manhood by an invisible leash, dragging him onward.

  Sacre bleu, he desired her. And she desired him. How to use that desire to his own purpose? How to persuade her not to betray him in his absence---without telling her why he left, and where. How to satisfy his insatiable longing for the one woman he dare not have. If not for her tainted seed, he would…

  The solution hit with such force that he nearly tripped over a tree root --- an answer that she would recognize as a great concession on his part and thus be duly grateful. One th
at would satisfy the wild longing of his heart. No, not his heart. How weak a slip. He satisfied his body. His lust. A brilliant solution. Sometimes he amazed even himself.

  Concerned that the sun sank at too rapid a descent, he followed Rochelle around a knoll, halted a moment as he watched her enter a generous tent staked beside the stream, then tightened his grip on the hilt, and shoved his way inside---a lavish inside, with food and wine, with stools near a backgammon table. With a mattress and snowy linens.

  Perfect.

  But he must accomplish his purpose within moments, for darkness swallowed the world as if ravenous. The anticipation of what he intended drove him like a wild beast.

  His steward awaited beside a table, a nervous smile on his face.

  Becket waved him to the door. “Bare me of this armor with alacrity, then depart. I would be alone with Lady Rochelle.”

  Becket removed his sword as the steward fumbled with clasps and jupon, plate and mail.

  Rochelle appeared shocked as she stared at the hasty disrobing. “You wish to be alone with me? But you said . . . “ She ceased as if hesitant to remind him of his rash avowal.

  The steward placed aside the last article, then stumbled backward through the open flap in his eagerness to depart.

  Rochelle blinked her wondrous eyes the blue of the alpine gentian flowers. “You are an enigma, Sire. I thought to please you. He was here to serve you food and wine without fearing I poisoned you.”

  Becket scoffed as he sat upon a stool and yanked off his boots and hose.

  “You have already poisoned me, my lady. Drugged me. Driven me to the edge of sanity, and I fear, beyond. You have destroyed my wits, shattered my reasoning, waylaid my carefully devised plans, altered my future. You are in my blood and my brain, for my every thought concerns you. My body wants you even if my mind does not. So rejoice.” He stood before her, bare for all but his braies. “Your greatest desire is soon to be granted.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  Not the answer he expected. “Well . . . actually I . . . “ How dare she taunt him. “That is not your greatest desire. You hope to possess me. Or rather, for me to possess you. Don’t deny the obvious. Your every scheme has been such. And you hope to remain at DuBois on a more permanent basis. Am I not correct?”

  She merely gaped at him. Soon, though, her expression would shine with happiness. He longed to see her smile because of his generosity. He longed to throw her upon the mattress and explore the warm porcelain of her flesh.

  “You don’t need to respond, my lady. I know ‘tis true. You claimed you wished to seduce me. I am seduced.” He spread wide his hands in invitation. “I am yours.”

  Instead of joy, puzzlement blended to give her the most charming of expressions---disbelief, tentative joy, then outright suspicion. “What trickery do you attempt?”

  “Not trickery, my tamed falcon. Genius. The answer to both our dilemmas. Now come here. I wish to taste your sweet mouth.”

  She merely stood there, aghast. Most likely her virginal reticence.

  How charming.

  How invigorating.

  He must seduce the seducer.

  With his most seductive smile he stepped toward her, just as she rushed toward him with a shout of delight that sent thunder through his veins. He caught her in his arms. Her breasts pressed against his chest. Her mouth surrendered to his, all sweet and slick, reminding him of future bliss. A deluge of desire surged in the torrent of his blood and swept away all vestiges of control around his pent-up lust. He welcomed the loss.

  Becket urged the silken fabric off her shoulders, and the filmy magic slithered to a billowy cloud at her feet, exposing her alabaster magnificence. Unable to keep from touching her, he threaded his fingers through her hair.

  “Your tresses are as pale as the thistledown that floats on the breeze, and as soft. Your eyes are like the blue gentians that bloom in the mountains, and as enchanting.” He stroked her shoulders, the fullness of her breasts, and he shuddered from the incredible texture. “Your flesh is as the Pyrenees snow pink-tinged with dawn, but warm, more alluring. Your passion is like the DuBois wine, apparently gentle at first, then bursting with sweet surprises to leave me staggering and wanting more.”

  She moaned and leaned her curvaceous body against the center post as if for support.

  Hardly believing his good fortune, he rained kisses down the column of her magnificent throat toward the silken cream of her breasts. “Fear not, my white gyrfalcon. My body wants to thrust into you in feral possession, but ‘tis your first time. I will labor to make certain you rise upon the heated currents of passion, then I will release your tether and you will soar to ecstasy.”

  “Then I will be your . . . “ She hesitated as if loathe to break the spell.

  “Oc, ma petite. You will be my leman.”

  She went as stiff as a marble tower, most likely struck in awe by his cleverness. “Leman?”

  “See how ingenious? You will have me. Rather, we will have each other. And you will remain at DuBois.”

  “Leman?”

  “As to your tainted seed, I will merely use protection so that . . . Protection. Curse me to hell, but I don’t have protection!”

  “Leman?” Not uttered with joy and gratitude but with . . . fury.

  She shoved his chest like a madwoman, then lunged for his sword. He twisted to snatch his weapon but tripped over her puddled gown. Pain burst as his forehead struck the center support. He sank to his knees. A thwack sounded just above his head.

  She had slashed at him and hit the post! With his own sword!

  “Rochelle!” He spun onto his haunches, but saw only a flurry of enticing flesh, blue fabric and a glint from the blade as she darted through the opening.

  “Rochelle! My sword!” The tent shuddered. She cut the ropes!

  He beat at the canvas in search of the opening. “You give me no choice. When I go for Lady Anne I must lock you in my chamber.”

  Another twang. With each rapid slash the canvas folded in around him until he was cocooned.

  The center post against which he leaned, tilted. He lost his balance and landed on his backside.

  “Damn you, Rochelle. Lady Anne would never behave in such a manner. Now give me my sword!” Then dark reality thrust past his thwarted passion. “I almost took you before I had annulled the vows. If you hadn’t become angry---”

  She screamed. An enraged scream. A deep-down-from-the-depths-of-her-soul scream.

  He heard the slash, recoiled from the sting. His sword rammed into the ground a hair’s width from his manhood. Sacre bleu. The ungrateful hellion had nearly emasculated him.

  By Zeus, he would chain her within his chamber and take the key. And yet, any male with a pulse would find a way in, a secret passageway, perhaps, then wantonly take what Becket could never have.

  Well, not as long as he drew breath.

  But the armorer had no time to forge a chastity belt before Becket left for Guyenne.

  Then how?

  How to keep her a virgin in his absence without chaining her in the dungeon and taking the only key?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “I am a virgin and I’ll most likely remain one until I die, so leave me be! I’m suffocating with all of you around me.” Irritated, Rochelle stopped walking, then lurched forward as a knight bumped her from behind, knocking her into the knight in front of her.

  Davide spun and rapped Banulf on his head with his knuckles, nearly poking her in the eye with his elbow. “Pay heed, you oaf. You could have harmed her, she is so delicate.”

  “Pardonez moi, my lady.” Banulf dropped to one knee and bowed, almost ramming his head into her stomach. “I beg you chastise me for my clumsiness.”

  While the cluster of knights muttered their disapproval of Banulf’s supposed atrociousness, they scrambled to close their shattered ranks, jostling her in their haste to cage her again within their tiresome circle.

  Rochelle rolled her gaze to the ceiling a
nd repressed a scream of frustration. Releasing a tense breath, she patted Banulf upon the reddening spot on his bald pate. “Rise, Banulf. I bear you no grudge. But I must complain. All of you have guarded me for the entire moon’s cycle of Sire Becket’s absence, even slept on the floor around my bed and stood outside the garderobe door while I . . . Well I’m not used to such . . . togetherness. May I not have some privacy?”

  The ring of men mumbled among themselves much like a gaggle of disgruntled ganders, then shook their heads.

  Phillipe cleared his throat. “’Tis not that we don’t trust you, my lady, but that we don’t trust other men. Well, we do with our lives, just not with our women. And when Sire Becket left DuBois, he threatened that should any man have his way with you, he will have all males castrated.”

  Rochelle clenched her teeth along with her fists. “You have told me repeatedly, but you imprison me so tightly within human walls that the only time I see aught but your red, gold and silver-clad bodies is if I look straight up. In truth, so many of you are here, I’m surprised any are left to guard the walls.”

  “’Tis true no knight wishes guard duty when his very maleness is dependent upon other males. All wish to make certain you are kept . . . uh . . . “

  “Safe.”

  “Pure.”

  “Unmolested.”

  “A virgin.” Rochelle tapped her toe at their shy skirting of the issue.

  They nodded in agreement. “A virgin.”

  She sighed to ease what must be by now a permanent knot in her stomach from her self-inflicted guilt. “I am to blame. If I had not lost my temper with Sire Becket, all would have been consummated before he realized he hadn’t annulled the vows.”

  A commotion sounded to her right beyond the wall of knights. “I would see my lady. Let me pass.”

  “Jacques?” Pain knifed in her chest. “Not now, Jacques. I have naught to say to you.”

  “I must explain, my lady. For several sennights I have sought an audience with you so as to discuss my apparent treachery.”

  Rochelle groaned with further irritation, then nudged Phillipe on the arm. “Step aside, s’il vous plait.”