Love Thine Enemy

  Rochelle couldn’t seem to move her feet to escape, much less think. Becket desired her, she knew, but he desired DuBois more, longed for the solutions more, hated Gaston more. True, Becket drank the wine from her tankard, but in order to glean the long-sought-after truth from his mother might he yet send Rochelle away or imprison her or kill her? Did he realize that Rochelle, too, claimed the status of bastard? That in announcing the truth, she doomed herself as well?

  She jumped as Becket placed his arm around her shoulders. “’Tis time for celebration.” He sounded bitter.

  As he guided her into the smoky dimness of the great hall, she ached to ask him what they celebrated. Ugly truths? Truths both of them longed to banish from their memories?

  Gaston’s daughter.

  Shame burned in her stomach like a flared ember.

  Rochelle couldn’t force a bite of food down her constricted throat. Becket ate like a man starved. And as he ate, he studied her. His gaze smoldered, stroking her like the lingering caress of an invisible hand.

  She pretended interest in the knights and ladies as they drank and laughed in boisterous revelry along the white-clothed boards that flanked the head table. And yet, inside her, Becket’s attention fired a thousand stars through her shock-chilled veins, scattering the atrocious revelations from her thoughts, except for one - what did she want? To destroy her enemy? Or love him?

  A troubadour strummed to begin a ballad. Knights and ladies rose to dance a roundelay while he sang in accompaniment. Becket merely leaned back in his chair and examined her, his eye-lids half-mast, as the troubadour crooned.

  “I’m so hungry for her love.

  O, she’s whiter than any ivory statue . . . “

  Becket’s hand skimmed up beneath the weight of her tresses, then teased the downy hairs at her nape. The stars in her veins melted, flowing molten into her breasts. And yet, a persistent fear niggled in her mind - might he kill her to protect his secret? Should she run? But to where?

  As soon as the song ended, the singer began another ballad.

  “Truly this fool desire is killing me . . . “

  Becket shoved back his chair. Unaware of her traitorous thoughts, he pulled her to her feet and guided her to the large space between the U-shaped tables where they joined the circle. He interlocked his fingers with hers, and despite her caution, her legs went as limp as wet grass. She grasped the knight’s hand to her left as much for support as for the dance. Oddly, only the one held by Becket feathered a thrill along her flesh. The circle moved to her left, Becket behind her, his hand still clasped with hers. And as they glided, his thumb massaged a sensitive area on her palm that drove a wanton craving all through her body. Oh dear heaven, what to do?

  “She’s mastered cheating, trickery,

  So that I always think she loves me . . . “

  Step, bend, step, bend. Point. She turned to move in the opposite direction. Becket hesitated before he turned and her breasts brushed against his chest. The melted stars exploded from her veins into his eyes. Then her gaze locked onto his back as the ring cycled to where they began.

  Where they began.

  Frost and fire. Discord and desire. Treachery and deceit. As continuous a circle as the dance they now performed.

  “Ah, sweetly she deceives me,

  As her pretty face confounds me.”

  She released hands to intertwine with the ladies and knights around the circle. When she and Becket crossed paths, he dragged his fingers a purposeful trail across her waist that reached far beyond his touch, then too soon, they drifted in alternate directions as they wove around the other dancers in a fluid human braid.

  His seduction confused her. What did Becket intend? Another arousal, then rejection? Did he boost his wounded pride with her ruin? For, surely, her soul could not withstand another snub. Better a snub than a dagger in the heart.

  “She can keep me, she can sell me . . . “

  Too flustered and confused to meet anyone’s gaze, Rochelle focused on the rush-covered floor. She should run. Now. Before he punished her again with her own desires. Before he destroyed her. Deciding cowardice as the wisest move, Rochelle spun into the circle to make a hasty exit. She stumbled, slamming into Becket. She jerked her gaze to his. And like the stars, the world melted into non-existence.

  “. . . to come where she undresses alone

  So that I can wait at her bidding

  beside the bed, along the edge,

  Where I can pull off her close-fitting shoes

  Down on my knees, my head bent down:

  If only she’ll offer me her foot.”

  Becket nudged her toe with his boot. She couldn’t breathe. The shuffling feet of the dancers sounded around her. Or perhaps she merely heard the swooshing of her raging pulse.

  He bent down his head. His breath wavered errant tendrils of her hair against her face. With his mouth he encouraged aside the strands that draped beside her temple. He moaned, the vibration rippling into her ear and along her aroused nerves.

  Distant scoldings about love and vulnerability and danger urged her to escape. He only sought revenge. He would bring her to the edge of insanity, then in cruelest measure, turn away. Or bury her. And yet, his hot rapid breaths warmed a sensuous ribbon from her lobe to her toes, liquefying her resistance.

  In some far off part of her mind she heard the troubadour start another ballad. The song welled until the lyrics became one with her deepest longings.

  “O, that I had that knight to caress

  Naked all night in my arms,

  He’d be ravished by the charm

  Of using, for cushion, my breast . . . “

  Her disloyal heart longingly beat out his name – Becket, Becket, Becket. No escaping the frightening truth. She loved him. She loved her enemy. Beyond redemption, she grasped his arms and drowned in the troubadour’s music that revealed her heart.

  “O, if I could lie with you one night!

  Feel those loving lips on mine!”

  Becket whispered kisses across her cheek to the corner of her mouth. Her lips tingled with want as she silently willed him to heed the words that surely flowed from her soul.

  “. . . one thing sets me afire:

  Here in my husband’s place I want you . . .“

  Becket shuddered, then swept her into his arms. As he carried her up the stairs she heard the faint tremolo of the dying song.

  “. . . give me everything I desire.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  "You carry me to my chamber, not the lord’s chamber? Why?" Dreading that Sire Becket toyed with her emotions as well as her life, Lady Rochelle tightened her hold both on his neck and her desire. She must remain alert. As if unaware of her torment, he continued up the spiral staircase and into her room aglow with the light of moon, candles and hearthfire.

  "Ah, Rochelle, do you not know?" He whispered breathily in her ear, and longing unfurled like hot ribbons throughout her body.

  "To come where you undress alone

  So that I can wait at your bidding..."

  His whispery croon, husky with passion frayed the periphery of her caution. He wanted her. She wanted him. But she must restrain her hopes, for he forever grasped at any excuse to stop the consummation. And yet, she hungered for him, enemy or no.

  "Beside the bed, along the edge..."

  He sat her upon the edge of the mattress, facing him. As she sank into the feathers, visions flashed into her mind of when he had straddled her there after the forced vows--of when he had rolled from her in rejection.

  Oh, heart. Take care.

  She closed her eyes, mentally struggling to rebuild her protective wall, but Sire Becket had forever crumbled the stones to dust leaving her terrifyingly vulnerable. Another fear, nebulous and unwanted, prodded for recognition. But what? That despite his craving, his hatred for Gaston would never allow him to spill his seed within his enemy’s daughter?

  Gaston’s daughter.

  She dug her nails into her pa
lms to push the insane reality from her mind.

  Sire Becket pressed soft, wet kisses across her closed lids, down her cheek, past the corner of her mouth. She moaned, eager to turn and capture his lips with hers.

  A child. What if her child carried Gaston’s evil?

  Sire Becket’s body heat radiated around her and through her like the hearthfire that glowed behind his silhouetted figure slackening her efforts of self-defense and silent-argument. He smelled of cedar which before, stank of treachery but now, scented of temptation.

  Merciless in his seduction, he trailed his kisses a susceptible path down her neck, and lower still. His breath fanned over the moistness and she shuddered with anticipation, apprehension. Memories of laving tongues and wet desire liquefied her wariness. Her breasts ached for his touch. Needing the feel of him, she ran her hands over his shoulders of hard muscle beneath soft velvet.

  He groaned, then skimmed his palms in urgent possession over her waist and down her fortunate legs to her ankles.

  "Where I can pull off your close-fitting shoes...

  "My head bent down..."

  Although drowning in exotic sensations she noted he had skipped the passage about being down on his knees. Even now he refused to kneel. Then why? Why the farce? For his amusement as when on the bluff? Even so, she lacked the power or the will to stop him.

  He slid his hot hands beneath her skirts, searing her calves along with her doubt. His breathing rapid, he moved his mouth over her silk-covered lap while he inched his fingers up her inner thighs. Desire raced from his touch to her womanhood. The ache in her breasts swelled, overflowing like melted tallow and sinking in a hot stream to blend with the intensifying tingle.

  Unable to stop herself, she threaded her fingers through the firelight-tinged luxuriance of his sin-black hair, pressing him, encouraging him to continue. His kisses upon her thighs grew more relentless, as did the wanton throbs within her feminine core. And yet that indistinct warning still tugged at her caution. Something drastic, she sensed. But what? Although in truth, she didn’t want to know.

  He drew his fingers a teasing caress down her shin and over her blessed arch. Then when she feared her weakness a permanent condition, he held out his hands in expectation, his attention focused on her hem.

  "...if only you’ll offer me your foot."

  Impossible! He had stolen her strength. The irony of the scene flitted through her mind. Reynaurd’s son seduced Gaston’s daughter. No, not Gaston’s daughter! She rejected the hideous accusation of her parentage. Besides, his mother had no proof Rochelle wasn’t of Reynaurd. Which meant that...

  Sire Becket. Reynaurd’s son.

  Rochelle covered her mouth in horror.

  "The significant word in that phrase, my lady, is ‘offer’." Oblivious of the alarm snaking up her spine, Sire Becket raised to her his passion-filled gaze murky with secrets, skepticism, determination. "I will not force you, my precious gyrfalcon. But I will seduce you, and without mercy."

  "’Twill never be, mon Sire. By all that’s cruel, ‘twill never be." Blinking away tears she refused to shed, Rochelle shoved from his warmth and rushed to the hearth. She snatched the poker to stir up the impotent heat, then stilled, shaken by the symbolism--the red and gold flames signified a Sire Becket she dare not touch; the ashes at her feet, her hopes; the smoke that drifted up the flue, her irretrievable dreams. She forced back a sob.

  Only the crackle of the fire broke the silence, then the sound of his footsteps as he neared. His hands branded her shoulders as hot as the fire that seemed unable to warm her cold flesh. She longed to lean against him, but like with the flames, she dare not touch him. Not ever. Not in the way she craved. She prayed for as much strength as in the steel handle that pressed into her palms.

  "Myriad reasons for your skittishness come to mind, my precious gyrfalcon. Virginal reticence. Fear of rejection. Concern as to further secrets. Anger at both me and my mother. Fear I might harm you." He paused. "Knowledge that I am a bastard."

  She spun to face him, fighting not to take him into her arms and comfort him for the torment that surely racked him because of his parentage. "I, too, am a bastard. French law forbids either of us to inherit. If King Jean does learn of our unfortunate pedigree he will take possession of DuBois. Oui, I could use that against you, but to what purpose? Is that why this pretense to bed me – to buy my silence with your sacrifice?”

  "Another concern to add to your list of doubts. I, too have doubts. You might prefer a husband who is not a bastard, one who might legally secure for you DuBois. However, before you rush headlong to find another mate, I warn you, Lady Rochelle. I have ways to accomplish the impossible. Your best option for DuBois might yet be surest with me."

  "You will plead with the king?"

  He went silent for agonizing moments, staring at her as if what he said next and how she responded held great import.

  "If Edward ruled here as king, then English law would prevail, which means even bastards would be allowed to inherit. DuBois would still be ours."

  "Blasphemy!" She fought the impulse to strike him with the poker. "True, the truce between England and France is soon to expire. True, war might sweep this land and who can guess the victor. But do you think so little of me you think I would side with the English merely to gain DuBois? I prefer death than such a union."

  He paled as if she had struck him a blow. "The English--"

  "Are abhorrent, despicable, horrible vultures. I feel a hatred for them more vehement than for Gaston."

  He stood as still as the walls that surrounded them, his expression as hard, as if in some way she had insulted him. And then she realized the truth, a truth she felt bound to confess, no matter the results.

  "Sire Becket, misunderstand not my reaction, for if feasible, I care not that you are a bastard, for I would have you no matter your status, but I cannot."

  Jaw and fists clenched, he focused on the flames, the fire’s light writhing within his dark eyes as if reflecting the turmoil within his soul.

  She lifted her hand but stopped before touching him. fearful of the unallowable. "Sire Becket, I worry ‘tis more than coincidence we both love DuBois. I fear our love is rooted from the same seed and that we..." Fighting for courage, she forced herself to speak the unspeakable. "I fear we were both sired by Lord Reynaurd."

  He slammed her with his suspicion-filled gaze. "Not so. My mother confessed you were sired by Gaston whereas I, by Reynaurd. If there were any doubt, she would have used that knowledge to keep us apart."

  "She has no proof. Do you not understand? We dare not risk consummation. Not until we know for certain. Which may mean forever, for how would we ever know the truth?"

  "A convenient excuse. Stated with the security that I could never present such proof to your satisfaction."

  "Ah, Sire Becket, you know me not, for if I knew for certain we shared no blood, ‘tis more than my foot I would offer you."

  "’Tis more than your foot I would take."

  A quiver of excitement feathered down her spine, followed by a shudder of futility.

  Sire Becket snatched the poker from her grasp. "You know me not if you think I will surrender. I am challenged by impossibilities." He jabbed at the fire as if he slay the dragon of hopelessness. "I will keep DuBois." He jabbed again." I will find proof---"

  The door creaked.

  With the speed of a flared flame, Sire Becket leapt across the space, poker raised, and jerked open the door.

  Griselda let out a startled yell. The goblets on the tray clanked with her flinch. Did the woman not realize her master had ordered her detainment?

  "How did you escape my knights?" Sire Becket pulled Griselda into the chamber, glancing both directions down the hallway before shutting the door. He urged her toward the center table. "Mayhap your arrival is providential. Surely you were here when Lady Rochelle slipped from the womb. Whom did the rumormongers claim was her father?"

  "Addelty paddelty, addelty paddelty..." Gris
elda mumbled with every forced shuffle across the floor.

  "Enough of your addelty paddelties." Sire Becket yanked the burden from her hands. He plunked the tray on the center table, sloshing the wine onto the tray in dark puddles.

  Wine they had not ordered. Tainted with a love potion? Or poison? Rochelle moved to empty the contents.

  Sire Becket raised the poker to block Rochelle’s path. "Tell us, Griselda. Who is Lady Rochelle’s father?"

  Griselda pierced Rochelle with a frightened stare as if she knew more than she dared reveal. Then she whirled and hurriedly limped toward the door.

  "Halt!" Sire Becket slammed the poker on the table, rattling the goblets along with her nerves. "The truth, Griselda."

  Griselda swayed from foot to foot as she tugged grayed wisps of hair over her scarred face.

  "You prefer the dungeon?"

  The old woman moaned, hiding further within her tresses.

  "Addelty paddelty all believed

  She sprouted from..."

  Griselda hesitated, and Rochelle’s pulse raged in fear of the answer. Rochelle wanted any father but--

  "...Lord Reynaurd’s bad seed."

  "The same father?" Rochelle stifled a cry with her fist, cursing the moment of her birth.

  Sire Becket slipped his hand around her waist as if to brace her and she prayed he’d never let her go. "You said ‘all’, Griselda. But what do you believe?"

  Griselda wrung her hands and retreated a step.

  "The seed was bad and caused a fright.

  ‘Tis why the lady was born so white."

  "Then Reynaurd is my father?" Sire Becket’s voice sounded barely above a whisper. "As well as Rochelle’s?"