Love Thine Enemy

  "Addelty paddelty I--"

  "No riddles!" Sire Becket tightened his hold on Rochelle’s waist, but whether for his support or hers she didn’t know. "I swear, woman, not another addelty paddelty, not another blasted rhyme, until you unravel this accursed mystery!"

  Griselda blanched even more sickly than usual, but surely no more so than Rochelle, for nausea roiled Rochelle’s stomach. The woman’s thin mouth opened and shut but no words emerged.

  Rochelle jerked as Sire Becket lashed out, snatching Griselda’s wrist. "Who is her father?"

  Rochelle closed her eyes, unable to breathe, unable to move, unwilling to hear that...

  "Gaston’s the one. Gaston’s the man.

  "I’ll tell you all I paddelty--"

  "No rhymes!"

  "--dare."

  "Gaston?" The horrid-wonderful name rushed out on Rochelle’s released breath. "Gaston is my father?" Odd jubilation withered before taking root. Gaston’s seed. Tainted.

  "How do you know ‘tis Gaston?"

  Sire Becket’s demanding tone drew Rochelle’s attention from her own shame to Griselda’s panicky expression.

  "Oh, addelty--"

  "Sacre bleu." Sire Becket grasped Griselda and shook her.

  "You frighten her!" Rochelle placed her hand over Becket’s, shocked by his instant stillness from her touch. "In truth, Sire, I have never heard her speak without rhyming."

  Sire Becket inhaled a controlled breath as if for composure, then enfolding Rochelle’s shaking hand into his strong one, pierced Griselda with a glare.

  "Then tell us in your own way, woman, with addelties and rhymes and any other oddities ‘tis your wont, as long as ‘tis the truth. Tell us how you know her father is Gaston."

  Griselda glanced at the latch as if judging the distance to freedom.

  "Gaston knew. Right at the start.

  He bade me to silence, else he’d cut out my heart."

  "He knows?" A chill shivered through Rochelle as she stared at the witch-like woman for verification. "He knew, yet wed me to his son, my half-brother? He secured dispensation from the Pope to wed me himself?" Rochelle held onto Sire Becket’s arm to keep from falling. "He attempted to ravish me? And he knew?"

  "Ah, but ‘‘tis the perception that matters’, he said.

  So he bade the priest to cover your head."

  "The wimple! I don’t understand what my hair has to do with the truth. And naught you have said proves Sire Becket and I weren’t both sired by Lord Reynaurd." Grief numbed her with a death-like chill, freezing her threatening tears. "Even if Gaston himself claimed me as his daughter, ‘twould only be a possibility, not a certainty."

  "You surrender with too much ease, my eager falcon." Sire Becket's eyes blazed with his distrust. "Do you already plot for another to share your bed? One whom you believe will secure for you DuBois?"

  "Fate deals us an ugly hand! Do you not yet understand, Sire Becket? ‘Tis over. ‘Twill never be. Never."

  The pain that slashed across his face surely mirrored her own. "Do you not yet understand, Lady Rochelle? If you say we are never, then you force me to wed another. And yet, I desire you."

  "There is no proof!" Torn further by his admission, Rochelle crossed her arms over the ache in her stomach and whirled to face the fire incapable of melting the ice that had become her heart.

  "Your hair."

  Griselda’s gravely comment drew a startled laugh from Rochelle.

  "I care not how disheveled my hair, Griselda. Other concerns plague my soul." Rochelle froze, then turned toward the old woman who had haunted her from her first memories. "You didn’t rhyme. You didn’t...Of what import is my hair?"

  "Your hair is the same shade as your mother’s." The confession tumbled out, hurried, whispered, as if she feared someone might overhear.

  "Nonsense. I look nothing like her. Lady[C1] Beatrice’s was copper-hued."

  "Her babe died soon after birth but before she discovered the tragedy, so Gaston practically ripped you from your true mother’s womb to make the switch and planted you in the cradle." The old woman sidled toward the shadows between the hearth and the desk. "In Lady Beatrice’s dazed condition she never knew. Neither did Lord Reynaurd."

  Confusion stirred Rochelle’s numbing grief. "I don’t understand. You mean, I have another mother? Who?"

  "Gaston’s wife." Griselda eased further and further into the shadowed corner. "Gaston pushed her off a cliff shortly after she gave birth. To destroy the evidence, he claimed." She skittered a frightened glance about the room as if nervous that someone spied. "Proof exists you and Sire Becket are not related."

  "Tell me how you know this." Sire Becket moved forward.

  Griselda crouched, pulling her hair over her face as if to disappear.

  "Addelty paddelty. Dangerous talk.

  Addelty paddelty--"

  The door slammed against the wall. "Becket! You must not consummate this marriage." Lady Isabelle stormed into the chamber, then halted, face pale. "What is that witch, Griselda, doing in here?"

  "Mother, leave us!"

  "I fear for your life, Becket." Lady Isabelle swept the goblets onto the floor, the wine draining into the rushes like spilled blood. "These two witches seek your life."

  Sire Becket grasped her arm and guided her into the hallway. "See to Lady Anne."

  "But--"

  "Do not return unless I bid you come."

  "Fool!" Lady Isabelle wrenched from his hold and marched in the direction of the stairs.

  Sire Becket motioned to what must have been someone in the hall. "Davide, guard Griselda until the morn when I shall question her further."

  "Your union is doomed!"

  Rochelle spun at the old woman’s wailed warning, but saw nothing. Not even Griselda!

  "Doomed" echoed in haunting repetition from beyond the far wall until but a sinister whisper.

  "Sacre bleu. Another secret passageway!" Like an animal on the attack, Sire Becket vaulted toward the corner where Griselda had last stood, Davide and Banulf in his wake. "So many tunnels weave through the structure, I’m surprised the castle doesn’t crumble like a sugar confection."

  While the knights searched the chamber, Sire Becket beat upon the walls, tugging and pulling on stones and moldings, reminding Rochelle of when she had searched for the still-missing document that supposedly proved Becket as the rightful heir. But how could the parchment support such a claim when even his own mother named him a bastard?

  Sire Becket roared with frustration. ‘Tis unnerving when my enemies know more about DuBois than do I. An error I must correct--but on the morrow." He motioned to his knights. "Leave us."

  Sire Becket faced her, and she caught her breath. Desire flared like hot flames within his sin-black eyes. Her heart fluttered like a moth desperate to fly into the destructive fire of his passion. Rochelle moved to the window and gripped the cold sill to clear her mind. The silvered landscape gleamed too serene for the turmoiled night, the cedar-scented breeze too gentle.

  She heard the door close, the lock click, then the measured pad of his footsteps as he neared her. Uncertain what he intended, she forced her heart from her throat with a strained swallow.

  He stroked the length of her hair. "Gaston’s daughter."

  "Bittersweet tidings."

  "Mayhap ‘tis unwise this joining of ours. Many uncertainties still swirl between us."

  His change of purpose twisted within her chest like a broken dagger. And yet she had known he would reject her at the most heart-rending of moments. ‘Twas well she discovered the truth while she still had her dignity. She wondered how long she had before he sent her away or killed her – either would have the same painful effect. Stiffening her posture along with her battered pride, she focused on the valley that blurred to liquid silver within her unshed tears.

  "I agree ‘tis unwise, mon sire. Too many whys and wonderings plague us. And even though Griselda claims she has proof we are not siblings--and I believe her--we bot
h know you would never mingle your seed with Gaston’s."

  She felt her tresses being moved aside. Coolness gusted against her nape, replaced by the heat of his breath. A shiver of enjoyment coursed down her spine. And yet he only amused himself--at her expense.

  "Be grateful you are no longer tied to me by pretense, chérie. Your past passion for me might have been but a farce in order for you to remain at DuBois. C’est vrai, n'est-ce pas?" As he nuzzled the back of her neck, he trailed his fingers from her wrists to her shoulders, tormenting her with hints of pleasures he would never allow.

  "Your suspicions blind you to reality." She shuddered from the brush of his mouth against her flesh. "And yet I harbor my own skepticism. In the great hall when you feigned the desire to consummate the marriage, I wondered why the sudden shift of your discipline. Now I know. Either 'tis revenge against your mother, or for you to secure your claim on DuBois by also keeping my bastardy a secret. If you have chosen for us not to join, then what do you intend with me now that I know your secrets?"

  "What do you intend? To use the truth against me, then to entice another to win back for you your golden prize?"

  To her surprise, he hook his fingers under the fabric on her shoulders and persuaded the silk to slither downward in surrender along with her retreating discipline.

  "Sire, you are most likely but curious to sample the once-forbidden." The wayward bodice snared upon the tips of her breasts. She caught the fabric, pressing the silk to her chest. "And then what? Do away with me so as to wed your precious Lady Anne? But you have as little claim to the land as I. She might not want you now. If she knew."

  She sensed his movement. His withdrawal?

  "Do you threaten to tell her? I warn you that, should you consummate the marriage with me, you might grow to hate me, my lady. Mayhap you already do."

  "Non, I..." She faced him. Her heart stumbled at the sight of him.

  He had tossed his jupon upon the window seat exposing the magnificence of his moon-bathed torso. His linen hose hung loose on his hips, needing only the slight encouragement of her fingers for them to reveal all of his warrior-hardened physique. Against her will, she forced out another argument, anything to distract herself from wanting the unattainable.

  "And I wonder, Sire, if all your secrets are yet revealed." Her tone sounded much too husky for nonchalance.

  "And I wonder if, because of my secrets, you will side with Gaston to plot against me." He ambled toward her, naked muscle and raw power.

  "So many uncertainties." Her laugh sounded tight. "At least you are not English."

  He stopped in front of her, sad resignation in his eyes. "You will destroy me."

  "You will destroy me."

  He grasped her hands and encouraged them from her death-grip on her bodice. The released silk tumbled to her waist.

  His breath hitched. "Sculpted from moonbeams."

  Her nipples tightened.

  She fought for her voice. "’Tis unwise, the joining."

  "Oc. Unwise."

  As if reeling in a tether, he pulled her into the warmth of his embrace. Her chilled breasts pressed against his heated chest and she gasped from the virgin intimacy. He tilted her chin upward until she saw only the face of the man she loved more than her own life but could never have.

  "And yet where you are concerned, chérie, I am not wise at all."

  He claimed her mouth along with her will, tasting, searching, possessive. She should fight him. She sank into the strength of his body, ran her hands over the warm steel of his shoulders, tangling her fingers in the silken mass of his hair. Incredibly soft. And the tang of cedar. Her favorite scent. Oh, dear heaven, she wanted him. How to entice him to make her his wife?

  He warmed her lips, sliding his tongue into her mouth with as much ease as he had stolen her discipline. He tasted of spices and wine. Delicious.

  Driven with an impossible mixture of self-protective instinct and bold assertiveness, she stroked his tongue with her own. Sire Becket groaned, pressing her tighter against his chest. She knew she should be terrified of this man who wielded such power over her, but an insane instinct deep within her assured her this warrior would not hurt her physically. Ah, but emotionally...

  Sensations she had struggled to disregard surged to the surface and across her sensitized flesh, followed by jealousy.

  "Lady Anne will never have you, my powerful stallion." She muttered the threat upon a breath. "I will sear all remembrance of her from your soul." Rochelle wrapped her fingers around his rock-hard manhood that unsettled her, amazed her.

  She caught his groan within her kiss.

  "Love leaves one vulnerable." He whispered the truth over her wet lips.

  "Vulnerable."

  Hearthfire and moonlight blended as he tumbled with her onto the bed in a tangle of arms and legs and naked desire. She writhed as he stroked her, tasted her, worshipped her.

  Too confined within her ribs, her heart flew from out of the protection of her body to hover past her reach, beyond retrieval. And while her heart quivered, she melted. Burned.

  He gasped for a breath and rolled atop her, his arms as stiff as his manhood that...that pressed into her femininity!

  She jerked her gaze to his.

  "’Tis unwise, chérie."

  Oh, heart. Come back where ‘tis safe.

  Too late.

  "Rochelle, I..."

  She tensed for his rejection.

  He thrust!

  He caught her cry within his kiss.

  He had consummated the marriage! Shocked, she held her breath as the pain eased.

  He slid his tongue against hers, moved his hips, slow, steady, strong, stirring ribbons of new sensations--addictive sensations--streaming and undulating throughout her body on rising currents of heated passion.

  "Fly, my precious falcon. Soar."

  She left her body in chase of her heart, which rose faster, higher than she dared follow.

  "Fear not, my gyrfalcon. I will soar with you like a winged Pegasus. We will sail as one to heights neither of us has ever reached before."

  Trapped between earth and eternity, she reached for her heart that beat beyond a barrier she could not pass through, something like warm glass, felt but not seen. And In the blackness past the barrier a distant light glowed, beckoning her like a moth to a fiery destruction.

  "I release your tether, my falcon. Fly with me. Soar with me. The gyrfalcon and the stallion. As one. I’ll take you to the moon from which you were created." He sounded as frantic as she felt.

  And yet, ‘twas not the coolness of the moon she craved. She longed for the burning sun of Becket. In purest faith, she clung to his shoulders and moved with him, against him, rising higher with each rhythmic thrust, pulling tighter against the invisible bond, pressing harder against the glass, desperate to reach her heart racing toward the light.

  "Let go of the tether, Rochelle. Soar. Soar."

  But the glass...

  Trust him.

  She released the bond. The glass shattered. She flew beyond the stars and collided with her heart, then fell into the sun. A keening cry tore from her throat.

  He shuddered from the explosive flight, pulsing his molten sunlight deep within her.

  Enclosed in his heated embrace that had become her world, she glided with him in languorous descent to the earth and into the soft cloud of her featherbed.

  The experience dazed her beyond comprehension, then as intense sensations abated, she sighed from contentment. "I forgot to offer you my foot."

  He laughed, his tone thick with desire. "Then we shall have to try again, ma femme."

  #

  His wife. He had called her his wife.

  Returning from the garderobe, a still incredulous Rochelle brushed the rushes from her bare soles. She let the silk robe as black as Becket’s hair slide to the floor, then slipped in beside...beside her husband. How wondrous a word. No, more than a word. A miracle. She, who had once believed she wanted no man, now c
raved one very special man. Becket. She snuggled against him for warmth.

  Even though asleep, he turned and encircled her with his body. How glorious the weight of his arm and leg across her, like a heavenly prison she longed never to escape. With each of his breaths, moonlight and firelight shifted and flickered over the sheen of his shoulder and cradling arm. She absorbed the peaceful moment, wishing the sun would never rise.

  How might he feel about her now? Disappointed? His curiosity sated? To her inexperienced heart he had seemed feral, barely clinging to a forced control as if fearing he might hurt her, frighten her. Had she imagined his sense of awe? Maybe he responded the same with all women. Her stomach twisted with jealousy. She shook her head in silent rebuke. The entire night seemed but a blur, yet she remembered every incredible detail. But above all, one question haunted. Why had he bedded her?

  "Why, Rochelle?"

  She started, then gazed at his incredible face that surely must have graced some brave Roman soldier in centuries past, a face covered with worry. "Why, what?"

  "Why did you allow the seduction?"

  How should she respond? Serious, confessing her love? No, too soon. Lighthearted and teasing, assuring him he had made the right decision? Oh, dear heart, what to do? Dear heart. Of course! Answer as had Angelique when testing men’s moods of how much to reveal.

  Rochelle attempted a flirtatious smile and tweaked his nose. "How could you not know, mon mari? Surely you guessed long ago."

  He recoiled as if struck, his eyes blazing with hurt anger as he gripped her wrist, forcing her hand from his face. "What I guessed long ago is that you will suffer aught to remain at DuBois, even to my bedding you. What a fool I am. I hoped..." He rolled away from her to rise.

  "You misinterpret!" Cursing herself for her horrific blunder, she grappled for his arm of warm steel. "Oui, you are a fool if you cannot see how I feel about you. How can you not know that I--"

  "Murder!" A scream ripped the night and along Rochelle’s spine.

  Someone hammered on the door. "She’s dead."

  Sire Becket leapt to open the door, the linen sheet wrapped around his waist.

  A silhouetted Lady Isabelle stood in the opening. "Lady Anne is dead. Poisoned." She pointed to Rochelle.