Love Thine Enemy

  She smiled through her tears, grateful he couldn’t see his affect on her. And yet, surely he knew.

  He caressed her face, brushing his thumbs over her wet cheeks, teasing her wounded soul.

  "Like newly formed porcelain. Except warmer. More flawless. I can tell ‘tis of great beauty. Which eliminates Henri. Although he would argue the point."

  Rochelle choked on a sobbing-type laugh. What power this man possessed to make her smile despite the disaster, a power which made her love him even more--love mixed in with her hatred. She should be terrorized that he might force her into a convent. She should be plotting how to escape if he succeeded in--

  He feathered his fingertips over her mouth and feathered away her thoughts. Tingles skittered from his touch and made a mockery of her wrath.

  "Your lips are like a moth’s wings as she sips from the dew-drenched poppies." He outlined her mouth with his tongue. "But more delicate. And yet, I am not ready to guess your identity. Mayhap, if I taste."

  His breath fanned her lips, then his mouth claimed hers, gently at first, like the brush of the silken blindfold against her cheek, then deeper, more urgent, his tongue teasing her away from judgmental rigidity. She allowed him the plundering of her pride. The reason for her anger, blurred. Sensual ribbons of desire flowed through her breasts. She pressed them against his chest to ease the ache, sliding her hands around his neck to keep her from sinking at his feet where lay her broken heart. He groaned, then broke away, his breaths rapid and labored. He swallowed as if for control.

  "A familiar kiss, I’m blessed to say." His tone sounded as strained as her discipline. "Far more intoxicating than the DuBois wine. Must be the nectar you sipped from the poppy."

  She bit her lower lip to keep from smiling and crying at the same time. How she would miss him. No, she celebrated his going. No, she abhorred his going. What a tangle, her emotions, as tangled as her fingers in the black luxuriance of his hair

  He nuzzled her neck, inhaling deeply. "You scent of the DuBois breeze fragrant with roses and wildflowers, sunshine and ripening grain, yet sweeter, richer. And since I didn’t sicken on the aroma of violets, Lady Angelique is definitely eliminated."

  Rochelle laughed aloud, pleased that she loved the only man who didn’t worship Angelique.

  "Ah, ‘tis like the musical laughter of the woman who has captured my soul, the sound like trickling rain on a parched spirit. And yet, mayhap you are some fey creature, a woodland fairy sent to dizzy me with confusion, a will-o-the wisp to drive me insane with want for ma femme. ‘Tis certain I would know the taste of Rochelle’s flesh, recognize the satin texture of her skin. Thus with tongue and touch I must explore all the ins and outs of you to detect your identity without doubt."

  His voice shook as if with reckless need. A need that matched hers, for she throbbed for him inside and out as if he had already explored her.

  As if ‘tis our last.

  A great ache overwhelmed all other emotions. She needed him. Now. And forever.

  We only have now.

  Afraid to let him go, she pulled him down on top of her on the pallet, memorizing every feature of his sun-dappled face, tempted to tug aside the fabric that hid his sin-black eyes.

  Becket fumbled with her buttons, she with his laces. He growled with frustration, then abandoned his efforts and drew her skirt to her waist.

  He seemed beyond speech, only rapid breathing, desperate hands and urgent mouth. As if absorbing her--for the last time.

  Panic threaded through her desire. This man she loved intended to risk his life for France. How dare she give him less than her all.

  When he nudged her thighs wider apart, she encouraged him to settle atop her, etching into her mind the vision of his muscular body above her, relishing his feral power, his maleness.

  "Through my senses I know you are beautiful, fragrant, passionate, like my love Rochelle, but I must experience one final exploration before I am certain you are ma femme." His words sounded strained, barely controlled. "I must sink into your slick depths, discern if we are a perfect fit."

  He slid inside her, slow, meticulous, as if savoring every sensation.

  Groans seeped from her throat. Perspiration beaded on his brow above the makeshift blindfold.

  "A perfect fit. You are perfect. You are--Rochelle. And I must see you." He tore off his blindfold, and tears shimmered like melted stars in his midnight eyes.

  Working his powerful hips, he undulated inside her, deep, steady, primal, stirring her vulnerable soul to moan the truth.

  "Ah, Becket, je t’aime, mon amour. I love you."

  Her confession seemed to strip away his discipline. His movements intensified, his thrusts more frantic, the torment within his eyes more desperate, his Romanesque features more strained.

  "Fly with me, Rochelle. Soar with me, away from the world, away from kings and wars. Away from death. The falcon and the winged Pegasus, high, higher still, beyond the moon where only we can go. Where no other mortal can find us for eternity." His tears spilled to mingle with hers.

  One last time.

  Determined to never let go, she held on. And soared.

  He caught her cry within his mouth.

  Then he shuddered, and planted his liquid seed deep inside her womanhood.

  She drifted with him among the stars, then against her will, the world called them back. She tightened her hold as firmly as her closed eyes that failed to stem her renewed tears. She merely wouldn’t release him, ‘twas all. Never.

  He brushed kisses over her wet lashes. "So beautiful. My precious gyrfalcon." Then he rested his forehead against hers and sighed a ragged breath as if he, too, hated the return to reality.

  "Lock the gates when I’m gone, Rochelle. Take in no strangers no matter what hell is going on beyond the borders. I’ll leave enough knights here to guard you. And heed me well. This is of most import. Don’t leave DuBois for any reason. Even if you hear I am slain. Promise me."

  Her hold increased to a death grip. Burying her face against his shoulder, she shook her head in denial, struggling with every fiber of her being not to break into sobs. He hadn’t said he loved her, hadn’t proved that he hadn’t used her, but at that moment she didn’t care. She loved enough for both of them.

  "My brave knight, you must not die. But I vow, should I chance upon that horrid King Edward, I will slay him, not only for endangering your life, but for all the ravages he has brought upon our people. I did not believe ‘twas possible, but now I hate the English even more."

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  "I want DuBois and Moreau, your majesty. And Becket’s death. That’s all I ask in return." Gaston fingered his beard as he studied King Charles of Navarre to garner a reaction.

  Charles, Le Mauvais, people called him. Charles, The Bad. A name that indicated a terrorizing brute, not the short statured, smooth-talking man who sat across from him. Height aside, Charles had a reputation of intelligence, quick-wit, amorality, and a love of intrigue. A man like himself. The common bond assured Gaston of success.

  "You offer yourself as spy, Sire Gaston? What qualifications have you for such dangerous manipulations?"

  "I have access to your cousin and father-in-law, King Jean. He expects me to bring him news from the Western regions that will assure his victory over the English. But what if I mislead him? Assure his defeat? You have greater claim to the French throne than does King Edward. You could play one king against another, then with my assistance, take the crown for yourself."

  "And in exchange, I give you DuBois and Moreau."

  "And Becket’s head."

  "Why do you bargain with me? Why not with Jean?"

  "King Jean claims DuBois and Moreau for himself."

  Charles eyes widened as if with surprise. "He didn’t even offer you the prize in payment for your skullduggery?" Charles laughed and pushed to his feet. "Of all the French kings, Jean is the most inept."

  Following protocol, Gaston stood as well. "You and I have
similar natures, your grace. Don Carlos lies brutally slain by your hand because he dared assume your title of Comté d’Angoulême and pertinent lands. I want an equally cruel death for Becket. And I want DuBois and Moreau."

  "What makes you think I have knowledge of what happens within English camp?"

  Gaston laughed. "All know of your not-so-secret meeting with the Duke of Lancaster at Avignon. Rumor is rife how your sister and aunt pleaded with King Jean for your life because of the meeting. As I said before, he predicts a bloody future for you--his words. Why wait until you rot beneath the ground, when you could have, not only Navarre and Angoulême, but all of France? And King Jean’s life."

  "You make me curious as to this Becket who stirs such hatred within your breast."

  "Increase your malice for Don Carlos a hundred times, then you will realize a small portion of my abhorrence of Becket. Do we have a bargain?"

  "Mayhap. Give me several days to decide."

  "He will die either way. You might as well profit from his death and win a crown."

  "If you want DuBois and Moreau, my eager spy, then I suggest you wait until the bargain is sealed. First, I would see Sire Becket for myself."

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  "We will attack on three fronts at the same time."

  Filled with dread, Becket concentrated on Prince Edward as The Black Prince ran his finger across the map of France, explaining the final plans. The English called him The Flower of Knighthood. The French, arrogant and cruel. A long-handled mustache framed the mouth and chin of this handsome prince of two and a half decades. A military man after his father’s heart.

  The hope of England.

  The scourge of France.

  The Black Prince placed his forefinger on the northern boundary. "My father, King Edward, will land at Calais and will march South through Picardy."

  He moved his hand southwest. "For the second strike, the Duke of Lancaster will launch a joint Anglo-Navarrese campaign in Normandy, then join up with my father’s forces on their southward march. The Duke of Lancaster’s support is King Charles of Navarre who has vast holdings there."

  Edward trailed his finger further south to where the Garonne River emptied into the Channel, then east along the river past the Guyenne border into the Armagnac region, toward Rochelle. Becket’s stomach fisted.

  "For the third attack, we will launch a raid from Guyenne. Sire Becket has secured two inner posts for us--DuBois and Moreau. Our first stop is at DuBois, south of Toulouse, more than half the distance between here and the Mediterranean Sea. We’ll rest there a few days before continuing the raid to the sea. Then after another break at Moreau Estates on the Tarn river, we will travel up to meet with King Edward and the Duke of Lancaster on the Loire. To further our success on our southern route, the lands of King Charles of Navarre’s brother-in-law, the Count of Foix, surround Sire Becket’s estate on three sides. The combination provides an immense block of neutral territory behind enemy lines, a coup, for the Count has assured us of safe passage across his lands in exchange for sparing his estates during the chevauchée."

  Chevauchée. Blast the fates to hell. Becket’s fisted stomach catapulted like a boulder into his throat.

  An unfamiliar man ambled into a streak of sunlight, casting a shadow across the map. "We should all give this Becket a rousing cheer. I understand he has a superior way of conquering castles. Just a smile and a thrust. But not with a sword, mind you. At least, not one of metal."

  The room echoed with laughter.

  Becket gripped the hilt of his weapon. "You may not discuss my wife."

  All except the stranger went silent, but the dolt seemed not to have taken the hint, for he continued to laugh as he nodded to Becket.

  "So, you are the infamous knight. Your wife, a real porker, is she?"

  Before the man’s smiled faded, Becket had him flipped on his back atop the food table, an apple wedged in his mouth, Becket’s hand still pressing on the fruit.

  "See? I smile. Now all I have to do is thrust. And you’ll have two Adam’s apples down your throat."

  Rage and humor mingled within the man’s eyes in a way that only is possible with the nobility.

  Prince Edward moved Becket’s hand aside and plucked the apple from the man’s mouth.

  "Friend Becket, restrain your temper before this man seeks your head."

  "I have killed men for less effrontery." The man pushed himself from the table, food falling from his back to the dirt.

  "Who are you?" Becket stiffened in readiness as the nobleman rested his hand on his sword hilt.

  "King Charles of Navarre."

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  "Wake up, Pierre. Please, wake up." Exhausted, Rochelle brushed a lock of Pierre’s damp hair from his face, controlling the shake of her hand that betrayed her fear. Pierre’s last seizure had been the most severe of any. Even Sire Spitz sensed how serious, for he paced beside Pierre’s head, stopping occasionally to mewl into Pierre’s ear.

  "He is beyond your care, Rochelle." Père Bertrand fanned the incense over the bed to purify the air. "I am the only one who can help him now. I must take him to my chambers and purge the devil from his soul."

  "My apologies, Père Bertrand, but something inside me won’t let him go." She coughed as the perfumed smoke turned her stomach and stung her eyes, or mayhap her threatening tears burned. As if to escape the incense, Sire Spitz leapt from the bed and moved to the window seat, abandoning her to defend Pierre alone.

  "You only harm him by your obsession, Rochelle. For years I have offered to rid him of his devil but you refused. Now look at him. He’s worse. If you refuse to let me help him this time, he will die."

  Fear twisted a knot within her breast. She didn’t want the priest to take him, but... If only Becket were there to help her decide.

  "You know I’m right, Lady Rochelle." Père Bertrand set the censure atop the chest and pulled back the covers. "You are not a cruel person, yet because you have prevented me from cleansing him of this evil, you are responsible for his suffering."

  She grabbed the linens from the priest’s hands and re-covered Pierre. "Père Bertrand. I beg you--"

  "He is mine now, Rochelle." He threw the linens to floor, then slipped his hands beneath Pierre’s body. "As he should have been long ago."

  "No, I won’t let you take him." She gripped Pierre’s arm, praying she didn’t leave bruises on his too-pale flesh.

  "If you love him, then release him."

  "I do love him."

  "Then prove your love. Let him go before you kill him."

  Guilt wrenched at her heart. She shook her head, tears streaming down her face.

  Père Bertrand jerked Pierre from her grasp. "First your wimple and now this, Lady Rochelle. Since Sire Becket’s arrival you have become most defiant to the church."

  "Not to the church. I attend mass and pray most diligently."

  "You are defiant to me, the church’s representative. And I find great fault in that you haven’t been specific enough in your confessions, as if you’re hiding secrets. I’m most concerned about your husband’s soul. Unlike you, he has never attended mass or said confession. There are many who would make much of such rebellion. Especially because of his father."

  He knew of Becket’s bastardy. Rochelle swallowed to ease the cramp in her throat. "His father?"

  "Burned for heresy. Blood will tell, you know." He stepped around her and carried Pierre’s limp figure toward the door.

  "I’ll not allow you to take him." Rochelle rushed to bar his exit, shocked at herself for arguing with any priest, much less Père Bertrand. She folded her shaky arms across her chest, and with her back bolstered against the door, lifted her chin and met the glare from his reddening face.

  "Not allow me, Lady Rochelle? God will punish you for this act of defiance. Now, move!"

  Pain shot through her shin from his kick. She grappled for the latch but he shoved her aside and then swung open the door.

 
"Addelty, paddelty, put him in bed,

  Else the lad will soon be dead."

  "Griselda?" Rochelle nearly collapsed with relief as she glanced in the direction of Griselda’s rhyme. Her mother limped from the shadowed corner and into the firelight.

  The priest spun toward Griselda’s approaching figure. "How did you get in here?"

  "Did the devil make him fall?

  Or the plague? To kill us all?"

  "Plague?" Père Bertrand stilled.

  "Black death, with sores and boils and pain

  that rot the flesh and eat the brain."

  He paused. Then he shook his head. "Nonsense, Griselda. He has had these spasms before. ‘Tis the devil, I tell you." He turned and took a step into the hallway.

  "Then take the boy and take the chance.

  And if you’re wrong, a dirge we’ll dance."

  His brow furrowed as he glanced down at Pierre, then with almost imperceptible movement, shifted his prized possession away from his body.

  Griselda limped closer.

  "Or, leave him here ‘till truth is known

  And later take him for your own."

  Rochelle held her breath as Griselda gripped Père Bertrand’s elbow and urged him back into the chamber and toward the bed.

  "Remember the wails and bulging eyes?

  One moment, they lived. The next, they died."

  While Père Bertrand stood there, dazed, Griselda transferred Pierre into her arms and stretched him on the mattress. Rochelle quickly covered him as the priest snatched his censure, hurriedly fanning the smoke around him while Griselda escorted him to the doorway.

  "Remember the stench? The coffin lid?"

  "Remember the plague? Mais, non. You hid."

  Griselda shut the door, then slid the bolt.

  Rochelle laughed, then rushed to enfold Griselda in her arms, but halted when her mother shook her head as if in warning.

  Griselda moved in her odd-gait toward the bed, remorse in her eyes as if she longed for an embrace even more than did Rochelle.

  "Addelty, paddelty, hard to believe,