Authors: Carolyne Cathey
Love Thine Enemy
Love Thine Enemy
by
Carolyne Cathey
The
thieving knight steals her castle then threatens to secrete her forever in a
convent.
Lady
Rochelle’s only option: Seduce her enemy.
France, 1355 AD, during the Hundred
Years’ War when England battled for the French throne.
Awards
Love Thine Enemy
won awards in every
writing contest in which it was entered:
* First Place in Oklahoma Writer’s Federation, Inc.’s
Historical Romance Category;
* First Place in Northeast Oklahoma’s Romance Author’s
Crystal Heart contest;
* Second Place in Monterey Bay California’s Silver
Heart contest.
Other books:
Fiction, Historical Romance:
The Wager
Nonfiction:
The Spiritual
Health Book
C
opyright © 2013 by Carolyne Cathey
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or
used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Published in the United States of
America
E-Published, 2013
Dedication
Love
Thine Enemy is dedicated to my wonderful, patient, supportive husband and soul
mate, George Cathey, and to our amazing children, Kaye Alley and Carlon Cathey,
of whom we are in awe and so very proud, and our incredible grandchildren,
Travis and Piper Alley, all of whom strongly encouraged me to publish “Love
Thine Enemy”. You are the loves and joy of my life.
I
am also grateful to my friends Sonny Alexander and Janie Coulson who, ad
nauseum, listened to and critiqued each chapter and then listened to and
critiqued each revision that was read aloud during the writing group. This
book would not have been what it is without their input.
I
also give appreciation to the “Vicious Circle”, our talented writing critique
group who patiently critiqued each chapter and book and helped me to improve
and gain confidence as a writer. Debbie, Brenda, Joyce, Jackie, Amy and all of
you, thank you for your honesty and persistence and laughter and encouragement.
You were a special part of my life.
Enjoy!
LOVE
YOU! And GOD BLESS YOU.
Table
of Contents
C
hapter
O
ne
Southern France, 1355
“
T
RAITOR! You'll never have
DuBois Estates!
"
Hush
,
mon
père
.
Sire Gaston merely taunts you with an empty threat.”
Lady Rochelle de DuBois pressed another pad of hastily torn sheets over her
father’s chest wound. “The arrow is removed as best I can for the moment.”
Trembling like an aspen leaf, Rochelle wiped blood from her hands onto a
hastily donned apron. The apparent fatality of her father’s injury terrified
her. Yet terror struck hardest because of the intruder whose brittle laughter
now resounded within the stone walls of the lord's chamber.
Gaston, the Sire de Moreau, a black-clad bulk of a man
with a hawkish nose and with eyes the gray of cold steel, hovered at the foot
of the emerald-draped bed like death impatient for a doomed soul.
“’Tis not an empty threat, is it Reynaurd?” With a
flick of his wrist, Sire Gaston swirled his black mantle from around his
shoulders as if readying a shroud, then settled the wool over his arm.
“You think you’ve bested me.” Her father writhed to
one side as if to escape the inescapable. Perspiration beaded on his forehead
despite the April chill. “You’ll not have Dubois. Not as long as I have
breath in my body." He collapsed onto his back, his chest heaving.
"If 'tis your last breath that stalls the deal,
Reynaurd, then I shan't have long to wait. Your death-stench befouls the
air."
“Enough of your goads, Sire Gaston! I insist you
leave.” Rochelle turned to escort him to the door and to send for Griselda, the
witch-like servant Rochelle despised, but who had the gift of healing.
Gaston whipped his sword against her stomach to block
her path. She froze at the warning. Rochelle frantically searched her mind on
how to rout the fiend whom no man had defeated, much less a woman. And yet,
she must.
“You are not lord here, Sire, and never will be.”
Rochelle met his challenging gaze that always promised power by any means,
preferably sadistic. “Now let me pass.”
“Two of my knights are posted outside this chamber
preventing any from entering.” He grinned his malevolence. “Or leaving.”
He moved the sharp edge against her waist, slitting the
fabric of her faded gown. Refusing to cower, she glared at him.
“Your efforts seem well planned, Sire Gaston. As if
you knew my father would suffer injury this day.”
“For
naught!” Her father slammed a fist upon the linens with a strength that surely
strained him. "Never! Never will you have DuBois."
"The pact. Remember?"
"This wound you gave me canceled the pact!"
Gaston shrugged. "Many arrows flew toward the
stag. Perhaps another's pierced your chest. You have many enemies,
Reynaurd."
"You are the only one who benefits from my death.
I should never have signed that devil’s bargain.” Her father gulped a breath.
”You made my life hell."
“
And
your afterlife.”
Confused by the argument, Rochelle stepped back from
the blade, then turned to grasp her father’s hand as much to still the tremble
of her own as to subdue him. "I don't understand
mon Pere
. What
pact? What bargain?"
Her father's eyes narrowed in desperation. "As he
said, Rochelle, he's come to take possession of DuBois Estates. He's come for
you."
"For me? He has no claim!”
“In truth, he does.”
Her heart jolted against her ribs. Surely her father
uttered a cruel jest while he groped for the tattered threads of his life. “On
what pretense?”
“No pretense, Lady Rochelle. By law.” Gaston rubbed
his hand over the vair pelt covering her father as if judging the fur’s worth.
"You'll have no relative after Reynaurd passes. As your father-in-law,
I'll take control."
Apprehension collided with her already frayed nerves.
Stunned, she fixed her gaze on the hearth where flames devoured the defenseless
firewood with as much voracity as Sire Gaston hungered to consume her land.
Gaston - her father-in-law, due to her catastrophe of a marriage to his son,
Marcel.
Buried anger for her deceased husband’s viciousness
boiled anew to the surface. And yet, Marcel had been an innocent in comparison
to his father, Sire Gaston. Her own father ranked a distant third on the
physical scale of abuse and yet equaled them all on the attempted annihilation
of her emotions. The men in her slave-like existence had been no better than
debauched, self-indulgent beasts.
No,
she must fight to rule the Estate alone, without male domination, the only
certain way to rebuild the greatness that once was DuBois, the only certain way
to live a life free of cruelty.
The only certain way to protect Pierre.
The reminder of her secret half-brother squeezed her
lungs. She had rescued him five years ago from a candle-lit hovel cursed by
the plague. Her heart had fallen into her hands along with his slick body when
he had barely escaped from the tomb of his dead mother. Aching for someone to
love who would love her in return, she had tended him as if he were her own
while trying not to raise suspicion about his parentage. For some mysterious
reason, her father refused to acknowledge the boy as his bastard, which meant
no other man would consider Pierre as more than a mere servant. Especially a
predator like Gaston. Especially if he witnessed one of Pierre’s convulsions.
So then, how to defeat the Evil Incarnate who postured
before her in blatant confidence?
With the truth?
Rochelle faced the man who, unless she defeated him,
would bring misery and suffering to all who dwelled at DuBois Estates.
"Sire Gaston, you have no claim on DuBois, or me,
because you are not, in actual fact, my father-in-law. Marcel never
consummated the marriage before he died."
"In verity? Or merely a plea of
convenience?"
He had not even paused for thought. He had already
known.
"And your proof, Lady Rochelle?"
"Proof?" Rochelle had expected that.
"Do you hope for an examination?"
His eyes flashed lechery before he burst into laughter.
Rochelle rubbed her arms as she paced past the center
table to the hearth that yawned higher than her head. Smoke mingled with the
odor of blood that would surely permeate her soul for eternity. Yet in spite
of the blaze, the blast of heat failed to thaw the iciness that froze her chest
and shivered her body.
Trapped.
No,
she would not accept defeat. Both Pierre and DuBois depended upon her
persistence. She would prove her virginity to a priest if she must. Gaston
couldn’t wed her to gain the lands because he already had a victimized wife.
And he had no more sons to force upon her, which meant...
She had won!
Fighting a triumphant smile, she brushed back the
wayward edge of the wimple that covered her hair and turned to confront Gaston.
"Sire, your son ranted numerous times about my
blame in his inability to perform his husbandly duties. Servants overheard
Marcel’s accusations. The news spread throughout the castle like the recent
plague. The servants will also testify how he beat me on our wedding night and
several times thereafter. If Marcel hadn't been slain by brigands while he
traveled the road to Avignon, I'd have died from his abuse."
Gaston raised a brow. "He didn't even prick his
thigh to bloody the sheets?"
Rochelle
uttered a laugh. "And mar his precious flesh? You knew not your son to
ask such a question."
“
Au contraire.
You knew
him
not.” A
twisted form of delight glowed in his eyes. “Besides, I bore witness to his
admirable performance with wenches and willing ladies. ‘Twas only you who
failed to stir his lust.” He shrugged. “Any man would beat a woman who
affected him thus.”
Hot rage flared against the cold tombstone of her
memories. She fisted her hands at her sides and met the soulless granite of
his eyes. "No other male will suffer such failure because of me, for I
swear to you, no man will ever touch me again - and live."
"Such a righteous declaration. But, erroneous.”
A grin curved one corner of his too-full mouth. “If I am not your
father-in-law, then I will claim your hand as . . . “ He nodded a slight bow.
“Your husband."
Rochelle's heart constricted. "You are already
wed!"
Gaston glanced down at the mantle draped over his arm.
An insincere frown wrinkled his forehead as he stroked the black fabric with
his thumb. "She's . . . dead."
"Dead?" Rochelle drew in a tight breath.
Trapped, after all. She threw him a glare. "Of natural causes? Or does
the father have the same brutal inclination as did the son?"
The hatred in his eyes responded to her accusation, as
did the tightening of his grip on his weapon. He ambled past the center table
and toward her at the hearth.
"I refuse to wed you, Sire. I plan to---"
"What you plan matters not. Reynaurd and I made a
pact two decades past, mere moments after you emerged from the womb. In accord
with the signed arrangement, since you are the only surviving heir and unwed, I
take your hand and your lands. And despite your threat to kill any man who
touches you, I will consummate the marriage."
Rochelle's
stomach roiled at the unbidden image of Gaston violating her body.
"Bastard!" Her father threw aside his covers
and struggled to sit upright, blood seeping through the bandage from the wound
too near his heart.
“Get out!”
"Non,
mon père
!
Be
still!" Rochelle shoved past Gaston to the bed and urged her father to
lie back upon his pillows. The chill of the Sire's laughter snaked up her
spine.
"You cannot stop the inevitable, Reynaurd. You'll
be dead before the sun sets, then DuBois will be mine. I have already received
dispensation from the Pope to plight troth with my not-quite daughter-in-law.
As soon as a decent interval has passed, of course. On the morrow is soon
enough for a wedding."
"Get out!" Convulsions racked her father's
body so hard that the gold-embroidered bed-hangings swayed. He pressed his
hands against his chest and gasped for air, his life force seeping through his
fingers like crimson tears.
Rochelle whirled to face Gaston. "Wait below in
the great hall. We will discuss this madness further, though 'tis a waste of
your time. I will not wed you. Besides, I‘ve seen no proof of this
bargain."
Agitation flickered through Gaston’s eyes, overridden
by assurance. “Reynaurd’s admittance is proof enough. But never fear, my
betrothed, the papers exist.” He sheathed his sword as he sauntered to her
side, then lifted his hand toward her face. Rochelle flinched, hating the
instinctive reaction she had acquired after her abuse from Marcel. Gaston
stroked his rough finger down her cheek and a shudder of revulsion slithered
along her raised flesh.
"My stubborn Rochelle, the madness is your refusal
to accept what is. If the marriage was consummated, I have claim as your
father-in-law. If my son failed as a husband, then French law declares you are
not a true widow and must re-marry. And as of this morn, I am fortuitously
widowed.” He faked a frown. “Ah, well. Today I grieve. Tomorrow I wed.”
His expectant gaze chilled her to the marrow.
“Sire Gaston, how could you have already received
dispensation from the Pope if you didn’t kill her until this morn?”
Gaston’s laugh frightened her more than his sword.
“Naiveté and slander within one imprudent statement. Timing and technique
aside, the bargain assures DuBois is mine. If you don't willingly agree, then
I'll take you by force. As soon as the vows are exchanged your knights will
swear fealty to me or become prisoners in my torture chamber." Gaston
dropped his hand to his side and strolled to the door like a blasé paramour.
"Come when he dies, my little dove. Which will be soon. He hasn't long."
The door clicked shut behind him.
Rochelle stared again at her father. Gaston spoke
true. Her father's pallor paled ashen against the linens of his bed as if his
earthly body had begun the reversal to dust. During the ugly moments with
Gaston, her father had rallied with his anger, but his rapid descent to
nonexistence frightened her. A wet rim glistened beneath his lashes. Only the
specter of death could pull from him such a weakness. Surely, regrets weren’t
the cause. If so, he’d waited too late for misgivings.
What to do now? Many lives depended upon her next
moments. Gaston’s guards posted outside the door would prevent her from going
for Griselda in an effort to save her father. In truth, she knew he was beyond
hope. And horror in the name of Gaston stalked the halls in anticipation of
her father's last breath. No, she needed information. She needed a plan.