Love Thine Enemy (10 page)

The priest’s eyes widened with surprise, then his gaze
bored into Becket's with the hardness of tempered steel, but behind the facade,
Becket saw the shock, the man's weighing of options.

Père
Bertrand shifted his
attention to Rochelle.  "Your pulse has always raced when you lied, a
means of my knowing whether you spoke the truth.  But there is only one way to
truly prove the consummation true or false."

Rochelle stiffened as if prepared to face an
execution.  "So be it.  I request an examination to prove he took my
maidenhead.  I . . . I request you come to my chamber after the funeral."

The vixen had accepted his flippant challenge! 
Becket's blood ran as cold as Rochelle's eyes.  What if she had lied about
being a virgin?  Or what if she hadn't, but intended to change her situation by
other means?  The thought that in her desperation she would willingly mutilate
her own body, sickened him.  He must call her bluff and hope he hadn't misread
her innocence.

 She whirled toward the stairs but before she could
dart away, he grasped her arm and felt how she trembled.  "I agree to the
examination of your virtue, Lady Rochelle.  But the priest will do so now,
before you have a chance to alter your status by your own hands."

She spun to face him, her eyes wide with alarm.  "
Non!
 
Not yet, Sire Becket.  First we must bury my father.  I . . . "   She
swallowed.  "I but go to retrieve my cloak."

"What a terrible liar you are, my temporary
bride.  The examination will be now, or not at all."

She pulled against his grip, as panicked as a
surrounded doe.  Tears welled in her eyes.  "First I . . . I must go to
the garderobe."

He shook his head.  "I'm not letting you out of my
sight before the inspection."

Her obvious desperation revealed her quandary, then she
lifted her defiant chin, and his gut tightened with apprehension.

.  "Then, Sire, I suggest you come with me to my
chamber.  To repeat your own words as you lay atop me on my bed, we will have
this over with."

Panic shot through Becket's chest.  He knew she lied,
but he dare not take the chance.  He must use another tactic, another threat,
one he had witnessed before, used by her father. 

"What is Pierre to you?"

A ghost couldn't have turned more white.  Becket
realized he had just discovered the weak link in Rochelle's armor.  She opened
her tempting mouth, but nothing emerged, then her throat rippled in a swallow.

"He's but a  . . . a servant lad."  Her
frantic gaze darted to the priest, then scanned the hall as if to see who
listened, finally settling on the boy in question.

"Me thinks you have a fondness for the servant
that goes beyond the expected."  He glanced at the lad who looked as if he
wanted to run a sword though his new master.  "Pierre, come here."

Rochelle gasped.  "
Non
!"

Tasting a sour victory, Becket turned at the sound of
fear in Rochelle's tone, and his curiosity for the boy intensified into an
undeterred quest for the truth.  "Lady Rochelle, tell the priest about the
sheets."

Defeat flooded Rochelle's eyes along with her tears. 
And he wished like hell he could take her in his arms and kiss them away. 

"Sire Becket merely pricked his thigh.  I am still
a virgin."

Becket released his held breath, feeling like the very
devil she had named him.  "Go bury your father, Lady Rochelle."

"Sire, I beg you---"

"You will leave at dawn."

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

I
f she could only find
those papers. 

Rochelle let the tapestry fall back into place against
the wall.  If the documents proved rather than disproved heresy, then she could
take the evidence with her to the Count of Armagnac and from there to King Jean
of France as proof to reclaim DuBois.

She had searched the lord's chamber, now Sire Becket's,
ever since her return from her father's funeral.  The new lord and master-thief
still celebrated his triumphant victory with raucous debauchery in the great
hall below.  She hoped he devoured and imbibed his fill of DuBois food and wine
until he staggered into a perpetual stupor.   And thanks to Angelique's "I'll
having him kneeling at my feet within mere moments", Rochelle knew she
didn't have a chance of seducing Becket before the first rays of dawn.  Which
left only one option.  She and Pierre must flee tonight.

With the papers.

As tense as a mouse in a cat's hideaway, she patted her
waist to make certain her Chatelaine's ring of keys still snuggled between her
gown and the bottom edge of her bodice.  If Becket saw the keys, he would
realize he had forgotten to confiscate them along with her position, and yet
they were her most viable means of escape---through the postern gate after the
knights sank into inebriation.  And if for some horrid reason she had to flee
the keep without the key ring, she would be forced to return for Pierre through
the secret passageway in that vile cave.  She shuddered and clutched her hands
over her stomach. Just the thought of feeling her way through that death-trap
made her queasy.   And then to drag Pierre through . . .  No.  She must find
the documents and leave before Becket returned.

Renewed with purpose, she hastened to the fireplace,
dragged a bench to beneath the center of the angled hood and climbed atop the
seat.  She ran her fingers over the stucco carving of two crossed swords topped
by a quartered shield, searching for anything loose, a possible hidden cache,
then she stilled.  A clammy chill slithered over her flesh like dead dreams.

  The upper left quadrant depicted a falcon with wings
uplifted in motionless flight---the same as on Becket's jupon. 

Fighting the urge to curse her father to eternal
damnation, Rochelle pressed her trembling hands against the fire-warmed bird of
prey and willed the symbol to disappear.  She had noticed the crest every day
of her life, and yet she had never really studied the design until now, a
design she may never see again.  Unless she found those papers.  

Rochelle stepped down from the bench and rushed to the
side of the hearth.  She worked down the crevice between the fireplace and the
paneling, digging her nails into the tiniest crack, shoving against fire-warmed
stones, tugging against the edge of the wood molding.  She only dared search a
few more seconds.  Becket might stumble in any moment.  And then he would beat
her for certain.  Or worse.

Rochelle knelt and ran her hands over the gritty,
time-worn hearthstones, the scent of wood-smoke strong, her face hot from the
flames, her insides, ice.  A log popped like the sound of a closing door, and
her heart leapt into her throat.  A burst of heat scorched her face.  Sparks
scattered like her courage and drifted up to nonexistence.  Shaken, she inhaled
a smoke-filled breath and willed her pulse to slow. 

Brushing her hands free of ashes, she pushed to her
feet and threw her gaze around the fire-lit chamber for something she might
have missed.  She had already pulled and poked at anything suspicious on the
walls, the bed, the floor.  Only the chest and armoire remained, and they had
already been emptied of her father's things and filled with Becket's.  But what
if one of them held a secret compartment?

With her mind screaming for her to leave,
and right
that minute,
Rochelle hurriedly opened the carved lid of the hip-high chest
beside the bed and fumbled around the sides between soft fabrics and hard wood,
but nothing.  Placing the front of her thighs on the edge and scooting forward
until her feet were off the floor, she leaned over and worked her arm past
layers of cedar-scented silk, wool, luxurious fur, until her fingers touched
the bottom.  She should have taken time to have emptied---

"Tidying?"

Startled at the sound of Becket's voice, Rochelle
released a soft cry and shoved backwards, jamming her elbow against the lid,
which slammed down on her head and rammed her into the chest, trapping her
half-in, half-out.  Unable to secure enough leverage to lift the heavy top with
her back, she had to crawl inside the box before she could push up the lid and
leap to a stand among his now-jumbled attire.

Becket stood poised at the door, garbed in slim-fitting
jacket and woolen hose as black as his hair, his eyes---his soul.  Fury
radiated from every portion of his warrior-hardened physique, at least the part
not covered by the scantily-clad, dark-maned, far too sumptuous hussy that had
practically molded herself to his body, a different hussy than Angelique.

 
The insatiable lout.

An unexpected pang of jealousy stabbed through
Rochelle's thudding heart and aroused an angry offense.  "How dare you
flaunt that strumpet in front of me."  She adjusted her wimple as she
fought for footing among the slippery piles, then straightened to a stand from
within the chest.  "I insist you take that . . .” She flipped her hand at
the female intruder.  "…that woman out of here."

Becket cocked a dark brow.  "For someone who
suggested a leman, you protest overly much.  Now, what do you here?"

The knowledge that she and Pierre would be away before
the morn, gave her an insane courage.  In regal defiance, she crossed her arms
to keep her heart from pounding right out through her chest and confronted the
entwined twosome.  "I request a
téte-a-téte.
"

The wanton tightened her death-hold around Becket's
neck and stroked her bare foot up his shin as if she meant to crawl right up
onto him like a cat in heat.  Her shift fell to expose one luminescent shoulder
which the
roué
promptly possessed with his hand.  Becket fisted his
other hand over the hilt of his sword. 

Rochelle couldn't help but be shaken by the
comparison---affection for the strumpet; hatred for her.

Refusing to crawl out of the box like a looter
caught-in-the-act, Rochelle grasped the edge of the lid to steady her uneven
stance and scowled her distaste.  "Tsk, tsk, you have an empty arm.  I'm
surprised Angelique isn't draped over the other side of your body like another
conquered banner.  Or are your knees still too sore from groveling at her feet?" 
Her ire intensified with each degrading memory, with each too-tight breath. 
"Or perhaps you have already bedded her and merely take your conquests one
at a time.  Too exhausted from so much treachery in one day?"

"Tell me for what you search."

"You honor my request, and I'll honor yours."

Becket glared as if he wanted to throttle her, then he
lowered his head and whispered in the trollop's ear.

The strumpet stuck out her bottom lip in a pout. 
"
Mais, mon chere---"

"Later."  He slid his hand from her bare
shoulder down to her hip, then caressed her buttocks before he urged her toward
the door.

That arrogant thief intended to share the lord's
chamber and . . . and DuBois . . . with that . . . that
prostituée
,
while Rochelle lived in a hellish convent, which she realized seemed a
contradiction of words, but---

The door thumped closed.

Rochelle gulped.  She must keep him on the defense,
divert his mind from her impropriety.  "How dare you sneak in upon me. 
What do you here?"

Becket's nostrils flared his rage.  "What
effrontery.  You are the one who doesn't belong in this chamber."

"
I
don't belong?"  She swallowed the
word, thief, before the accusation leapt from her tongue and further incited
his temper.  One foot slid down between his scrambled belongings and the inside
wall of the chest.  She flailed her arms for balance, then flattened her hand
on the wainscot.  "Where else would a bride be on her wedding night?"

He blinked as if taken aback, then his brooding eyes
narrowed.  "Most true brides would be among the sheets, not among the
groom's possessions, as appropriate as that might be.  But this is not your
wedding night.  And what were you doing going through my things?"

"
Au contraire, Mon Mari.
  We pledged vows
and signed documents this very day that state we are husband and wife, and no
other papers exist that prove otherwise.  So this
is
our wedding
night." 

"Answer me, Lady Rochelle.  For what do you
search?"

The man stayed on the subject like a hound to the
trail.  Although loathe to give up her height advantage from atop his garments,
Rochelle lifted her foot to step down out of the box, slipped on the fabrics,
became entangled in her long skirt, and dismounted with as much grace as a
one-legged sack-racer on a downhill slope.  She barely stumbled out before the
lid slammed shut.  Straightening her shoulders in feigned composure, she
brushed at her waist again to verify that the keys were still in place and
nodded toward the shut door.

"Sire, I remind you that even a woman such as her
is paid for her services.  You render coin to her in exchange for her body,
which, I might add she can give many times for barter and is most likely
rolling in sweaty wealth by now.  I insist you render me something of value for
your theft of all that is mine and that I can never again surrender." 

"You equate yourself with a whore?"  While he
unbuttoned one tight-fitting sleeve to the elbow, then the other, Becket locked
his gaze on her as if to make certain she didn't escape.

A moment of fear skittered down her spine that he might
undress in front of her.  No, not fear, but something---unnamable.  She lifted
her chin and met his accusatory scrutiny.

 "I am not a whore but of noble birth, which in
your warped sense of honor makes me of lower status.  You rape me of all but my
maidenhead, then throw me aside and leave me with naught, not even dignity.  I
demand recompense."

"I only take what is mine."  He unfastened a
button at his neckline, then another, revealing a glimpse of his broad chest.

Rochelle forced air into her stiff lungs.  "Even
if your assertions are true, I lay longer claim.  You resided here for less
than a decade, while I have done so for two.  In compensation for my sacrifice
I am due a consummated marriage.  At the very least, a home at DuBois."

"I give you your life."  Flames leapt in
fiery reflection upon the ever-present sword at his side as if daring her to
commit even one more error.  As he released another fastener and revealed more
of his decadent chest, he took a step in her direction.

Rochelle braced for his attack, but instead of
launching himself at her in an insane rage as would have Marcel, Becket prowled
toward her like a confident animal after already-trapped prey. 

"Tell me why you are here, Lady Rochelle."

The man had the concentration of a miser over a stray
sou.  He neared, surrounded by that powerful force of his that both lured and
frightened.

 With her courage fleeing as rapidly as flushed quail,
she gulped and took a sideways step toward the hearth in hopes to dart around
him to the door. 

No, she should seduce him.  Rochelle sidestepped toward
the bed. 

And yet, if he imprisoned her with his body on the
mattress, he might mete out cruelty in retribution as would have Marcel.  She
shifted in the direction of the door. 

And yet, this might be her last chance at enticement .
. .  She inched again toward the bed.  And she should be flirting, or
something.  Rochelle batted her lashes in imitation of Angelique
,
the
traitor
, calling herself the world's most hopeless fool. 

Becket's feral saunter slowed and a peculiar expression
crossed his face.  "How . . . uh . . . charming, Lady Rochelle.  You dance
for me.  Shall I hum a roundelay?"

Her face stung from embarrassment.  Wishing she could
disappear, she stepped back but bumped against the chest.  Something thudded on
her foot.  Her blood turned to ice. 

The key ring. 

The ring that held the key to the postern gate from
where she and Pierre would escape that night.  Without them she would be forced
to navigate the evil passage through the cave.  Her heart cramped.  She jerked
her gaze to Becket's, but he seemed not to have noticed the keys beside her
foot.  Desperate, she fluttered her lashes again, this time harder, to keep his
attention away from the floor.

He halted in front of her and angled his head, an
obvious false concern on his face.  "Pray tell, have you something in your
eye?

She could only stare in return.  Something about his
nearness caused her insides to somersault and her mind to turn to cheese.  He
studied her for half a lifetime and she tried to read his thoughts, which
seemed a dark tangle of anger and curiosity and . . .