Love Thine Enemy (14 page)

The moon leapt out without warning, washing her with
sudden light.

His breath hitched.  "'Tis the color of
moonlight."   He stepped near, stroking his hands down her tresses,
fisting the ends in his palms, holding the strands closer as if in disbelieving
scrutiny.  "Spun from DuBois moonbeams, for only here does the light shine
with this particular silver glow."  He shook his head.  "'Tis the
trick of the night.  But you are more than mere falcon.  You are milk-white,
like the most rare of royal gyrfalcons, a bird for kings.  And yet, you belong
to me.  Mine to control.  And now you will soar once more." 

He lifted his hand and she winced, not certain what to
expect.  The wimple covered her eyes and she grasped for his arms, but he
secured the cloth behind her head.

"I but hood you, my skittish bird.  Your senses
will be more alert if you cannot see." 

Rochelle swallowed a cry.  She felt the tip of the leaf
trail from her mouth down her neck, between her breasts, and she held her
breath, willing her body not to be afraid, not to notice the tingles that
shimmered along her flesh.  Then she felt his hands at her waist, strong,
masterful.  In slow possession, they skimmed up underneath her hair that draped
over her bodice, to her neckline. 

He slid his fingers beneath the edges of the fabric,
then up to her shoulders, urging her bodice wider.  Cool air caressed the inner
part of her breasts.  She fought not to pull away.  Instead, she dug her nails
into her palms and concentrated to minimize the rise and fall of her chest.  He
spoke true; her lack of sight intensified her awareness.  The fabric parted
more and she felt her hair slide over her nipples as coverage.  And still the
fabric moved, from her shoulders, down past her elbows.  A breeze chilled her
back, her arms.  She should run.  She should shove him away and hide from him
forever. 

She would die first.

The sleeves slipped over her hands and she heard the
fabric sigh against the earth.  Then she felt her waterfalled tresses slide
from over her breasts and tumble down her back as if he had swept them out of
the way of his vision.  Her nipples tightened in the coolness, as did her
lungs.  She knew he stared at her as she stood, stripped to her waist, bared to
his gaze, and a strange ache filled each exposed mound, almost as if they
swelled. 

His breathing increased, but he didn't touch her, and
she felt like screaming, not knowing what he would do to her.  Mayhap touch her
with the leaf again, or his tongue.  She heard movement and she forced herself
to stay as still as the rock behind her.

 Hot hands cupped her fullness and she gasped.  He
pressed her against the boulder at her back, pressed his body against hers, his
fingers testing her softness, gently squeezing.  She rested her head on the
stone, and enjoyed the astounding sensations.  He lifted one breast, then his
mouth covered her nipple.  Her spirit flew from her body and she arched,
pressing against his tongue.  Hot.  Wet.  He suckled, drawing molten heat from
her toes through her body, and she whimpered. 

Driven to touch him in return, she threaded her fingers
through his hair and urged his mouth tighter against her, encouraging him to
taste his fill.  He moved to the other breast, and she moaned, unable to
control the wild sensations that surged from his mouth to her womanhood, a fierce
ache, yet wondrous.  A cry soared from her body with her feelings, never to
return, and she would---

Coolness feathered over her wet nipples and she knew he
had retreated.  The pressure eased from her body.  She ached to call him back,
but could only gasp air into her lungs.  And slowly, with regret, her spirit
sank again into her chest, but transformed, needful, restless, and she knew she
would never be as before. 

She would be cursed before she claimed the honor of
being the only one affected by this carnal battle.  And she didn't have time
for maidenly shyness.  Resolute, she straightened and yanked the wimple from
over her face.

She caught a glimmer of something unexpected in his
eyes that he quickly hid, but what?  She affected him more than he wanted?  He
stood there, all moonlight and ebony, heaven and hell, a fallen angel.  And she
must somehow make him fall even more.

"I would touch you, knight.  Sear the image of a
naked Marcel from my memories.  Show me your body."

Surprise darted through his eyes, then challenge. 
"'Tis not part of the training."  He retrieved the cloak and sailed
it toward the bluff like a matador's cape.  The black fabric settled on the
ground like a spread blanket, and she wondered what he intended next.

"I beg to differ, knight.  The instruction would
not be complete otherwise.  Unless you wish me to meld his image with your
touch.  I might grow not to hate him after all."

An angry grin lifted one corner of his mouth.  "I
am not as flawless of physique as he, thanks to his father."

"Your laurels of the flesh?  Your badges of
survival?  Press them to mine, knight.  Give them something more wondrous to
remember than pain."

"No woman other than my mother has ever seen my
scars, and she but briefly.  She prefers perfection."

"I have revealed much to you that no other man has
seen.  Let me see you as you perform these wondrous mysteries upon me.  Burn
the vision of Marcel from my mind as you have his touch from my body."

Becket studied her for several moments as the waterfall
filled the night with its crashing tumbles, as the breeze wafted scents from
the valley of plowed fields and spring growth. 

With slow deliberation, he untied the tipped laces that
joined his hose to his jacket, and slipped the fabric from beneath his scabbard
belt.  He then withdrew his pourpoint, baring his moon-carved torso, and her
heart drummed a seductive rhythm.  The released hose sagged from his waist but
clung to his well-formed legs, his sword still slung from his hip.

Her breath caught in her throat.  She knew why the
angels had tossed him out.  Jealousy. 

"I never knew a man could be so magnificent.  I
would see all of you, pleasurable torments of what might have been mine to
enjoy---should I lose."

He cocked a brow at her confession.  She must have fed
the flames of his arrogance, for he stepped toward her.  "You have had
your tidbit of the flesh.  Now you will soar again."

"I have not touched you."  She reached out as
he neared.  He halted, but she moved against him and ran her hands up his arms and
over the planes of his chest.  "Your skin, so different in feel from mine,
more exotic."  He shuddered beneath her touch.  She slid her hands to his
sides, and felt the scars on his left ribcage.

He tensed as if prepared to draw back.  Uncertain how
to make him as mindless as he did her, she followed his tutelage.  She leaned
down and ran her tongue over the raised flesh, then followed with wet kisses. 
As she straightened she brushed one breast against his side, scar to scar.

"Remember this, my knight.  Not the pain." 

He grasped her hand and held it at the juncture of his
hose.  He tugged on his lace and the weight of his manhood fell into her
unexpectant hands. Rochelle let out a soft cry, then stared.  "A stallion,
in human form.  Not like Marcel.  Not like Marcel at all." 

He let her stare at his stiffness and his rounded
fullness below now cradled within her palms. 

"And how did Marcel look?" 

She detected the strain in his voice.  "Soft. 
Limp.  Insipid in comparison."  She stroked her finger up the length of
him to the tip, and he jerked.  As if discomfited, he turned from her and his
manhood slid from her hands. 

"'Tis why he could not penetrate you."

"'Tis well and good you don't intend to pierce me
with that, knight, or you would harm me in a way Marcel never could." 

"Not so, my skittish falcon.  And now you shall
take wing again." 

Reaching for her, he tugged on her waistband, and her
skirt pooled at her feet, leaving her naked except for her laced boots. 
Instinctively she covered herself.

He shook his head.  "Move your hands aside.  I
will see you.  Feel you.  Taste you.  All of you."

His mastery surrounded her and stole her will.  She
closed her eyes, assuring her virginal reticence that in order to win, she must
lose.  So she obeyed.  While the waterfall crashed in hypnotic constancy, she
felt him absorb her with his gaze.  Then she heard movement again, and her
nerves strained against her stillness, urging flight.  Something touched her
breast.  She gasped and her eyes flew open.

"Steady, my white bird.  'Tis but a feather, like
that used during training to lure a falcon to the hunt."

He circled her aureole with the soft stiffness and a
cold shiver coursed through her molten-filled veins, the opposites threatening
to shatter her defense wall. 

"Rise upon heated currents you didn't know you
could feel, Lady Rochelle.  Soar."

 He caressed her budded nipple, and she swallowed an
animal-like mewl.  She must not cry out or he would cease, and she wondered at
her mutated rationale.  He taunted her other nipple, her stomach, and her skin
tautened, tingled.  His breaths became more rapid, his eyes more feral as he
concentrated upon the sinking movement of his tortuous weapon down her
stomach.  He brushed her nest of curls, and a galaxy of stars burst hot within
her.  A wail stuck in her throat. 

"I must feel you, my white falcon." 

Then his rough hands possessed her, strong, demanding,
like the beat of her rampant pulse, stroking her arms, her back, her
breasts---her heart.  No, not her heart, but something inside her she had never
known existed.  Until now. 

He groaned.  "Incredible.  A softness I didn't
know possible.  If the DuBois breeze had solid texture, 'twould be your
flesh."  As if urgent, he ran his hands over the flare of her hips, her
buttocks, and set her afire.  He slid his hands down the outside of her thighs,
then to the inside.  She grasped his shoulders, swallowing the instinct to tell
him to cease, to beg him to continue.

"Spread your legs, Lady Rochelle."

She closed her eyes but didn't move, unable to make
herself be so bold.

"You will do as I command."  He pressed his
knee between hers, then forced one leg sideways to widen her stance.  A cool
gust caressed her warm womanhood, and she wished she had never taken his challenge. 
But she'd had no choice.

He ran his hands between her thighs, seared her,
branded her, and her knees weakened.  She must fight back.  She dug her fingers
into his shoulders, raked her nails down his arms, then up again.  He moved his
hands upwards, closer to her privacy, and surely she melted, for a moistness
formed, warm in the chilled air. 

He stilled.  "Scars on your inner thighs. 
Marcel?"

Rochelle could only nod, the horrendous nightmare now
dulled by Becket's presence, his power. 

"How?"

She shook her head, unwilling to sharpen the memory.

He tightened his hands upon her inner thighs. 
"How?"

"While in a drunken rage, Marcel attempted to use
his dagger to break my hymen.  He cared not that I might die in the process. 
In escaping, I received cuts."

"Bastard." 

Becket stroked his hands with more possessiveness as if
to smooth her marred flesh.  His breathing became harder, faster, his jaw and
mouth tighter, his eyes darker.  Then he touched her womanhood and a bolt of
pleasure ripped through her body.  She dropped her head back, and something
like a trill rolled from her throat.  She clutched his arms to keep from
sinking at his feet, aching to touch him in return, but she dare not let go or
she would collapse. 

He fondled her femininity much as he had the hairs at
her nape until she feared she would go mad, then he stroked a finger along her
cleft, touching something mysterious she never knew existed.  Her cry sailed
over the valley like a falcon's scream of pleasure.

He released her, and her knees buckled.  She stepped
back to catch her balance.  Her feet entangled in her skirt and she had a
momentary vision of a semi-naked Roman god as she fell . . . into his arms. 
Her breasts pressed against his bare chest and swelled more full, ached more intense. 
She waited for her stretched out feelings to retreat to within her body, but
the sensations wedged, part in, part out, as if too large to fit inside her
again.  He pulled her to a shaky stand.

"Spread your legs, Lady Rochelle."

Not certain if her limbs would support her, she widened
her stance.

"You train well, my white gyrfalcon."

Incensed, she clamped her hand over his manhood. 
"Don't pull away, knight."

He sucked in a breath, disbelief on his face, but he
didn't retreat.

"You train well, my devilish stallion."

He laughed, then swept her into his arms and she feared
he would toss her off the bluff, but he lowered her to the cloak.  A strong
gust of wind lifted her hair before her body touched the wool, settling the
strands behind her.  Cold mist from the waterfall dampened her flesh.