Love Thine Enemy (20 page)

"Take them, knight."

He cocked a brow, then shifted his attention from her
breasts to the money.  "Ah, the gold.  'Twill do.  For now.  But you
missed two treasures, my white-breasted falcon." 

A frightening thrill flashed through her body.

Becket sauntered toward her, his concentration upon her
open bodice so intense that she could swear she felt the heat. 

He reached out with his whip handle.

"Don't prod me as if I'm leprous."  She
swatted at the whip, the coins flying from her palms and clattering on various
objects like discordant music.  "Although upon reconsideration, any object
is preferable to your hands."

He grasped her wrist, his breaths as hard and labored
as hers.  "Mayhap you protest because my hands most arouse your passion. 
I'll test my theory.  First, the handle." 

As if daring her to look away, he stroked the stiff
leather over the inner-swell of one breast.  Desire swirled from the lingered
trail down her flesh, but she would explode like a hot cinder before she
revealed her weakness.  

"The
sous
lie at your feet, knight.  If you
detest me so, then why your feeble excuse to examine me?"

He grinned, then slipped the handle beneath her bodice
and encouraged out another coin.  A coin! 

He but made certain to take all she had, the greedy
swine.  His goal had been the cursed money, not her body.  What a ninny.  What
a foolish, foolish ninny.

"Now, my hand, fair lady."

"When hell---"

"Obey me and be still.  Your word, remember?  Or
are you more like your father than even you know?  Besides, you still have
treasure that is mine to fondle."

Infuriated, she rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

The ceiling. 

And right above, the knight's housing. 

She nearly choked with rage. 

"How foolish of me, knight.  Yestermorn, when
Judas brought you to the lord's chamber, I offered you shelter in the knight's
quarters until your lame horse healed.  And now look at the devil's game you
play." 

She threw him a glare, then became even more furious
when she saw his amused expression. 

"Not only does your, anything-but-lame, stallion
strive to plant his seed inside my helpless mare, you now play lord of the
castle and maul the chatelaine.  But I tell you this, knight, I feel naught but
loathing from your touch."

"You tempt the new lord to prove his subject in
error." 

He drew his fingers in melting torture over the
inner-mound of her other breast, then in his thieving way, slipped his hand
beneath her bodice.  She nearly bit through her tongue to prevent a tell-tale
gasp.

Damn him.  Heat shimmered from his touch.  Molten
threads of desire surrounded her fury.

He delved beneath her fullness, pressing upward against
her weighted bosom, fondling, manipulating, as if in search of something.  Her
traitorous knees weakened and she fought the urge to sink onto her back and let
him have his perverted way.  No, she must fight back.

"What excuse this time, knight?"

Then she felt the hardness of another coin.  Another
blasted coin.  She yanked the edges of her bodice open and cupped her breasts,
lifting them to give him easier access. 

"Here, knight.  Now you can retrieve the spoils
without contaminating my flesh in your desperate search for every last
sou
."

His grin melted.  His eyes simmered lechery.  The
falcon on his jupon rose and fell with each of his strained breaths, and she
wondered for a moment if he would touch her.  Then he fisted his hand over the
coin and shrugged as if unaffected. 

"The test but proves that my hands arouse you
most.  Be grateful I don't intend to touch you again."

"I thank the heavenly powers,
monsieur.
" 
Horrified at her brazenness, she forced a smile and pulled her bodice
together.  "'Tis gratifying to know that no man will defile me." 

"They are many forms of defilement, my lady.  I
will do what I will with you."

"Except what a man does with a woman."  She
batted her lashes.  "Unable?"

He lifted his mail shirt and pressed her hand against
his hardness.

"Unwilling."

"But not unaffected."

"I'm disciplined, not dead."

"How unfortunate."

His jaw twitched, then he pulled her hand aside... 
"Gather the coins, Lady Rochelle.  Give them to me."

"I would have to kneel.  I refuse."

"You don't obey?  So much for the trustworthiness
of your vow.  But then, I expected as much from the seed of Reynaurd." 

"And I expected as much from you.  Steal the gold
as you have DuBois."

Satan whinnied.  Becket glanced over his shoulder at
the bailey.

Like phantom images spun from rays of the sun, Falcon
hesitated in the light-drenched opening.  Satan mounted the mare from behind
and thrust his victory. 

A rush of ecstasy burst within Rochelle and she cried
out. 

Becket faced her, a triumphant glow in his eyes. 
"You felt the rapture.  As did I.  But 'tis not the same, my lady.  A pity
you will never know the difference.  And now 'tis your turn to be conquered, my
audacious falcon, but in a different manner.  As punishment for your defiance
you will suffer exquisite torment.  I will stroke you to liquid submission with
straw, leather, gold and other exotic textures until, in your unsated lust, you
will do aught I ask, perform any act without hesitation."  He grinned. 
"Even kneel at my feet.  And while you writhe and moan for release,
remember the feel of my hands, the feel of my body.  Ache for my heat.  Ache
for fulfillment.  Know that in my scorn I taunt you, tease you, enjoy your
carnal responses.  Know for eternity that I will never take you.  Now, disrobe."

"I am your wife, not your whore."

"You are neither.  Now, obey.  Disrobe."

"When England rules France." 

She stepped back.  Her heel caught on the handle.  She
flailed for balance.  The tines!

Becket snatched her wrists, then lurched as if he had
tripped on the same handle.  She thudded onto her back on the hay.  Becket
slammed atop her, the shackle of his wide-spread hands pinning hers to the
straw, his face mere centimeters above her exposed nipple that tightened as he
watched. 

She expected a snide remark, but he had stilled, his
concentration upon her breast that rose and fell with her desperate need for
air, his panted breaths as hot as the fire in his eyes, as hot as her
womanhood.  He licked his lips like a cat who spied cream, then opened his
mouth, lowered his face, came closer.  His breath scorched her nipple and
fanned across her flesh.  Perspiration beaded on his forehead.  He trembled. 

He wanted her. 

And dear heaven, she wanted him.  Her breast throbbed. 
She throbbed.  Taste her!  She arched her back to close the distance. 
Just
a taste.

"Non!
"  He shoved to his
feet.  "I will not touch you.  I will not!"  He snatched his sword
from the rushes, rammed the blade into the scabbard, then slammed her a glare. 
"You tempt me to rip the wimple from your hair, the clothes from your body
and take you like a stud in heat.  But I will not, Lady Rochelle.  I will
not!"

"Which one of us are you trying to convince,
knight?"

He spun and stormed toward the opening.

His shadow swept across the coins.  In Becket's
lust-driven distraction, he had forgotten the gold. 

Rochelle laughed as she watched him melt into the
sunlight.

Next time, knight.  Next time.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

"
Y
ou, Rochelle?  You want me
to teach you how to seduce Sire Becket?"  Angelique's musical laughter
tinkled in the air, her head tipped back at just the right angle to show off
her swan-like throat.

Why did men find such artifice enchanting?  Rochelle
felt like retching.  And that heavy scent of violets . . . 

  Angelique continued a charming chuckle as she
straightened the too-full-breasted bodice of the lavender gown she had loaned
to Rochelle.  "If he didn't succumb to my charms, dear heart, you have as
much chance as gnarly old Griselda, bless her warped soul.  Of course, he still
had smoke in his eyes from fighting the blaze when he refused me.  Well, not
refused.  More like . . . didn't take advantage." 

"If you remember, Angelique, your future is linked
to my success."

Angelique's smile soured.  "How unfair.  However,
I will do aught to stay out of that convent."  She studied the droopy
bodice as if desperate for inspiration.  "Well . . . mayhap we could
gather enough neckline fabric with your mother's brooch to give the effect of
artistic styling rather than the obvious fact that your breasts are lacking. 
And your legs are too short, leaving the skirt to trail far longer than is
fashionable.  Even so, 'tis better than those rags you wear."

"Sire Becket doesn't seem to find me
unattractive.  In truth, he seems . . . well . . . drawn to me."

Angelique trilled with hilarity again.  "Such an
innocent.  He but encourages you to perform obscenities for his entertainment. 
One wonders how he describes your behavior when drinking with his
fellow-knights."

Pain rent Rochelle's confidence and rekindled her
hatred.  She rolled her eyes heavenward to pray for control and to hide her
threatening tears.  She didn't want to choke Angelique before she had finished
the first lesson.  And she refused to weep over Becket.  Ever. 

"Now, Rochelle, gather your skirt in front of you
in one hand to lift the hem off the ground.  Delicately, dear heart.  With
grace.  Not like you're grasping laundry." 

Laundry?  'Twas Becket's neck.

"Loosen your grip, Rochelle. Your knuckles are bulging. 
Better.  Now, practice gliding with a sway to your hips and think, feminine,
feminine.  Let the back of your hem sweep the floor."

Rochelle forced an exaggerated swing to her backside as
she sauntered toward the window, praying she didn't wrench her spine.  An
injured back might hamper her from killing the arrogant bastard.

"Make believe the wimple in your hand is a
handkerchief and float the fabric from your fingers as you glide.  Sire
Becket---"

Rochelle stumbled, grabbing the open window frame before
her head hit the wall like a battering ram.  Blast.  Even the mere mention of
the knave entangled her feet.

Angelique groaned.  "Mayhap you'll improve with
practice.  In retrospect, I doubt you would have had this problem with Sire
Gaston.  Might you seek his aid?"

"Hah.  With Sire Gaston, I'd be dead by
now." 

"Mayhap.  Well, keep gliding and swaying while I
teach you about men.  Simple creatures, really."

Rochelle straightened to a shaky stand and cleansed her
lungs with cool, mountain air.  Releasing a resigned sigh, she turned into the
suffocating aroma of violets and swayed another hopeless path across the
floor. 

Angelique lounged against the corner of the writing
desk in a sensuous pose.  "Now, Rochelle.  If you learn naught else, burn
this in your heart.  Men love to talk about themselves.  And while they ramble
on about their vanities, you must feign rapt attention as if their every word
is the most incredible wisdom ever spoken."

Sway.  Sway.  Feminine.  Feminine.  Nonsense. 
Nonsense.
 Rochelle pivoted at the hearth, kicked her overlong
train behind her and swayed toward the window again. 

"And you must cease that horrid habit you have of
pursing your lips like some old crone.  Lick them when the men aren't looking
to make them glisten, then blow out, puffing your lips a bit, thinking relaxed,
pouty."

Sway.  Sway.  Feminine.  Feminine.  Pouty.  Pouty.
 
Rochelle blew against the back of her lips. 
Pouty.  Pouty.
  How dare
Becket make her want him more than her next breath, then reject her like soured
wine. 
Blow and puff.  Blow and puff.
  And to think he may have even
jested with the other knights about her licentious failures.

"Think sensual."

Think revenge.

"Think beauty."

Think
. . .   Rochelle slid her
a wry glance.   "Beauty?"

Angelique flipped a hand.  "I know. 
Femme
fatale
you're not.  But pretend, dear heart.  'Twill better your
chances."  She tinkled a laugh.  "Even more to your advantage, ply
him with wine laced with a love potion.  I'll have Griselda mix one for
you." 

"He won't take drink from my hand."

"Then mayhap he will from mine.  After all, he did
kneel at
my
feet, not yours." 

Jealousy twisted like a hot dagger within Rochelle's
chest.  Unable to continue the farce, she moved in front of the window and
pressed her fingertips against her throbbing temples.

"By the by, Rochelle.  Where is Pierre?"

Rochelle stiffened and threw Angelique a glare 
"Why do you ask?"

"Sire Becket.  He questioned me about the
lad."

A chill of foreboding slithered down her spine. 
"What did you tell him?"

"That you have raised him almost like one of your
own.  A credible commitment, I assured him.  One beyond my capabilities. 
Except . . ."

Seemingly unable to hold Rochelle's stare, Angelique
strolled toward the hearth, intent upon the gray ash.  "I know you are
frightened for the boy.  If aught should happen to you, I . . . I . . ."

Angelique shrugged and faced her, surprisingly subdued
for such a wanton.  "You have been kind to me, Rochelle, allowing me to
live here after the murder of my family, never questioning me or judging me
about my liaisons.  I want you to know that if need be, I will watch after
Pierre for you.  I owe you at least that."

Instead of a burst of gratitude, suspicion seeped into
Rochelle's heart. 
"Merci
.  But what deviousness do you plot that
assures your future is no longer joined with mine?"

Angelique's eyes widened in apparent shock.  "You
slander me when I but offer you solace?"

"What information have you to which I'm not
privy?"

"You twist my gift of the heart into wicked
schemes.  And here I am spending precious moments attempting the impossible
when I could be the object of knightly worship at the celebration."

Rochelle realized she had been too direct.  If she
wished to unearth secrets she must use more finesse. 

Forcing a breath into her stiff lungs, she ran her
fingers through her now-dry hair and glanced through the open window at the
river that shimmered like molten silver beneath the sun.  Knights and ladies
drifted in boats on a calm inlet.  Tents dotted the landscape like toadstools
in a meadow.  White-draped tables laden with food sat in the shade beneath
trees that edged the field.  All to celebrate Becket's rape of DuBois.  Even
the servants had been given a day of respite.  How clever of Becket.  He sought
everyone's adoration, the snake. 

Rochelle re-focused her attention. 

Becket. 

By the river. 

With Pierre!

"I'll kill him!"  Rochelle yanked up her hem
and darted through the doorway.

"You're not gliding, dear heart!  Sway!"

Rochelle tore down the hallway, holding the front of
her skirt in her teeth while tucking her hair beneath her wimple.  Terrified
she would be too late, she lifted her gown and ran all the way to the fete. 
Blast Becket's dark soul.  He had threatened to learn the secret before the day
ended.  Interrogating others was one thing.  But to lure a small boy…

Servants and knights smiled as if eager to say
something to her, but she rushed past.

"Pierre!  Come here!"

Becket and Pierre glanced up with looks that told her
she behaved as if demented.  The treasonous Sire Spitz mewled and rubbed
against Becket’s ankle as if in need of attention.  Curse.  Becket had even won
over the cat. 

Pierre held up something small with a tether attached. 
"Look!  Sire Becket carved me a wooden boat.  He's going to help me float
it on the river."

Rochelle snatched the toy.  "Well, that is really
low.  That is despicable."

Becket cocked a brow and swept his gaze over her form,
stopping at her breasts.  "New gown?" 

The insulting insinuation intensified her ire.  She
pressed the droopy neckline to her bosom.  "Giving him a boat.  Helping
him sail it.  I knew you were loathsome, knight, but I didn't realize how . . .
how loath."

"Now that you explain, I can see how vile my
behavior.  Whatever was I thinking to brighten a young lad's day?"

"I know exactly what you were thinking.  How dare
you be so . . . so . . ."

"Loath?"

"You are
not
shy and retiring."

"But you said---"

"You know what I meant."

He smiled. 

Her heart flipped like a landed fish.  How cruel the
fates to make him as handsome as the devil.  Not only would his smile tempt the
purest angel to wallow in sin, but his ebony eyes promised to drown all
memories of goodness from her soul.  And his body, hard and magnificent beneath
his crimson velvet pourpoint that sheathed his torso like a fortunate glove,
then flared over his hips, stopping so as to reveal every hose-covered muscle
of his warrior hardened legs...

Dear heaven.  She lusted for her enemy.

He laughed, jolting her to awareness of her lewd
behavior. 

Pierre tugged on her gown and she glanced down,
grateful for any excuse to hide her burning face. 

Pierre's dark eyes glimmered with unshed tears. 
"Allow me to keep the boat,
s'il vous plait
." 

He raised on his toes and she leaned forward so that he
could whisper in her ear.

"He hasn't asked me any questions, Rochelle.  I
won't tell.  And I've never had a boat before."

Rochelle closed her eyes, knowing that her shrewish
behavior had merely made Becket even more curious, even more determined.  She
peered up at Becket but instead of his expected cynicism, she saw hunger in his
expression, his attention locked on something below her chin. 

Her loose neckline. 

He stared at her exposed breasts. 

Her nipples tightened. 

Furious with her absurd reaction, she slammed the
errant fabric against her chest and straightened to a hoe-handle stiffness,
daring him to make a comment. 

His mouth twitched as if he fought a grin.  Or most
likely, a smirk as he determined just the right tone of voice to use when
relaying to his fellow knights how, in her desperation, she bared her body to
him at every opportunity. 

Becket spread wide his hands as if in invitation. 
"Remain with us, Lady Rochelle.  Be Pierre's guard.  Allow him a bit of
pleasure."

"And break his heart if I refuse?  How dare you
put me in this position."

His eyes heated.  "What position do you
prefer?"

Rochelle gritted her teeth.  "Sail the accursed
boat."

Chuckling, Becket bowed in acknowledgment. 
"Merci,
ma mère."

"Hooray!  Sire Becket, we can play now." 
Pierre pried the boat from Rochelle's inordinately tight grasp. 

Becket knelt beside the river, turning the carved wood
within Pierre's fingers as if for inspection.  "Lady Rochelle clutched the
boat with such tenacity I expected to see dents.  However, methinks the ship
seaworthy, mate.  Launch her.  Let's see if she floats."

Pierre sat on his haunches, the image of eagerness and
anticipation as he wrapped the end of the long tether around his hand.  He held
the boat down for Sire Spitz to sniff his approval, then with almost worshipful
concentration, Pierre placed the wooden model on the water. 

As the mighty ship caught the current and bobbed away,
something akin to gratitude teased at her anger.  No, Becket merely bribed the
child.  And yet, as they knelt, side by side, two huddled shapes against the
stream of melted diamonds, they appeared as brothers, or father and son, not
potential murderer and victim.

"Psst."

Rochelle glanced over her shoulder.

The giant gestured with his head as if he wanted her to
come closer without Becket knowing.  Several knights clustered beside him.  The
same knights to whom she had hinted about Becket's impotency.  
Hmmm
.