Love Thine Enemy (21 page)

She gave a studied check of Becket and Pierre. 
Occupied.  Curious, she ambled toward the men, then remembering Angelique's
advice, decided to practice her lesson in femininity.  Concentrating on
sweeping the ground with the back of her hem, she swayed toward the clandestine
group, pressing her hand to her bosom in a coy gesture to hide her breasts from
their taller viewpoint.

"
Oui
, my courageous knights?"

The giant cleared his throat as if embarrassed. 
"The men here . . . well, I mean . . . well, they want me to . . ."

"Just give her the note, Banulf."

"A note?"

"We talked this over, Lady Rochelle, and came up
with a suggestion to help your cause.  You know."  He gestured with his
head toward Becket, his face as red as a poppy.

"Ah."  She gave a conspiratorial nod and
pursed her mouth to keep from laughing. 

"We attempted to give Sire Becket some advice
about the matter, but he became livid and refused to discuss the subject.  He's
never had this problem before, you see, but worry not, fair lady.  We'll
persist."

"Why . . . ah . . .
merci
." 

How surprising that Becket hadn't drowned her in the
river as soon as he had seen her.

The knights merely stood there as if in wait for
something.  Did they expect her to read the note now?  In front of them?  How
embarrassing.  She unfolded the parchment, her face surely as red as theirs.

Trail a long slow lick along the length of his---

"What are you doing?"

She spun at the sound of Becket's voice and clasped her
hands behind her.

"Rochelle, the men can see down your gown."

She gasped and clutched her hands to her bosom.

Becket snatched the note.

"'Tis mine!"  She stomped her foot.  "I
haven't yet read the message."

"That makes two of us."

Banulf stepped between them.  "Now, Sire Becket,
she's just a little thing."

The giant must have seen down her dress.
 However,
he
had
spoken in the singular.

Becket cocked an intimidating brow.  "Banulf, tend
to Pierre."

"Sire, you sentence me to watch over a child?  And
what about that cat!”

“You are a knight!  Surely you can defend yourself
against a child’s harmless pet.  Or do you prefer to hide---in the dungeon?"

The other knights drifted away as if suddenly eager to
celebrate life.

The giant grumbled and shuffled over to Pierre, and
Rochelle knew in her heart he would never harm the boy.  Becket, however . . .

"Lady Rochelle, come with me to the bower."

In the trees.  Where no one could see her or come to
her aid.
  Rochelle stiffened and took a step back.

And yet, he might punish her.  Her breasts tingled in
anticipation.  She took a step forward. 

How dare she react thus.  He merely garnered
obscenities for titillating tales around male campfires.  Rochelle dug her
heels into the ground.

Becket sighed and crossed his arms as if in resigned
boredom.

And yet, if she didn't go with him, how could she
seduce him?  She moved forward.

And yet . . .  She halted.

"
Sacre blue."
  Becket grasped her arm
and pulled her toward the copse of trees.

"Unhand me, Sire!  I prefer to walk there without
your assistance."

"I should live so long.  Or do you intend to
seduce me with the ridiculous swing of your hips."

"Ridiculous?"

"I should tie a scythe to your backside and point
you down a row of grain.  By the time you reached the end, you would have cut a
wide swath."

"How dare---" 

She stepped on her hem and pitched forward.  Before she
hit ground, he swept her into his arms and kept moving without missing a
stride.  Her pulse thundered from the intimacy.  Pushing her wimple back from
over her eyes, she hastily tucked loose strands of hair beneath the fabric as
she lifted her chin in feigned dignity.

"I'm surprised you didn't sling me over your
shoulder like the falsely-bloodied sheet."

"I prefer this view."

She glanced down.  Her bodice gaped.  She slammed her
hands over her chest.  No, she should fire his lust.  She pulled the silk out
again.  But he might think her breasts too small.  She gathered the loose
fabric in her fingers.

Becket groaned, but the tone sounded more frustrated
than aroused.  He sniffed, then scowled with distaste.

"Violets?  You smell of violets?  The dress, the
walk, and now the scent..."  As if disappointed, he sighed and shook his
head.  "Why even attempt to imitate that
femme fatale?"

Rochelle's heart cracked.  He found her lacking in
comparison to Angelique. 

As he ducked under the evergreen branches, cool,
fragrant air caressed her flesh, the air pungent with the scent of cedar,
reminding her of when Becket had lain between her thighs when in her
chamber---right before he had rolled from her in rejection.  The sound of the
waterfall intensified, reminding her of their erotic encounter on the bluff---and
of yet another rejection.  And on the parapet.  And in the stable. 

Becket set her on her feet by a rocky outcropping, but
instead of releasing her, he held her, conqueror to conquered, male to female,
hard against soft, and she wondered if he could feel the rampage of her pulse. 
Tension emanated from him like a wild animal who strained against a frayed
leash of control.

Curious, she raised her gaze to his eyes, and her
breath caught. 

Fire.  Hunger.  Passion. 

Or did she merely see a reflection of her own? 
Wondering how to lure him past his stubbornness, she ran a nervous swipe of her
tongue over her mouth.

 His hot gaze followed her movement, and if her lips
had been butter, they would have melted as easily as her thoughts.  Then apparently
agitated, he released her, and she missed his warmth.  He turned his back and
grasped a nearby cedar branch while he inhaled what looked like controlling
breaths.

Now
.  She must seduce him now, that is,
if she could gather her mush-like wits.  The fates would not afford endless
opportunities to entice him.  In truth, she might never have another chance. 

Perhaps that's why he had brought her here, to inform
her of . . . what?  Imprisonment, after all?  Banishment to the convent and be
done with her?  Did he merely plan how to word his vile judgment?  

Rochelle closed her eyes and fought off a paralyzing
wave of panic.  She must act first---before he slayed her hopes.

Terrified of another, and perhaps decisive failure,
Rochelle struggled to remember all Angelique had taught her---beside the
swaying instructions.  Maybe she had merely over-swayed. 

Then realization struck. 

For some unfathomable reason, Becket's approval meant
more to her than seducing him for the mere consummation.  She ached for him to
appreciate her as a woman.  The knowledge shook her fragile confidence and
scattered the lesson from her mind.  No, she must concentrate.

Think feminine---sensual---pouty.

Determined for perfection, Rochelle lounged against the
boulder at her back in what she hoped appeared seductive.  Blast.  She had
forgotten to glisten her lips.

She looked up, and he stared at her, but she couldn't
tell if he thought her manner sensual or ridiculous.  She prayed not the
latter.

"Sire Becket?" 

He lifted one dark brow in question.

"Sire, would you be so kind as to close your eyes
for
une petite moment?"

He blinked as if confused, then his eyes went all
sultry and he fanned his sinfully long lashes closed.  Dressed in the crimson
and gold of the flames of hell, he appeared the devil himself in anticipation
of a wayward innocent, a vivid resplendence against the evergreen.

She swallowed her nervousness.  "Now, don't peek,
Sire Becket.  I'll tell you when."

He shifted his stance and clasped his hands together
over his groin as if to shield something.

She hurriedly swiped her tongue over her lips, then
blew and puffed. 

Think pouty!

My word, how did women relax their mouths and be
frightened of rejection at the same time?  And now her lips had dried.  She
moistened them and puffed.  And her sensual pose had stiffened.  And the
accursed breeze.  Angelique must have meant this ploy for inside.  She sank
against the boulder again, then reswiped her tongue and hurriedly puffed.

"Sire, you may open your eyes now.  But hurry."

She did a quick moistening of her lips and blew . . .
then froze.

Becket stared at her as if incredulous, and she
wondered how long he had been watching.

"You peeked, didn't you?"

"I thought you were going to undress and I wanted
to . . .  What were you doing?"

"You weren't supposed to see.  You spoiled the
effect."  Then she stilled.  "Undress?  In the daylight?  Out in the
open?" 

Challenge flashed in his eyes.  "In the daylight. 
Out in the open."  As wind-stirred leaves skimmed wanton sun-dapples over
his virile face and body, his heated look melted into something . . .
sinful.    

  "All that licking, reminds me of the note from
my knights."

Her heart lumped in her chest.  He would penalize her. 
Dear heaven, she hoped so.  He closed the distance, a tower of male
magnificence, and of a sudden she couldn't breathe.  Somehow he sucked all the
air from around her whenever he came near. 

"However, my lady, to follow the advice in the
note, you must kneel."

He pressed his hands atop her shoulders as if to
encourage her to bend her knees, but he needn't have bothered.  Because of his
hot touch and his nearness, her knees weakened of their own accord.

Her lesson in femininity must be bearing fruit, for
despite his declaration that he would allow her no more chances to seduce him,
his tension increased as if in expectation,  pushing her downward, encouraging
her to . . .

 "Kneel?" 

Rochelle straightened from her half-crouch, appalled at
how easily he manipulated her to his perverted will.  Shoving her fists on her
hips, she threw him a glare.  "You clever devil.  You spout any feeble
excuse for me to grovel at your feet.  To repeat your own vow, knight---
I
will not."

Disappointment glazed his eyes, then disgust.  
"You're like DuBois wine in my veins.  I risked losing control for a
moment's pleasure, forgetting my vow not to touch you.  But never again." 
He spun from her and gripped the cedar branch with both hands as if he imagined
her neck within his grasp.

Comprehension hit her with cruel clarity of why he had
wanted her to kneel.  The note.  A scheme that would surely have worked.  She
had ruined a ripe opportunity to seduce him. 

 
Fool.

How to repair the damage?

"Uh . . . Sire Becket?"

"
Non
, Lady Rochelle."

"But, Sire---"

"
Non
."

"I have a solution how to honor both our vows.  If
I'm correct about what the note suggests I lick, I could accomplish the task
without kneeling.  And you wouldn't have to touch me, for with my own hands, I
would release . . . or rather, pull you out . . well, expose you---"

"
Non
!"  His knuckles whitened as if he
gripped harder. 

For a man of verbose sarcasm he had certainly become
terse.  She edged a bit closer, for she couldn't give up.  Not now. 

"In truth, Sire, when on the bluff as I ran my
tongue along your . . ."   Her face flamed, but she refused to quail. 
"I mean, I enjoyed the taste of your . . . you know, at the . . . the tip
of your stallion part, the . . . uh . . . moist bead, and---" 

The branch snapped.  He had just mentally broken her
neck.  She flinched as he ripped a cedar frond from the tree, the scent of
crushed evergreen permeating the air.  Perspiration gleamed on his brow.  He
seemed more agitated than ever.  Rochelle doubted even Angelique's skills could
overcome such wrath. 

Then she remembered another part of the lesson.  The
easy part according to her tutor. 

Men love to talk about their vanities.

Thinking
feminine, feminine,
Rochelle sashayed
toward the stream wishing she had a handkerchief to float from her fingertips. 
From somewhere above she heard a cuckoo, and wondered if the bird mocked.  Once
beside the churning froth at the base of the waterfall, she sank against the damp,
moss-covered boulders in a pose that mimicked Angelique's when leaning against
the writing table.