Love Thine Enemy (23 page)

 "Your bodice, Rochelle.  Cover your blasted
bodice."

She clutched at the loose fabric.  "How can you
even notice such at this time?"

"'Tis the male in me."

Pierre whimpered a protest.  "Rochelle? 
Sister?"

Her heart fisted.

Becket stilled.

A tomb-like silence engulfed the chamber.  A log
popped, much like her hope of secrecy.

For the longest time, only the sound of Becket's
breaths and the hiss of the fire blended with the swish of the pulse in her
ears.  Rochelle stiffened, ready to throw her body over Pierre's, ready to
fight the devil with her bare hands.

With purposeful movements, Becket pushed to a stand,
his face as white as Pierre's, as white as the knuckles of his clenched fists. 
He drilled her with a hateful glare.  "Reynaurd's . . . bastard?"

She should lie to protect Pierre but could only stare
at Becket in horror.

"His seed.  His accursed seed."   Whispered. 
More frightening than if shouted.

With non-threatening steps, she edged around the end of
the bed in hopes to place herself between Becket and Pierre before Becket
struck. 

"I beg you, Sire.  Spare the lad.  He is of no
danger to you.  My father never acknowledged him as son."

He merely stood there, his attention focused on
Pierre.  He clenched and unclenched his fists as if he contemplated
strangulation.  Sire Spitz arched his back and hissed a warning to Becket.

Her heart hammered against her ribs.  She moved around
the corner of the bed, slipped quietly toward Becket's side, her mind in a
whirl as to what to use for a weapon if needed, other than an enraged cat. 
Unlike with Marcel, she doubted she would survive the strength of Becket's
rage.

"Pierre.  Your half-brother.  The truth screamed
for recognition.  And yet, I refused to understand.  Didn't want to
understand.  Why the secret?"

"Surely you know, Sire.  To protect him."

"From me?  Reynaurd didn't even know I existed
until after the vows."

"But exist, you did.  And hated.  And now all of
your enemy's bastards are slain.  Except for Pierre."

"You accuse me?"

"I know of no other who vowed my father's seed be
eliminated."  She edged between Becket and the side of the mattress, felt
his heat, his power---his abhorrence.  "I warn you, Sire, you will have to
kill me to reach him."

"You tempt me."   

He turned from her and moved to in front of the window
that framed a dying day, the dilemma within him obvious despite his too-calm
facade.

Something flickered and she shifted her attention.  The
silver chalice winked in the writhing light almost as if alive.

The love potion. 

Becket. 

The ultimate test.

Despite his reticence to take drink from her hand, she
took the chalice from the tray, then neared him.  The fragrance wafted as she
moved, fruity, but pungent. 
The potion.
  What if he noticed? 
Divert
his attention.
  With her pulse like drumbeats in her ears, Rochelle paused
at his side, then, praying for success, offered the wine.

He angled his head, then studied the dark liquid that
wavered in the silver bowl and revealed her nervousness.  "Tell me, Lady
Rochelle.  What manner of deaths befell Reynaurd's offspring?"

She swallowed her panic.  "Poison."

He lifted his gaze to hers.  "Then 'tis obvious.  A
woman performed the deeds."

"How so?"

Becket's fingers brushed hers.  Dear heaven, he took
the container from her grasp!  She dare not breathe, not move, not even blink,
for fear he might realize his error in accepting drink from her hand.

"Because, my pale temptress, poison is a woman's
tool that takes no strength of body, merely a trusting male, like your father
trusted in you.  Methinks
you
performed the ugliness and but shift the
guilt to suit your ambitions."

 "How like a male to twist the truth so as to
divert the blame.  You consider that not being caught is equal to
innocence."   

To keep from staring at the chalice and thus increase
his suspicions, she glanced at the darkening sky beyond the window.  "When
upon the bluff, I inquired if you had been scorned by a woman, but you buried
your secret with a change of subject and distracting accusations."  She
met his hooded gaze.  "Tell me, Sire?  Why so little faith in the fairer
sex?"

"Because a woman possessed so little faith in
me."  He lowered his focus and swirled the liquid within the bowl. 

Drink, Becket. 

Want me. 

Love me

He merely continued the rhythmic swirl as if to see the
past within the ruby depths.  "She refused my proposal because I was
landless and she wished not to wait until I regained my birthright."  He
scoffed.  "She had spirit, a misplaced sense of independence."  He
met her too-attentive gaze.  "Like you."

Watching her watch him, Becket raised the rim to his
mouth.  She fought to slow the pace of her telltale breaths.  But instead of
drinking, he inhaled the fragrance.

Surely he noticed the added scent.  Hating deception,
she quelled the urge to scream the truth about the love potion, and yet because
of his so recent arrival, he might be unaware of the difference in the wine’s
bouquet.

Becket studied the chasing on the goblet as if to
admire the engraver's skills.  "Then when her father grew impatient with
her obstinate nature and forced her to wed a landed friend of mine against her
will---as did your father with you---she poisoned him on their wedding
night."  He lifted the goblet in salute.  "Just like your father died
after drinking wine from your hand." 

 With deliberate movement, he tipped the chalice.  The
dark liquid streamed onto the rushes along with her ludicrous hopes.

Rent by painful disappointment, she clenched her hands
to prevent striking his arrogant chest.  "To blame me of murder is an easy
accusation, knight.  Prove my guilt."

"Reynaurd gasped of betrayed trust, then pointed
in your direction."

"And in yours."

"You held the tankard."

She winced. 

He tossed the chalice onto the window seat.  "If
not you, Lady Rochelle, then who?  Who slew your father's bastards?  Who killed
your father even though he lay but heartbeats from death?"

"If not you, knight, then
indeed
who?  And
why?"

He glanced at Pierre.  "And why the children? 
Bastards are not allowed to inherit in France.”

Hands fisted at his side, Becket strolled to the side
of the bed and stared at her brother.

"Despite what you believe, Lady Rochelle, I do not
kill innocents.  And until I understand why some evil soul thirsts for such
deaths, I will keep your secret.  I will protect Pierre."

Joy burst past her fear.  As did that accursed
unquenchable hope.  As did another piece of her heart, which by now must look
like Swiss cheese.  And yet, if he forgave Pierre and his tainted blood, might
he forgive her?

"However, misunderstand not, my lady.  Although I
tolerate Reynaurd's seed within Pierre, I will not allow you a child.  In
truth, the discovery forces me to a decision.  I must have a legitimate heir. 
I will wed another as soon as I have signed the annulment papers."

"
Non!”
  Shattered hope pierced her already
hole-ridden heart, then fury.  “You swore your vows before The Almighty.  Dare
you risk God's vengeance?"

"I have already tasted God's vengeance.  When but
a lad.  When I promised him my soul in exchange for my father's life.  He
rejected me.  I returned the slight."

A creak sounded behind her.

Becket jerked his gaze to the door.  With the speed of
lightning, he leapt and swung wide the barrier.

Griselda gasped in apparent fright, her hand poised to
rap.

"What do you here, woman?"

"Oh, addelty, ;paddelty, you
scared me, Sire..

Your bath is ready and by the fire.”

His tension didn't ease.  He merely nodded.  "You
may go now."  After shutting the door, he pulled on the handle as if to
make certain the latch held.

As Rochelle watched him move again toward the hearth,
her eyes widened with her realization that Griselda had unwittingly given
Rochelle another opportunity.  She cleared a persistent knot from her throat. 

"As chatelaine, Sire, 'tis my duty to bathe
you."

He paused as if caught off guard by her suggestion. 
"Stay away from me, Jezebel.  I bathe myself."  Then he continued his
saunter toward the fire as if unaffected.  And yet, in some almost-disbelieving
part of her soul she knew her enemy felt drawn to her.  The knowledge
strengthened her determination.

"In truth, my seductive falcon, a woman already
awaits my message of victory.  Lady Anne.  I wondered how to inform her of the
unexpected change in plans, for I never intended to exchange vows with you,
vows that complicate more than you will ever know.  But to conquer without shed
blood---"

"Except for my bleeding heart."

He gave her his back as he studied the tapestry above
the hearth.  "Unlike you and my former betrothed, Lady Anne is a woman of
a more compliant nature, quiet, shy, and will produce the required heirs.  I
will ask no more of her, which is best for all concerned.  No expectations.  No
disappointments.  No mind-clouding emotions to interfere with the important
matters of life."

"No love?  No passion?"

He laughed.  "Such emotions are for women and
fools.  I surrender my love and passion only to DuBois."

"As do I, knight, thus not all women are fools. 
And yet, you will never experience the sharing of such emotions with another,
even if 'tis over DuBois, for Lady Anne will never love this land as do I.  Her
blood will not rush when a lark sings or when the morning light tints the snowcapped
Pyrenees with the first blush of dawn.  She will not swallow her tears of joy
over the swelling grapes upon the dew-kissed vine." 

"And she will not poison me."

"Neither will I, knight, although 'tis what you
deserve.  Besides, you gave me until autumn.  I expect you to honor your
word."

He lowered his attention to the rushes at his feet as
if in thought.  "To prevent awkward confrontations, I will wed Lady Anne
at her birthplace, dally there a while in hopes my seed will take root.  I'll
not bring her here until you depart."

"And what of Pierre?   He will die without
me."

He moved toward the door.  "I'll arrange for him
to accompany you to the convent until he is of age.  Then I'll secure him a
position as an apprentice in a trade."

She caught his arm as he passed.  "Always a
perfect answer.  But not for me, knight, for once he leaves, I'll never see him
again."

"Life isn't always as we choose, Lady Rochelle. 
Be grateful I protect him.  Take comfort that he will learn, not the ways of
war as do most lads of nobility, but a more gentle livelihood."

"So, I am the only casualty in this battle of
wills."

"At least you live.  However, I fear your farcical
vow to obey me will strain the bounds of my graciousness."  He removed her
hand from his forearm, squeezed as if to signify importance, then released
her.  "I warn you, Lady Rochelle.  Don't push me beyond the edge.  No more
attempted seductions.  No more betrayals with Gaston.  No more attempts to
poison me."

"Never, Sire!"

"I smelled the bitterness."

"Not poison.  A . . . a love potion."

"By whatever name, my scheming falcon, 'tis still
poison.  One more such treachery and you go to the dungeon.  What will happen
to Pierre then?"

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

"
B
ecket had better be
dead."  Gaston plunged his hand into the waterfall, then swiped the
iciness over his clammy face to ease his nausea.  The throb in his side pounded
like a red-hot anvil.  "If he isn't dead, then why the delay?"

"Becket keeps her here."

"He consummated the vows?"  Gaston swallowed
bile and sank against the cold stone hidden behind the cascade of water. 
"Curse him to hell."

"He hasn't taken her virginity.  At least, not
yet."

"Then kill him before he does."

"I am not without sense, Gaston.  This very
evening we tricked Lady Rochelle into offering him poisoned wine.  She believes
'twas a love potion."

Gaston released a sigh of relief.  "I'll destroy
her maidenhead tonight, even if in my weakness I have to drug her and take her
virginity by other means.  Then I'll exchange vows with her before Becket's
body is discovered."

"He's . . . he's not dead."

"But you said---"

"I saw him exit the chamber."

"Did he stagger?  Mayhap the poison hadn't had
time."

"He practically ran down the stairs in his haste
to leave."

"What about the chalice?"

"I know not.  You awaited here and so I---"

"Fool!   What if Lady Rochelle drinks the poison? 
All our plans will be buried with her.  You are worthless to me.  I should slit
your throat, forthwith."

"Then who will aid your cause within the walls? 
My mind is in a muddle, 'tis all.  The boy.  He almost drowned."

"You risk all for a plaything?  What if he
does
die?  There are many young lads to satisfy your warped tastes."

"But not like Pierre.  His eyes---"

"I suffer pain from this hellish wound, cheat
death to accomplish what you do not, risk being caught by Becket's
knights----they're thick in the woods.  If they knew this area as well as I, I
would already be rotting in that vile dungeon---and you whine about Pierre's
eyes?  I warn you, if our plans fail, you'll never see his eyes again because
yours will be impaled upon a hot poker, right before I mutilate you so
grotesquely that you'll have difficulty even having bodily functions, much less
sharing your body with pretty little boys."

"I told you before, don't threaten me."

"Then make certain Becket and Lady Rochelle stay
apart.  Fuel the flames of their hatred.  If you want the boy, then kill
Becket.  If you fail, then
I
take Pierre." 

He heard the gasp, then the rustle of fabric. 

"I won't fail, Gaston.  Here, I brought you food
and laudanum.  In the bottom are additional gold coins.  And to help you
escape, I brought you a disguise."

Gaston groaned as he grasped the sack and bundle of
cloth.  "My strength drains at a dangerous pace.  I must hide until I
heal.  I doubt Becket has had time to fortify Moreau, but…"  Inspired, he
pushed from the wall.  "Of course.  Paris."

"Why there?"

"Our mysterious usurper boasts that he possesses
DuBois on the king's orders."

"So?  Who in Paris would you dare question about
the truth?"

"King Jean,
mon ami
.  King Jean.”