Love Thine Enemy (29 page)

"How do you know ‘tis Gaston?" 

Sire Becket’s demanding tone drew Rochelle’s attention
from her own shame to Griselda’s panicky expression.

"Oh, addelty--"

"
Sacre bleu."
  Sire Becket grasped
Griselda and shook her. 

"You frighten her!"  Rochelle placed her hand
over Becket’s, shocked by his instant stillness from her touch.  "In truth,
Sire, I have never heard her speak without rhyming."

Sire Becket inhaled a controlled breath as if for
composure, then enfolding Rochelle’s shaking hand into his strong one, pierced
Griselda with a glare. 

"Then tell us in your own way, woman, with addelties
and rhymes and any other oddities ‘tis your wont, as long as ‘tis the truth. 
Tell us how you know her father is Gaston."

Griselda glanced at the latch as if judging the
distance to freedom.

"Gaston knew.  Right at the
start.

He bade me to silence, else he’d cut
out my heart."

"He knows?"  A chill shivered through
Rochelle as she stared at the witch-like woman for verification.  "He
knew, yet wed me to his son, my half-brother?  He secured dispensation from the
Pope to wed me himself?"  Rochelle held onto Sire Becket’s arm to keep
from falling.  "He attempted to ravish me?  And he knew?"

"Ah, but ‘‘tis the
perception
that matters’, he said.

So he bade the priest to cover your
head."

"The wimple!  I don’t understand what my hair has
to do with the truth.  And naught you have said proves Sire Becket and I
weren’t both sired by Lord Reynaurd."  Grief numbed her with a death-like
chill, freezing her threatening tears.  "Even if Gaston himself claimed me
as his daughter, ‘twould only be a possibility, not a certainty."

"You surrender with too much ease, my eager
falcon."  Sire Becket's eyes blazed with his distrust.  "Do you
already plot for another to share your bed?  One whom you believe will secure
for you DuBois?"

"Fate deals us an ugly hand!  Do you not yet
understand, Sire Becket? ‘Tis over.  ‘Twill never be.  Never."

The pain that slashed across his face surely mirrored
her own.  "Do
you
not yet understand, Lady Rochelle?  If you say we
are never, then you force me to wed another.  And yet, I desire you."

"There is no proof!"  Torn further by his
admission, Rochelle crossed her arms over the ache in her stomach and whirled
to face the fire incapable of melting the ice that had become her heart. 

"Your hair." 

Griselda’s gravely comment drew a startled laugh from
Rochelle.

"I care not how disheveled my hair, Griselda. 
Other concerns plague my soul."  Rochelle froze, then turned toward the
old woman who had haunted her from her first memories.  "You didn’t
rhyme.  You didn’t...Of what import is my hair?"

"Your hair is the same shade as your
mother’s."  The confession tumbled out, hurried, whispered, as if she
feared someone might overhear.

"Nonsense.  I look nothing like her. 
Lady
[C1]
 
Beatrice’s was
copper-hued."

"Her babe died soon after birth but before she
discovered the tragedy, so Gaston practically ripped you from your true
mother’s womb to make the switch and planted you in the cradle." The old
woman sidled toward the shadows between the hearth and the desk.  "In Lady
Beatrice’s dazed condition she never knew.  Neither did Lord Reynaurd."

Confusion stirred Rochelle’s numbing grief.  "I
don’t understand.  You mean, I have another mother?    Who?"

"Gaston’s wife."  Griselda eased further and
further into the shadowed corner.  "Gaston pushed her off a cliff shortly
after she gave birth.  To destroy the evidence, he claimed."  She
skittered a frightened glance about the room as if nervous that someone spied. 
"Proof exists you and Sire Becket are not related."

"Tell me how you know this."  Sire Becket moved
forward. 

Griselda crouched, pulling her hair over her face as if
to disappear.

"Addelty paddelty.  Dangerous
talk.

Addelty paddelty--"

The door slammed against the wall.  "Becket!  You
must not consummate this marriage."  Lady Isabelle stormed into the
chamber, then halted, face pale.  "What is that witch, Griselda, doing in
here?" 

"Mother, leave us!" 

"I fear for your life, Becket."  Lady
Isabelle swept the goblets onto the floor, the wine draining into the rushes
like spilled blood.  "These
two
witches seek your life."

Sire Becket grasped her arm and guided her into the
hallway.  "See to Lady Anne."

"But--"

"Do not return unless I bid you come."

"Fool!"  Lady Isabelle wrenched from his hold
and marched in the direction of the stairs.

Sire Becket motioned to what must have been someone in
the hall.  "Davide, guard Griselda until the morn when I shall question
her further."

"Your union is doomed!"

Rochelle spun at the old woman’s wailed warning, but
saw nothing.  Not even Griselda!

"Doomed" echoed in haunting repetition from
beyond the far wall until but a sinister whisper.

"
Sacre bleu.
  Another secret
passageway!"  Like an animal on the attack, Sire Becket vaulted toward the
corner where Griselda had last stood, Davide and Banulf in his wake.  "So
many tunnels weave through the structure, I’m surprised the castle doesn’t
crumble like a sugar confection." 

While the knights searched the chamber, Sire Becket
beat upon the walls, tugging and pulling on stones and moldings, reminding
Rochelle of when she had searched for the still-missing document that
supposedly proved Becket as the rightful heir.  But how could the parchment
support such a claim when even his own mother named him a bastard? 

Sire Becket roared with frustration.  ‘Tis unnerving
when my enemies know more about DuBois than do I.  An error I must correct--but
on the morrow."  He motioned to his knights.  "Leave us."  

Sire Becket faced her, and she caught her breath. 
Desire flared like hot flames within his sin-black eyes.  Her heart fluttered
like a moth desperate to fly into the destructive fire of his passion. 
Rochelle moved to the window and gripped the cold sill to clear her mind.  The
silvered landscape gleamed too serene for the turmoiled night, the
cedar-scented breeze too gentle.

She heard the door close, the lock click, then the
measured pad of his footsteps as he neared her.  Uncertain what he intended,
she forced her heart from her throat with a strained swallow.

He stroked the length of her hair.  "Gaston’s
daughter."

"Bittersweet tidings."

"Mayhap ‘tis unwise this joining of ours.  Many
uncertainties still swirl between us." 

His change of purpose twisted within her chest like a
broken dagger.  And yet she had known he would reject her at the most
heart-rending of moments.  ‘Twas well she discovered the truth while she still
had her dignity.  She wondered how long she had before he sent her away or
killed her – either would have the same painful effect.  Stiffening her posture
along with her battered pride, she focused on the valley that blurred to liquid
silver within her unshed tears. 

"I agree ‘tis unwise,
mon sire.
  Too many
whys and wonderings plague us.  And even though Griselda claims she has proof
we are not siblings--and I believe her--we both know you would never mingle
your seed with Gaston’s."

She felt her tresses being moved aside.  Coolness
gusted against her nape, replaced by the heat of his breath.  A shiver of
enjoyment coursed down her spine.  And yet he only amused himself--at her
expense.

"Be grateful you are no longer tied to me by
pretense,
chérie
.  Your past
passion for me might have been but a farce in order for you to remain at
DuBois. 
C’est vrai,
n'est-ce
pas
?"
 
As
he nuzzled the back of her neck, he trailed his fingers from her wrists to her
shoulders, tormenting her with hints of pleasures he would never allow.

"Your suspicions blind you to reality."  She
shuddered from the brush of his mouth against her flesh.  "And yet I
harbor my own skepticism.  In the great hall when you feigned the desire to
consummate the marriage, I wondered why the sudden shift of your discipline. 
Now I know.  Either 'tis revenge against your mother, or for you to secure your
claim on DuBois by also keeping my bastardy a secret.  If you have chosen for
us not to join, then what do you intend with me now that I know your secrets?"

"What do
you
intend?  To use the truth
against me, then to entice another to win back for you your golden prize?" 

To her surprise, he hook his fingers under the fabric
on her shoulders and persuaded the silk to slither downward in surrender along
with her retreating discipline.

"Sire, you are most likely but curious to sample
the once-forbidden."  The wayward bodice snared upon the tips of her
breasts.  She caught the fabric, pressing the silk to her chest.  "And
then what?  Do away with me so as to wed your precious Lady Anne?  But you have
as little claim to the land as I.  She might not want you now.  If she knew."

She sensed his movement.  His withdrawal?

"Do you threaten to tell her?  I warn you that,
should you consummate the marriage with me, you might grow to hate me, my
lady.  Mayhap you already do." 

"
Non
, I..."  She faced him.  Her heart
stumbled at the sight of him. 

He had tossed his jupon upon the window seat exposing
the magnificence of his moon-bathed torso.  His linen hose hung loose on his
hips, needing only the slight encouragement of her fingers for them to reveal
all of his warrior-hardened physique.  Against her will, she forced out another
argument, anything to distract herself from wanting the unattainable. 

"And I wonder, Sire, if all your secrets are yet
revealed."  Her tone sounded much too husky for nonchalance.

"And I wonder if, because of my secrets, you will
side with Gaston to plot against me."  He ambled toward her, naked muscle
and raw power.

"So many uncertainties."  Her laugh sounded
tight.  "At least you are not English."

He stopped in front of her, sad resignation in his eyes. 
"You will destroy me."

"
You
will destroy
me."

He grasped her hands and encouraged them from her
death-grip on her bodice.  The released silk tumbled to her waist. 

His breath hitched.  "Sculpted from
moonbeams."

Her nipples tightened.

She fought for her voice.  "’Tis unwise, the
joining."

"Oc
.  Unwise." 

As if reeling in a tether, he pulled her into the
warmth of his embrace.  Her chilled breasts pressed against his heated chest
and she gasped from the virgin intimacy.  He tilted her chin upward until she
saw only the face of the man she loved more than her own life but could never
have.

"And yet where you are concerned
,
chérie
,
I
am not wise at all." 

He claimed her mouth along with her will, tasting,
searching, possessive.  She should fight him. She sank into the strength of his
body, ran her hands over the warm steel of his shoulders, tangling her fingers
in the silken mass of his hair.  Incredibly soft.  And the tang of cedar.  Her
favorite scent.  Oh, dear heaven, she wanted him.  How to entice him to make
her his wife?

He warmed her lips, sliding his tongue into her mouth
with as much ease as he had stolen her discipline.  He tasted of spices and
wine. 
Delicious.

Driven with an impossible mixture of self-protective instinct
and bold assertiveness, she stroked his tongue with her own.  Sire Becket
groaned, pressing her tighter against his chest.  She knew she should be
terrified of this man who wielded such power over her, but an insane instinct
deep within her assured her this warrior would not hurt her physically.  Ah,
but emotionally...

Sensations she had struggled to disregard surged to the
surface and across her sensitized flesh, followed by jealousy.

"Lady Anne will never have you, my powerful
stallion."  She muttered the threat upon a breath.  "I will sear all
remembrance of her from your soul."  Rochelle wrapped her fingers around
his rock-hard manhood that unsettled her, amazed her.

She caught his groan within her kiss. 

"Love leaves one vulnerable."  He whispered
the truth over her wet lips.

"Vulnerable."

Hearthfire and moonlight blended as he tumbled with her
onto the bed in a tangle of arms and legs and naked desire.  She writhed as he
stroked her, tasted her, worshipped her. 

Too confined within her ribs, her heart flew from out
of the protection of her body to hover past her reach, beyond retrieval.  And
while her heart quivered, she melted.  Burned.