Love Thine Enemy (35 page)

"What did you say?"  His brow furrowed in
puzzlement.  Then his eyes widened as if realization dawned.  "You mean
you didn’t...Is that what upsets you?  That you think I don’t care for
you?"

"I know what I heard."

"You misinterpret what you heard."  He seemed
relieved.  Guilt-ridden.  "Henri told the truth, Rochelle I did suffer for
weeks because of you.  ‘Twas so obvious even a simpleton could tell."

She wrested against his hold, but he merely tightened
his grip, an urgency in his expression that matched his tone. 

"How could you not know, Rochelle?  I considered
you my enemy, but I wanted you more than I wanted DuBois. I hated myself for
desiring you, but I desired you more than my hatred.  Once I relented and took
you as wife, I experienced joys I had not believed possible, a frightening kind
of happiness, almost as if I had lost myself in you.  The emotion excited me,
terrified me at one and the same time."

"You think to delude me again, knight, but I am
wise to your purpose."

"You have seen me these past weeks.  Since my
arrival, have you ever known me to laugh more, to show more exuberance for
life?  Never.  Not any day since my birth."

"The answer to your exuberance is as easy as your
conquest of DuBois and the gullible chatelaine--you had achieved your
goal."

"I achieved a goal I didn’t know existed.  With
you.  Surely you must know how I feel.  I...I..."

She waited for him to finish, praying he would say he
loved her.

He closed his eyes, and her broken heart dropped in
pieces at his feet. 

"I have no right. Lady Rochelle.  Not now.  Not
yet.  Mayhap, not ever."  He fanned open his lashes and she saw his
determination.  "We will have this one more indulgence.  We will finish
celebrating our togetherness.  We will live this day as if ‘tis our
last."  He urged her through the gate and into the garden.

"Our last?  Do you mean the war?  Do you mean you
leave me never to return?  Or that you put me in a convent?"

"Life makes no promises.  Neither can I."

He forced her to the grape arbor where Pierre rested on
a pallet, most likely exhausted from so much play.  He tied the damp blindfold
around his eyes.  "And as I said before the unwelcome interruption,
Rochelle, ‘tis my time to hunt. 
Pierre, spin me."

Pierre
leapt
up as if
honored
to do
Becket’s
bidding
and
eager
for
another
game
.

"Surely you jest, knight." Rochelle grasped
the arbor lattice for support.  Much to her horror she wanted him and loathed
him at the same time.  "Mayhap later we may continue this sensuous
frivolity when I am convinced of your sincerity."

"We only have now.  This moment.  We might never
have another."

Panic tore at her indignation.

As Becket turned within Pierre’s hands, Rochelle struggled
with what to think.  Her heart wanted to believe him.  Her pride retreated
behind her hopeless excuse for a defense-wall. 

Love.  An emotion for fools. 

Feeling very much the buffoon, she darted past him
toward the gate.  A grasp stopped her steps, increased her pulse.

"Ah, a snare.  Mayhap in my search for the truth,
my quarry will discover truths as well--the secrets of my scarred heart."

Rochelle’s breaths sounded shallow and fast, out of
place in the peaceful day, and although the fountain murmured, the birds
twittered, the leaves whispered, none gave her an answer to her quandary.

Becket waved a hand in dismissal.  "All others are
banished while I explore my hostage.  I will tolerate no interruption, not even
if one hundred messengers and the king himself cross the moat."

Sire Spitz mewed as if Pierre had awakened him, then
the gate latch clicked shut.  Rochelle knew she should leave as well, before
Sire Becket destroyed her.  And yet, she feared he already had, for she could
not make herself leave his warmth for the coldness of solitude.

"My mysterious prisoner, I intend a slow, detailed
inspection of you with all my senses except sight, and yet my heart will tell
me what my eyes cannot see."

Rochelle’s wayward pulse throbbed a lament.  She loved
him.  He loved her not.

"Now, whom do I hold?" 

He ran his hands over her shoulders and she dug her
nails into her palms to keep from exploring him in return.

"Too tall for Pierre.  Which means I only must
choose between Lady Angelique and the fair Rochelle.  And Henri, of
course."

She smiled through her tears, grateful he couldn’t see
his affect on her.  And yet, surely he knew.

He caressed her face, brushing his thumbs over her wet
cheeks, teasing her wounded soul.

"Like newly formed porcelain.  Except warmer. 
More flawless.  I can tell ‘tis of great beauty.  Which eliminates Henri. 
Although he would argue the point."

Rochelle choked on a sobbing-type laugh.  What power
this man possessed to make her smile despite the disaster, a power which made
her love him even more--love mixed in with her hatred.  She should be
terrorized that he might force her into a convent.  She should be plotting how
to escape if he succeeded in--

He feathered his fingertips over her mouth and
feathered away her thoughts.  Tingles skittered from his touch and made a
mockery of her wrath.

"Your lips are like a moth’s wings as she sips
from the dew-drenched poppies."  He outlined her mouth with his tongue. 
"But more delicate.  And yet, I am not ready to guess your identity.  Mayhap,
if I taste." 

His breath fanned her lips, then his mouth claimed
hers, gently at first, like the brush of the silken blindfold against her
cheek, then deeper, more urgent, his tongue teasing her away from judgmental
rigidity.  She allowed him the plundering of her pride. The reason for her
anger, blurred.  Sensual ribbons of desire flowed through her breasts.  She
pressed them against his chest to ease the ache, sliding her hands around his
neck to keep her from sinking at his feet where lay her broken heart.  He
groaned, then broke away, his breaths rapid and labored.  He swallowed as if
for control. 

"A familiar kiss, I’m blessed to say."  His
tone sounded as strained as her discipline.  "Far more intoxicating than
the DuBois wine.  Must be the nectar you sipped from the poppy."

She bit her lower lip to keep from smiling and crying
at the same time. How she would miss him.  No, she celebrated his going.  No,
she abhorred his going.  What a tangle, her emotions, as tangled as her fingers
in the black luxuriance of his hair 

He nuzzled her neck, inhaling deeply.  "You scent
of the DuBois breeze fragrant with roses and wildflowers, sunshine and ripening
grain, yet sweeter, richer.  And since I didn’t sicken on the aroma of violets,
Lady Angelique is definitely eliminated."

Rochelle laughed aloud, pleased that she loved the only
man who didn’t worship Angelique.

"Ah, ‘tis like the musical laughter of the woman
who has captured my soul, the sound like trickling rain on a parched spirit. 
And yet, mayhap you are some fey creature, a woodland fairy sent to dizzy me
with confusion, a will-o-the wisp to drive me insane with want for
ma
femme. 
‘Tis certain I would know the taste of Rochelle’s flesh, recognize
the satin texture of her skin.  Thus with tongue and touch I must explore all
the ins and outs of you to detect your identity without doubt."

His voice shook as if with reckless need.  A need that
matched hers, for she throbbed for him inside and out as if he had already
explored her.

As if ‘tis our last.

A great ache overwhelmed all other emotions.  She
needed him.  Now.  And forever.

We only have now.

Afraid to let him go, she pulled him down on top of her
on the pallet, memorizing every feature of his sun-dappled face, tempted to tug
aside the fabric that hid his sin-black eyes.  

Becket fumbled with her buttons, she with his laces. 
He growled with frustration, then abandoned his efforts and drew her skirt to
her waist.

He seemed beyond speech, only rapid breathing,
desperate hands and urgent mouth.  As if absorbing her--for the last time.

Panic threaded through her desire.  This man she loved
intended to risk his life for France.  How dare she give him less than her
all. 

When he nudged her thighs wider apart, she encouraged
him to settle atop her, etching into her mind the vision of his muscular body
above her, relishing his feral power, his maleness.

"Through my senses I know you are beautiful,
fragrant, passionate, like my love Rochelle, but I must experience one final
exploration before I am certain you are
ma femme
."  His words
sounded strained, barely controlled.  "I must sink into your slick depths,
discern if we are a perfect fit."

He slid inside her, slow, meticulous, as if savoring
every sensation. 

Groans seeped from her throat.  Perspiration beaded on
his brow above the makeshift blindfold.

"A perfect fit.  You are perfect.  You
are--Rochelle.  And I must see you."  He tore off his blindfold, and tears
shimmered like melted stars in his midnight eyes.

Working his powerful hips, he undulated inside her,
deep, steady, primal, stirring her vulnerable soul to moan the truth.

"Ah, Becket,
je t’aime, mon amour.
 
I
love you."

Her confession seemed to strip away his discipline. 
His movements intensified, his thrusts more frantic, the torment within his
eyes more desperate, his Romanesque features more strained.

"Fly with me, Rochelle.  Soar with me, away from
the world, away from kings and wars.  Away from death.  The falcon and the
winged Pegasus, high, higher still, beyond the moon where only we can go. 
Where no other mortal can find us for eternity."  His tears spilled to
mingle with hers.

One last time.

Determined to never let go, she held on.  And soared.

He caught her cry within his mouth.

Then he shuddered, and planted his liquid seed deep
inside her womanhood.

She drifted with him among the stars, then against her
will, the world called them back.  She tightened her hold as firmly as her
closed eyes that failed to stem her renewed tears.  She merely wouldn’t release
him, ‘twas all.  Never.

He brushed kisses over her wet lashes.  "So
beautiful.  My precious gyrfalcon."  Then he rested his forehead against
hers and sighed a ragged breath as if he, too, hated the return to reality.

"Lock the gates when I’m gone, Rochelle.  Take in
no strangers no matter what hell is going on beyond the borders.  I’ll leave
enough knights here to guard you.  And heed me well.  This is of most import. 
Don’t leave DuBois for any reason.  Even if you hear I am slain.  Promise
me."

Her hold increased to a death grip.  Burying her face
against his shoulder, she shook her head in denial, struggling with every fiber
of her being not to break into sobs.  He hadn’t said he loved her, hadn’t proved
that he hadn’t used her, but at that moment she didn’t care.  She loved enough
for both of them.

"My brave knight, you must not die.  But I vow,
should I chance upon that horrid King Edward, I will slay him, not only for
endangering your life, but for all the ravages he has brought upon our people. 
I did not believe ‘twas possible, but now I hate the English even more."

C
hapter
T
wenty-Five

"
I
want DuBois and Moreau,
your majesty.  And Becket’s death.  That’s all I ask in return."  Gaston
fingered his beard as he studied King Charles of Navarre to garner a reaction. 

Charles,
Le
Mauvais
,
people called him.  Charles, The Bad.  A name that indicated a terrorizing
brute, not the short statured, smooth-talking man who sat across from him. 
Height aside, Charles had a reputation of intelligence, quick-wit, amorality,
and a love of intrigue.  A man like himself.  The common bond assured Gaston of
success.

"You offer yourself as spy, Sire Gaston?  What
qualifications have you for such dangerous manipulations?"

"I have access to your cousin and father-in-law,
King Jean.  He expects me to bring him news from the Western regions that will
assure his victory over the English.  But what if I mislead him?  Assure his
defeat?  You have greater claim to the French throne than does King Edward. 
You could play one king against another, then with my assistance, take the
crown for yourself."

"And in exchange, I give you DuBois and
Moreau."

"And Becket’s head."

"Why do you bargain with
me
?  Why not with
Jean?"

"King Jean claims DuBois and Moreau for
himself."

Charles eyes widened as if with surprise.  "He
didn’t even offer you the prize in payment for your skullduggery?" 
Charles laughed and pushed to his feet.  "Of all the French kings, Jean is
the most inept."

Following protocol, Gaston stood as well.  "You
and I have similar natures, your grace.  Don Carlos lies brutally slain by your
hand because he dared assume your title of Comté d’Angoulême and pertinent
lands.  I want an equally cruel death for Becket.  And I want DuBois and
Moreau."

"What makes you think I have knowledge of what
happens within English camp?"

Gaston laughed.  "All know of your not-so-secret
meeting with the Duke of Lancaster at Avignon.  Rumor is rife how your sister
and aunt pleaded with King Jean for your life because of the meeting.  As I
said before, he predicts a bloody future for you--his words.  Why wait until
you rot beneath the ground, when you could have, not only Navarre and
Angoulême, but all of France? 
And
King Jean’s life."

"You make me curious as to this Becket who stirs
such hatred within your breast."

"Increase your malice for Don Carlos a hundred
times, then you will realize a small portion of my abhorrence of Becket.  Do we
have a bargain?"

"Mayhap.  Give me several days to decide."

"He will die either way.  You might as well profit
from his death and win a crown."

"If you want DuBois and Moreau, my eager spy, then
I suggest you wait until the bargain is sealed.  First, I would see Sire Becket
for myself."