Love Thine Enemy (5 page)

As Becket scraped upward another step, he lowered his
gaze, then groaned again.  She looked down to see what held his attention and
saw that her gown gaped, exposing her.  Well, curse him.  She splayed her hand
over the opening and lifted her chin.

"I warn you, knight.  You expect me to behave like
a frightened sparrow, but you will find me more like a falcon with a keen mind
and sharp talons."

He grinned at her, his eyes stormy seas of lust and
hate.  "Then, my little falcon, I shall enjoy training you to come at my
whistle and to trill in pleasure while I stroke my fingers upon your soft
breast."

Rochelle gasped and tightened her squeeze on his neck.

Becket laughed.  He stepped up on the dimly lit
landing, then strode with her down the dark hallway toward her isolated turret
room---where no one would hear her scream.  Terror slithered along her nerves.

Determined to find out more about the enigma called
Becket, she curled her fingers into his hair and gripped.  "What did you
mean by a lifetime of planning, and by waiting for the proper moment before
someone goes after Gaston?  And exactly how much do you know about the DuBois
keep?"

Her curiosity must have only further irritated him, for
Becket kicked open the door, violating her sanctuary with as much rage as he
obviously intended to violate her body.  The crash echoed within the stone
walls and repeated the proof of his brutality, and then echoed again as he
slammed the wooden barrier closed.  Her heart lurched against her ribs, then
faltered as he slid the bolt, locking her in with the devil, alone. 
Unprotected.  Cruel memories of how Marcel had beaten her on their
unconsummated wedding day tore at her courage.  At day's end had come another
beating.  She had learned to hate the sunsets that glowed the same bruised reds
and purples of her swollen and battered face.  And yet this man possessed even
greater strength.

Becket stormed toward the bed.

"Sire, I insist you put me down."  Her voice
sounded strained, most likely from being forced around her cowardly heart that
had taken refuge in her throat.

He flung aside the pale blue silk covers she had made
with such care, the silver embroidery glittering like starlight as the gossamer
sailed to the rushes.   

"Yours to obey, my lady."

Then he dropped her like discarded refuse atop the cool
linens.  Frantic, she rolled to scramble to the other side of the bed, but he
shoved her back onto the mattress and placed his armored knee atop her
stomach. 

"Get off of me."  She twisted her body,
beating her fists against the metal plate on his thigh.  "'Tis humiliating
enough to be used like a newly purchased slave, but even more degrading for you
to accomplish this atrocity while dressed for battle as if you merely perform
another bodily function."

"Do you wish me naked, Lady Rochelle?" 

A sudden image flashed into her mind of him towering
above her in bare magnificence.  With stunned desperation, she shoved at his
leg that pinned her like a lodestone to the bed.  "I wish you didn't
exist." 

"Then berate Gaston for his failure to slay me two
decades past."  He increased the pressure of his knee into her stomach
until she ceased her defiant struggles.  She could barely breathe. 

In defeated rage, Rochelle dropped her head back
against the mattress and glared up at the knight who loomed over her like a
black-maned, silver lion, master of his kingdom.  Somehow she must convince the
animal to abandon his prey before the kill.

"Listen, knight, there is more involved here than
conquering an unarmored female.  You'd best examine the dangers you face.  Your
claim will not go uncontested."  Nervous, she licked her parched lips, and
his intent gaze followed the sweep of her tongue as if he were more interested
in her mouth than in her words. 

"Pay heed, Sire Becket.  What I say is of import. 
I offer you a bargain that will be well worth your consideration.  I have
land---"

His attention leapt to her eyes. 
"I
have
land." 

"Only if you consummate this marriage.  But I warn
you.  You dare ravish me, and I'll kill you at the first opportunity."

"Such a welcome for your doting bridegroom." 
Confident humor rumbled in his deep tones, and yet his eyes revealed a swirl of
hatred, lust, indecision, that hardened to ebony stones of resolve.  "And
I warn
you
, bride.  I will suffer whatever I must to accomplish my
goal."

"Even to bedding me against my will?"

The bed creaked in answer as he slipped his knee from
her stomach to atop the mattress, then he weighed like a boulder as he
straddled her hips, the victor over the victim. 

Trapped.
  A prisoner chained to
the bed by his metal-clad body.  Fighting hysteria, she stiffened as rigid as a
marble statue, her focus darting between his hands and his face, waiting for
the blows that would surely crush her jaw and cheekbones.  She dare not lift
her arms for protection until he struck, for he might tie her hands to the bed
as had Marcel so that she couldn't defend herself.  Her pulse lunged so hard
that her entire body throbbed like a giant heartbeat.

Becket caressed his gaze over the swell of her
half-exposed breasts.  "'Tis unfortunate the situation demands such haste
and precaution, for I would rather feel your bareness next to mine, skin to
skin, to explore your enticing curves with my hands, my mouth, but I cannot
afford for Gaston to barge in and find me unarmed and unprotected.  Ah, but
next time . . .”

His perusal stroked along her flesh as though he
mentally peeled the gown from her body.  Her breasts tingled as if bared to his
gaze, and the unexpected response startled her to defensive action.  "I
wish Gaston
would
burst in to deal with this devil called Becket."

Rage surely chastened his lust, for a muscle quivered
along his jaw, his eyes sparked anger, his grip tightened on her shoulders. 
"In Reynaurd's chamber I teased that you might enjoy the devilish part of
me, but perhaps I am too gentle and you desire cruelty, after all.  Perhaps you
prefer that butcher, Gaston, over me."

"Nay, what I prefer is that you and Gaston slay
each other and leave me to rule Dubois alone. I want no man."

Becket's eyes widened in obvious surprise.  He pushed
back on straightened arms, pressing her shoulders further into the mattress,
then seared his scrutiny over her face, her mouth, lingering on her open
neckline before he slid his gaze up to hers. 

"Ah, little falcon, you tempt me with a
challenge.  Such pristine certainty goads me to prove you in error, to make you
beg for that which you declare you do not want." 

With deliberate movement, he dipped his sword-callused
fingers into the well between her breasts.  Rochelle gasped at the intimacy, at
the fearful memories of when Marcel had squeezed her breasts until she had
cried out in pain, and she wondered if the same cruelty ran thick in Becket's
blood.

He partially withdrew his fingers in a slow,
flesh-melting caress, then he slipped them into the recess once more, then out,
and in again, slow, rhythmic, sensual, as if in demonstration of his future
intentions.  And with each stroke, a warm stream of sensitivity curled into her
tightening nipples, then slid past her bewildered fear and settled like a warm
ache in her womanhood.  Rochelle released a soft moan, in wonder of the
unexplainable sensations.

Becket's eyes darkened to midnight, his hatred
apparently overcome by desire, a different hunger than she had seen in Marcel's
eyes, an emotion that confused her and cracked her wall of protection. 

A spear of sunlight from the window shimmered on
Becket's mail as he leaned toward her, his full lips parted, his dark gaze
entrapping hers.  She went rigid out of instinct, not knowing what to expect. 
He smelled of cedar, and she knew the scent would forever remind her of when he
stole her lands, her innocence.

Cedar. 

The flash in the cedar trees. 

Bolstered by suspicion, an emotion she knew and
understood, Rochelle placed a restraining hand on Becket's metal-covered chest
and studied his too-near face to detect the truth.

"Sire, earlier you closed the shutters when I
stared out the window to see what caused the unusual reflection in the
trees."

Becket went motionless, but Rochelle sensed his hurried
search for a response.  She had caught him with his defenses preoccupied with
carnality.  A detail to remember for future use.

"Who are you, knight?  Who awaits you in the
forest?" 

False innocence washed over his studied expression. 
"What is your preoccupation with the world outside the castle,
ma femme
? 
'Tis inside the walls where your destiny lies."

She searched his fathomless eyes, but the ebony pools
remained hooded beneath his thick brows, an enigmatic combination of passion
and abhorrence, both directed at her.  She gathered her courage to push the
subject.  "Tell me, knight.  Who is outside this castle?"

"Ah, Lady Rochelle."  He breathed her name
like wind through tall grass while he drew his fingers down her cheek, the devil
intent on seduction.  "'Tis not the working of the earth outside the walls
that interest me at this moment, bride.  Another tilling hardens my plow."

She shoved at his shoulders.  "You merely seek to
distract me, knight.  I would have an answer.  Who is in the forest?"

All passion fled from his face, replaced by anger and
hate.  His gaze locked onto hers and she knew with ominous dread she wouldn't
like the news.

"My army, Lady Rochelle.  They but await my signal
to attack."

She felt the blood drain from her face.  "Your
army?  But King Jean would never allow you to take DuBois by force."  She
gasped.  "You lied!"  Fury flared within her breast, hot and
vengeful, and she pounded his shoulders with her fists.

"I tell you true, Lady Rochelle.  I am the king's
man on the king's mission." 

Before she realized his intent, he trapped her wrists
in one hand and pressed them against the mattress above her head. 

"Now, accept your fate, wife."

"
Non
!  I'm not your wife!  Not now, not
ever!  I will never again be controlled by a lying, cheating, manipulative
male."  She twisted, but to no avail.  The pressure of his hands and body
held her prisoner.  He drew up her gown and forced his armored leg between hers
protected only by the fragile veiling of her only, and threadbare, chemise.

"Such a sweet sacrificial lamb.  Take heart that
this offering will spare the death of those you love.  Now, cease your
struggles.  You only bring more discomfort to yourself." 

He pushed up over her and worked both his knees between
her thighs.  She knew in a moment of blinding clarity he would not fail as had
Marcel. 

"Please, Sire, don't do this."

He ignored her plea as he lifted the edge of his mail
shirt and stretched his armored body atop hers.  The metal strips of his
brigandine vest pressed as hard and complex as the man who wore them.  His
breaths increased.  His eyes steamed that he wanted her, and that he hated that
he wanted her.

Rochelle bucked to throw him off but only tightened the
pressure against his manhood.  "Beast!"

"I had hoped to make this more pleasant for you,
Lady Rochelle, but I will have you.  And there is naught you can say or do to
stop me from taking both you and DuBois." 

Becket locked his gaze onto hers as he reached his hand
between her legs.  Then through the gossamer of her chemise she felt his
rigidness press against her femininity.  In one thrust he could pierce through
the delicate gauze and through her innocence.

Panicked, she arched her back in an attempt to pull
away, wrenching against his body, but his weight held her to the bed and at his
mercy.  He rocked his hips into the wedge of her legs.  His maleness rubbed
against the silken barrier that covered her womanhood, teased, taunted, hot
against her chilled flesh.  Tension tightened like a bowstring along her spine,
for once he made the plunge for victory, she would forever belong to him like
chattel, his to do with as he willed, to abuse at his whim---released from
bondage only by death.

Becket leaned forward and brushed his lips against her temple. 
The scent of cedar sifted into her senses.  "Lady Rochelle, 'tis either
the surrender of your virginity, or the attack of my army.  You choose."

And then Pierre and others she loved might be killed,
for certain.

Rochelle stiffened in defeated resignation and
retreated behind her stone wall of defense where no one could touch her or hurt
her.  Against her will, tears slipped from her eyes in slow surrender; her lips
trembled; the pulse in her throat beat like a trapped bird lunging against a
windowless prison. 

"I submit to your strength, knight, but I pray no
child comes of this loveless planting."

Becket stilled, and the unexpected act pulled her from
behind her protective wall.  He had closed his lids, shutting off his hidden
secrets.  Then he fanned open his lashes and studied her, his eyes revealing a
mysterious inner struggle, but why, she couldn't imagine.  All she lived for
and loved would become his with one thrust.  And yet, without doubt he fought
an internal war, for his body trembled as if he didn't want to take her, as if
he did.