Carolyne Cathey (46 page)

"Lord Kyle,
you've been trained as a knight ever since you were a page.  And this land. 
'Tis of your family.  I won't let you risk all this for me."

"Nay, love. 
I've told you.  You belong to me."  His look of desperation deepened into
something more intense.  "'Tis beyond that.  'Tis a love for you so deep,
I no longer know where I end and you begin; 'tis all one within.  Yet, 'tis true,
my trail might be long and difficult.  Do you still want me, Eleanor?"

How could her
love have burrowed more into her heart?  "Lord Kyle, my brave warrior, I
will go with you anywhere you decide.  I would follow you into the secret lairs
of the nether regions."

He met her gaze. 
"'Tis where dragons lurk."

"Aye, love. 
I know."

Kyle cleared his
throat and sniffed.  "Well, then, I suggest we finish this game so that I
may ask you to follow me under the covers.  And when our grandchildren gather
about my knobby knees, I'll tell them how I won their grandmother in a
wager."

Kyle became but a
swirl in her blurred gaze.  "And I'll tell them of their grandfather, the
bravest of knights, for he slay the dragon."

Kyle glanced
toward the brazier and rubbed at his glistening eyes.

"Lord Kyle,
I vow to you, I will never doubt you again.  And I will never again
interfere."

"Hah.  'Tis
as insane a statement as Jerrod saying the world is round.  But I tell you
this, you may interfere as often as you wish.  You interfered in my dreary life
and brought me joy."

Eleanor smiled at
his confession, for she could already hear his wrath if she dared interfere
again.  Then remembrance of who returned for her tightened her lungs. 
"Kyle, what think you the king will say?"

He moved his piece
on the board, or perhaps more than one, she knew not, her gaze so focused on
his face. 

He flashed his
one-sided grin.  "Ah, you mean if I were to wager?"

Eleanor flinched
at the word.

"I'd say
that, rather than lose my loyalty, he'll do his best to find you a lordly
father.  Mayhaps even a baron or duke.  Someone who can be enticed into
admittance of another child, a daughter, so that King Edward can claim nobility
runs blue in your veins."  He winked, dewy excitement in his eyes. 
"Now, look at the board, love.  'Tis your play."

A shiver tingled
up her spine as Eleanor forced her gaze from Kyle's to the game.  The winning
play stood as before.  She moved her queen, then stared at the victorious line
to his king.

Kyle placed his
fingers under her chin and tilted her tear-filled gaze to his.  "Whisper
the word, love.  Me thinks King Edward has his ears pricked in wait for the
sound."

Whisper?  She
couldn't make any sound at all. 

Kyle let drop his
cover and moved toward her in naked grace, lithe, strong, magnificent.  The
chessboard cracked as the wood clattered to the floor. 

"I heard the
crack of thunder, love.  I'll roll you in the bailey this night. 
'Tis a promise."

Eleanor's laugh
sounded from deep inside, betraying her passion, for she could already feel the
mud on her bare backside. 

"I'll love
you always, my knight, my savior.  I'll serve you well."  Aye, she would
be his lady.

Kyle pressed her
amongst the fox, enfolding her in the warmth of his embrace. 

'Tis checkmate,
Kyle.  I fear you've lost."

"Nay,
love."  Kyle brushed his lips across hers.  "I haven't lost.  I've
won.”  He brushed his lips across hers once more.  “I've won."

The
End

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I
hope you enjoyed
The Wager!
  You might also enjoy
Love Thine Enemy
an historical romance sent in France, 1355 AD during
the Hundred Years’ War when England battled
for the French crown.

 The thieving knight steals
her castle then threatens to secrete her forever in a convent. 

Lady Rochelle’s only
option:   Seduce her enemy.

LOVE THINE ENEMY

by

Carolyne
Cathey

C
hapter
O
ne

Southern
France, 1355

“
T
RAITOR!  You'll never have
DuBois Estates! 

"
Hush
,
mon père
. 
Sire Gaston
merely taunts you with an empty threat.”  Lady Rochelle de DuBois pressed
another pad of hastily torn sheets over her father’s chest wound.  “The arrow
is removed as best I can for the moment.”  Trembling like an aspen leaf, Rochelle
wiped blood from her hands onto a hastily donned apron. The apparent fatality
of her father’s injury terrified her.  Yet terror struck hardest because of the
intruder whose brittle laughter now resounded within the stone walls of the
lord's chamber. 

Gaston,
the Sire de Moreau, a black-clad bulk of a man with a hawkish nose and with
eyes the gray of cold steel, hovered at the foot of the emerald-draped bed like
death impatient for a doomed soul.

“’Tis
not an empty threat, is it Reynaurd?” With a flick of his wrist, Sire Gaston
swirled his black mantle from around his shoulders as if readying a shroud,
then settled the wool over his arm. 

“You
think you’ve bested me.”  Her father writhed to one side as if to escape the
inescapable.  Perspiration beaded on his forehead despite the April chill. 
“You’ll not have Dubois.  Not as long as I have breath in my body."  He
collapsed onto his back, his chest heaving. 

"If
'tis your last breath that stalls the deal, Reynaurd, then I shan't have long
to wait.  Your death-stench befouls the air."

“Enough
of your goads, Sire Gaston!  I insist you leave.” Rochelle turned to escort him
to the door and to send for Griselda, the witch-like servant Rochelle despised,
but who had the gift of healing.

Gaston
whipped his sword against her stomach to block her path.  She froze at the
warning.  Rochelle frantically searched her mind on how to rout the fiend whom
no man had defeated, much less a woman.  And yet, she must.

“You
are not lord here, Sire, and never will be.”  Rochelle met his challenging gaze
that always promised power by any means, preferably sadistic.  “Now let me
pass.”

“Two
of my knights are posted outside this chamber preventing any from entering.” 
He grinned his malevolence.  “Or leaving.” 

He
moved the sharp edge against her waist, slitting the fabric of her faded gown. 
Refusing to cower, she glared at him.

“Your
efforts seem well planned, Sire Gaston.  As if you knew my father would suffer
injury this day.”

“For
naught!”  Her father slammed a fist upon the linens with a strength that surely
strained him.  "Never!  Never will you have DuBois."

"The
pact.  Remember?"

"This
wound you gave me canceled the pact!"

Gaston
shrugged.  "Many arrows flew toward the stag.  Perhaps another's pierced
your chest.  You have many enemies, Reynaurd."

"You
are the only one who benefits from my death.  I should never have signed that
devil’s bargain.”  Her father gulped a breath.  ”You made my life hell."

“
And
your afterlife.”

Confused
by the argument, Rochelle stepped back from the blade, then turned to grasp her
father’s hand as much to still the tremble of her own as to subdue him. 
"I don't understand
mon Pere
.  What pact?  What bargain?"

Her
father's eyes narrowed in desperation.  "As he said, Rochelle, he's come
to take possession of DuBois Estates.  He's come for you."

"For
me?  He has no claim!”

“In
truth, he does.”

Her
heart jolted against her ribs.  Surely her father uttered a cruel jest while he
groped for the tattered threads of his life.  “On what pretense?”

“No
pretense, Lady Rochelle.  By law.”  Gaston rubbed his hand over the vair pelt
covering her father as if judging the fur’s worth.  "You'll have no
relative after Reynaurd passes.  As your father-in-law, I'll take
control."

Apprehension
collided with her already frayed nerves.  Stunned, she fixed her gaze on the
hearth where flames devoured the defenseless firewood with as much voracity as
Sire Gaston hungered to consume her land.  Gaston - her father-in-law, due to
her catastrophe of a marriage to his son, Marcel.

Buried
anger for her deceased husband’s viciousness boiled anew to the surface.  And
yet, Marcel had been an innocent in comparison to his father, Sire Gaston.  Her
own father ranked a distant third on the physical scale of abuse and yet
equaled them all on the attempted annihilation of her emotions.  The men in her
slave-like existence had been no better than debauched, self-indulgent beasts. 

No,
she must fight to rule the Estate alone, without male domination, the only
certain way to rebuild the greatness that once was DuBois, the only certain way
to live a life free of cruelty.

The
only certain way to protect Pierre. 

The
reminder of her secret half-brother squeezed her lungs.  She had rescued him
five years ago from a candle-lit hovel cursed by the plague.  Her heart had
fallen into her hands along with his slick body when he had barely escaped from
the tomb of his dead mother.  Aching for someone to love who would love her in
return, she had tended him as if he were her own while trying not to raise
suspicion about his parentage.  For some mysterious reason, her father refused
to acknowledge the boy as his bastard, which meant no other man would consider
Pierre as more than a mere servant.  Especially a predator like Gaston. 
Especially if he witnessed one of Pierre’s convulsions. 

So
then, how to defeat the Evil Incarnate who postured before her in blatant
confidence? 

With
the truth?

Rochelle
faced the man who, unless she defeated him, would bring misery and suffering to
all who dwelled at DuBois Estates. 

"Sire
Gaston, you have no claim on DuBois, or me, because you are not, in actual
fact, my father-in-law.  Marcel never consummated the marriage before he
died."

"In
verity?  Or merely a plea of convenience?"

He
had not even paused for thought.  He had already known. 

"And
your proof, Lady Rochelle?"

"Proof?" 
Rochelle had expected that.  "Do you hope for an examination?" 

His
eyes flashed lechery before he burst into laughter.

Rochelle
rubbed her arms as she paced past the center table to the hearth that yawned
higher than her head.  Smoke mingled with the odor of blood that would surely
permeate her soul for eternity.  Yet in spite of the blaze, the blast of heat
failed to thaw the iciness that froze her chest and shivered her body. 

Trapped.

No,
she would not accept defeat.  Both Pierre and DuBois depended upon her
persistence.  She would prove her virginity to a priest if she must.  Gaston
couldn’t wed her to gain the lands because he already had a victimized wife. 
And he had no more sons to force upon her, which meant...

She
had won!

Fighting
a triumphant smile, she brushed back the wayward edge of the wimple that
covered her hair and turned to confront Gaston.

"Sire,
your son ranted numerous times about my blame in his inability to perform his
husbandly duties.  Servants overheard Marcel’s accusations.  The news spread
throughout the castle like the recent plague.  The servants will also testify
how he beat me on our wedding night and several times thereafter.  If Marcel
hadn't been slain by brigands while he traveled the road to Avignon, I'd have
died from his abuse."

Gaston
raised a brow.  "He didn't even prick his thigh to bloody the
sheets?"

Rochelle
uttered a laugh.  "And mar his precious flesh?  You knew not your son to
ask such a question." 

 “
Au
contraire.
  You knew
him
not.”  A twisted form of delight glowed in
his eyes.  “Besides, I bore witness to his admirable performance with wenches
and willing ladies. ‘Twas only you who failed to stir his lust.”  He shrugged. 
“Any man would beat a woman who affected him thus.”

Hot
rage flared against the cold tombstone of her memories.  She fisted her hands
at her sides and met the soulless granite of his eyes.   "No other male
will suffer such failure because of me, for I swear to you, no man will ever
touch me again - and live."

"Such
a righteous declaration.  But, erroneous.”  A grin curved one corner of his
too-full mouth.  “If I am not your father-in-law, then I will claim your hand
as . . . “  He nodded a slight bow.  “Your husband."

Rochelle's
heart constricted.  "You are already wed!"

Gaston
glanced down at the mantle draped over his arm.  An insincere frown wrinkled
his forehead as he stroked the black fabric with his thumb.  "She's . . .
dead."

"Dead?" 
Rochelle drew in a tight breath.  Trapped, after all. She threw him a glare. 
"Of natural causes?  Or does the father have the same brutal inclination
as did the son?" 

The
hatred in his eyes responded to her accusation, as did the tightening of his
grip on his weapon.  He ambled past the center table and toward her at the
hearth.

"I
refuse to wed you, Sire.  I plan to---"

"What
you plan matters not.  Reynaurd and I made a pact two decades past, mere
moments after you emerged from the womb.  In accord with the signed
arrangement, since you are the only surviving heir and unwed, I take your hand
and your lands.  And despite your threat to kill any man who touches you, I
will consummate the marriage."

Rochelle's
stomach roiled at the unbidden image of Gaston violating her body.

"Bastard!" 
Her father threw aside his covers and struggled to sit upright, blood seeping
through the bandage from the wound too near his heart. 
“Get
out!”

"Non,
mon père
! 
Be still!"  Rochelle shoved
past Gaston to the bed and urged her father to lie back upon his pillows.  The
chill of the Sire's laughter snaked up her spine. 

"You
cannot stop the inevitable, Reynaurd.  You'll be dead before the sun sets, then
DuBois will be mine.  I have already received dispensation from the Pope to
plight troth with my not-quite daughter-in-law.  As soon as a decent interval
has passed, of course.  On the morrow is soon enough for a wedding."

"Get
out!"  Convulsions racked her father's body so hard that the
gold-embroidered bed-hangings swayed.  He pressed his hands against his chest
and gasped for air, his life force seeping through his fingers like crimson
tears. 

Rochelle
whirled to face Gaston.  "Wait below in the great hall.  We will discuss
this madness further, though 'tis a waste of your time.  I will not wed you. 
Besides, I‘ve seen no proof of this bargain."

Agitation
flickered through Gaston’s eyes, overridden by assurance.  “Reynaurd’s
admittance is proof enough.  But never fear, my betrothed, the papers exist.”  
He sheathed his sword as he sauntered to her side, then lifted his hand toward
her face.  Rochelle flinched, hating the instinctive reaction she had acquired
after her abuse from Marcel.  Gaston stroked his rough finger down her cheek
and a shudder of revulsion slithered along her raised flesh.

"My
stubborn Rochelle, the madness is your refusal to accept what is.  If the
marriage was consummated, I have claim as your father-in-law.  If my son failed
as a husband, then French law declares you are not a true widow and must
re-marry.  And as of this morn, I am fortuitously widowed.”  He faked a frown. 
“Ah, well.  Today I grieve.  Tomorrow I wed.” 

His
expectant gaze chilled her to the marrow. 

“Sire
Gaston, how could you have already received dispensation from the Pope if you
didn’t kill her until this morn?”

Gaston’s
laugh frightened her more than his sword.  “Naiveté and slander within one
imprudent statement.  Timing and technique aside, the bargain assures DuBois is
mine.  If you don't willingly agree, then I'll take you by force.  As soon as
the vows are exchanged your knights will swear fealty to me or become prisoners
in my torture chamber."  Gaston dropped his hand to his side and strolled
to the door like a blasé paramour.  "Come when he dies, my little dove. 
Which will be soon.  He hasn't long."  The door clicked shut behind him.

Rochelle
stared again at her father.  Gaston spoke true.  Her father's pallor paled
ashen against the linens of his bed as if his earthly body had begun the
reversal to dust.  During the ugly moments with Gaston, her father had rallied
with his anger, but his rapid descent to nonexistence frightened her.  A wet
rim glistened beneath his lashes.  Only the specter of death could pull from
him such a weakness.  Surely, regrets weren’t the cause.  If so, he’d waited
too late for misgivings.

What
to do now?  Many lives depended upon her next moments.  Gaston’s guards posted
outside the door would prevent her from going for Griselda in an effort to save
her father.  In truth, she knew he was beyond hope.  And horror in the name of
Gaston stalked the halls in anticipation of her father's last breath.  No, she
needed information.  She needed a plan.