Carolyne Cathey (48 page)

The
sound of mumbled voices piqued her interest.  Curious as to what her father
said to the stranger in such secretive tones, she glanced over her shoulder.

Becket
stood beside her father in deep conversation, one foot propped on the stool,
one arm at rest on his mail-clad thigh, his helmet dangling from his fingers. 
Her father nodded and whispered in response, his expression intense.  Becket
jerked up his head and slammed her a stare mixed with icy hatred and stormy
indecision, then he lowered his head again.

Rochelle
wondered again about Becket's hatred and for whom.  For her father?  For her? 
And of most import, why?  And why had he glared at her in such a manner?  The
unanswered questions swirled into a rapid vortex of foreboding that sucked the
breath from her body.

Her
father gestured as if to prove a point.  The knight stiffened, then stilled.

The
fire hissed a warning.

Becket
placed his foot on the floor and straightened.  He turned, then drilled his
gaze into her fractured courage.

Trepidation
crawled up her spine and lodged in her throat.  Angered with her timorous
reaction she lifted her chin and met his stare, refusing to acknowledge her
strained nerves that threatened to shatter like hand-blown glass. 

Her
father lifted his hand, moaning from the effort.  His chest heaved for silent
moments as if he garnered strength.  "What think you, Becket?"

The
knight stood beside the bed, his head at a thoughtful angle, his iron cap
supported beneath his arm, the image of relaxed confidence.  He perused her. 
No, more than perused.  He appraised, assessed. 

"She's
an attractive woman.  'Tis pride you should feel, not scorn."

"You
see her as a wench to rut, is all."

Mortified,
Rochelle clenched her hands.  Heat stung her face.  "You speak thus of
your own daughter?  Will not even death‘s presence---" 

Her
father’s deep, hacking coughs brought from him a cry of pain.  "Call the
priest, Rochelle.  Have him bring . . . papers.  He'll know . . . the
ones."  He coughed again and his face drained of all color.  "Make
haste."

"The
priest?"  Her heart plummeted.  Even though her father had never shown her
the attention she craved, the reality of his last moments, the finality . . .
Rochelle rushed into the hallway and bumped into Jacques who hovered just
outside the door.  A lone knight guarded the entrance.  Her lungs tightened. 
He would carry the information to Gaston. 

“Jacques,
is this one of the Sire Gaston’s men?” 

The
knight’s eyes narrowed as if she’d insulted him.

Jacques
shook his head.  “He‘s the knight‘s squire, milady.”

He
was surely too old to be a knight's attendant, but the direness of the moment
suppressed the inconsistency.  As to Gaston’s missing guards, she gave thanks
for the unexpected and hoped they remained absent.  Shaking, she grasped the
aged servant’s gnarled hands and noticed his were also shaking.

"Jacques, call
Père
Bertrand. 
The master needs him
at once.  At once!  Tell him to bring the appropriate documents.  And bring him
in secret.  The Sire de Moreau must not know when Lord Reynaurd dies."

Jacques
nodded and hurried down the dim hallway, apparently as upset as she, as well he
should be.  If she failed to defeat Gaston, all of them would suffer.

Panic
slammed a fist into her feeble confidence and she grasped at the wooden
doorframe for support.  Her father mustn't die!  Not yet.  She hadn't learned
the details of the bargain.  She didn't have a plan. 

She
hadn't told him she loved him. 

Startled
by her sudden emotional weakness, Rochelle swiped at an errant tear, then
stiffened her spine.  Her father would be ashamed of the unexpected splintering
of her spirit.  He admired strength.

Although
her mind stumbled along the rocky path of her thoughts, Rochelle aroused a
facade of serenity.  She straightened her shoulders and brushed at her skirt
the same dead color as the floor rushes.  Then with a deep breath, she lifted
her chin and re-entered his chamber.  While she crossed the room, the knight’s
wanton examination raked the length of her body. 

Curse
his insolence.  Ignore the knave and concentrate
.  Gaston awaited her
father's last breath which hovered but a heartbeat away.  The time for
confrontation advanced as fast as her father's life drained from his body.  She
must decide what trickery would encourage Gaston to leave the chateau so that
she could barricade the gate.  Her strategy demanded her critical attention. 
One misstep . . . Rochelle stumbled and grabbed for the center table.

As
she fell, Becket lunged, caught her waist and pulled her against the hardness
of his armored side.  Heat flashed from his hands and up into her chest,
singeing unexpected warmth throughout her body.  Amusement flared in his dark
eyes where once he had revealed his hatred.  One corner of his mouth lifted in
a sardonic grin.  "Does someone distract you to the point that you cannot
tread without mishap across a smooth floor?"

"Release
me, knight."  Shocked that he read her so easily, she pushed against his
chest, but he pulled her tighter against his body as hard as her lungs. 

"Perhaps
you merely long to throw yourself prostrate at my feet.  Make another attempt
and I promise to let you fall."

Her
fragile composure snapped.  She shoved from his hold.  Fists planted on her
hips, she met his hot gaze, flame for flame.

"Heed
well, knight, you stare at steel named Rochelle, and I'll rust before I crumble
into a heap at your feet, so keep your hands and your thoughts to
yourself."

Her
father's rasping coughs belittled her ire.  He gasped for air, then settled
deeper into his cushions.  "Rochelle is . . . rock-hard . . . the way . .
. I raised her."  He drew in another labored breath.  "Someday . . .
you'll thank me."

Something
mysterious hung in the air, unseen, but felt.  What transpired between the
two?  She glanced up at the knight who watched her as if he anticipated a
cause
célèbre
. 

"I
protest your rudeness, knight.  You study me as if I'm a ewe, up for
purchase."

Becket's
smile widened, the display of a man with a winning bid.

Alarmed,
she looked at her father for clarification, then froze with the horrid
realization of how rapidly he slipped into an unknown world.  His face appeared
waxen, bloodless. 

With
a shaky hand he grasped the knight's arm.  "The bargain stands?"

He
had told the stranger of the bargain, and not her?  No.  Intuition whispered
they referred to a different covenant, one newly forged.  A draft of suspicion
swirled cold in her chest.  A vise squeezed her lungs.  Her senses leapt,
alert, and pounded a warning in her ears. 

Rochelle
studied anew the man who stood before her, the man with the too-handsome
countenance, the man who exuded confidence, and who suddenly terrified her more
than Gaston.  She attempted to swallow, but the dryness of her mouth felt as if
she had eaten sour grapes.

Rochelle
lifted her chin and dug her nails into her palms to prick her courage. 
"Knight, who are you----in truth?"

Becket
laughed, an unexpected reaction, then shrugged.  "I've been told I'm God's
gift."

"God's
. . . gift?"

A
wry grin curved one corner of his mouth.  "According to your
father."  He shifted his stance while he set his iron cap beside the wine
tankard upon the wooden chest, then he straightened to face her again, legs
apart, as if ready to do battle and certain of victory.

She
cocked a brow in response.  "Pray, Sire, indulge my curiosity.  Gift . . .
to whom?"

"To
you,
demoiselle
.  At least, 'tis what your father claims."

Rochelle
took a step back.  "I demand an explanation."  She retreated another
step.  Every instinct within her screamed for her to flee.

Her
father emitted a pained cry, his face death-like.

Torn
between whether to ignore her father who treated her with such contempt or to
cradle him in her arms, Rochelle took a hesitant step toward the bed.

"Rule
her as you will, Sire Becket. “  Her father’s face contorted in a grimace. 
“But never allow Gaston . . . to have . . . DuBois.  The agreement
stands?"

"Rule
me as he wills?"  Horrified, Rochelle jerked her gaze to Becket.

He
watched her, mischievous expectation aglow in his eyes.  He rubbed his hand
across his mouth as if in contemplation, then he nodded toward the door. 
"Lady Rochelle, look behind you."

"Gaston?" 
Panicked, Rochelle spun to the open doorway, but no one had entered.

"Hmmm. 
Quite pleasant.  Now face the window."

Bewildered,
she glanced at the closed shutters, but nothing seemed amiss.

"Ah,
a delightful silhouette from every angle.  How fortunate.  Now to me, Lady
Rochelle.  Look at me."

She
froze with humiliated realization.  He had turned her for his inspection like a
prize sow.  Anger stiffened her spine; heat burned her cheeks.  She faced the
roué
with a glower that dared him to utter even one more word.  "You go too
far, knight, from misplaced humor to banality.  I am not livestock."

"True,
demoiselle
.  You are bartered goods in a wicked trade."

"Bartered
goods?"  While her anger rose, his lurid gaze assessed every curve of her
figure.  Suddenly, her neckline seemed too low, her bodice too tight, her hem
too high.

Becket gave her a
slow wink, his face alight with devilish amusement.  "She's acceptable,
Lord Reynaurd.  I’ll take her."

***

Thank you for reading
The Wager
.  I hope you enjoyed
Eleanor’s and Lord Kyle’s story of love, passion and survival.

Carolyne
Cathey