Love Thine Enemy (11 page)

He stepped back as if burned.  "Your eye has
improved.  Now, explain."

She blinked to clear the fog that clouded her mind and
stole her concentration, for she couldn't seem to remember the subject of their
discussion.  "Explain?" 

He scowled.  "You crafty vixen.  Tell me for what
you search."

"Ah.  That."  Rochelle moved her foot to
retreat, then remembered the keys.   Placing a hand on a cocked hip in an
Angelique-like stance so that the hem of her gown swung out over the ring, she
shrugged and released a sigh.

 "
Très bien
.  I merely behave as an
exemplary
wife
by helping to find the papers of which you seem so fond,
but I expect no gratitude for my efforts.  'Tis but my
wifely
duty."  Knowing he would never swallow such garbage, she held her breath
in wait for him to draw his sword and make two of her. 

As if he heard her musings, he tightened a choke-hold
on the hilt.  "The papers?  You hope to destroy the evidence?"

She felt the blood drain from her face.  "
Non
." 
Her voice sounded high and guilty, although she didn't know why since she told
the truth.  After all, she attempted thievery, not destruction.

Becket lifted his gaze as if in prayer.  "Oh,
distance me from lying tongues."

She scoffed.  "A difficult request unless you send
your tongue across the Pyrenees.  And while you're at this blessed parting, you
might increase the distance and send the rest of you over the Alps."

"Ah, another challenge." 

He flashed a grin that sent mysterious waves of heat
along her flesh. 

"For one, I refer to
your
lies, as well you
know.  But even so, you tempt me to demonstrate the diverse ways I can pleasure
you with my devilish tongue to convince you I am best left whole."  He
turned toward the bed with feline grace and unfastened his sword.

Grasping the chance, Rochelle knelt and reached under
her skirt for the---

Becket spun, and before she could yell, he had her
sitting atop the chest with her back against the wall and his knee between her
thighs.  He had already run his hands up her legs and waist and moved toward
her breasts.  Instinctively, she splayed her hands over her bosom, but Becket
grasped her neckline and yanked open her bodice.  Buttons peppered the floor. 
Cold air chilled her exposed flesh.  He stared at her breasts for several thuds
of her heart, then he lifted his gaze to hers, apparently as shocked as she.

"For what did you reach, Lady Rochelle?"

She couldn't breathe, much less talk.  She could only
seem to stare at him, her mouth as wide open as her bodice.  She attempted an
answer, but nothing emerged, so she forced a swallow.  "The . . . the
keys."  The incriminating admission floated out on a strained whisper.

Puzzlement furrowed his brow.  "Keys?"  Then
he glanced at the floor and chagrin flickered across his face.  "Ah. 
Keys."  He shifted his attention back to where she sat in total
dishevelment splayed astride his thigh, her skirts almost to her waist, the
edges of her unfastened bodice still gripped in his fists.  She knew she should
yell or fight, but amazement still stunned her that he moved with such speed. 
And yet, he hadn't harmed her, but had merely ripped all thought from her mind.

She cleared her throat.  "A form of knightly exercise?"

"I thought you were going for a dagger."  He
scorched a lingering gaze along her legs, then raked back up and halted at her
breasts.  "My error. 
Pardonez moi."

"You, a fierce warrior, fear an attack from a
defenseless female?"

"A quick slash across the throat or the back of
the neck can end a life faster than a sword."  He raised his ebony gaze to
hers.  "And I assure you,
cherie
, you are not defenseless.  You
possess a weapon against which even my armor has no protection."

He shifted his weight, pressing his knee tighter
against her womanhood.  Sudden terror shoved her hands against his chest, but
he grasped her wrists.  "Now, where were we before we ended up in this
exotic entanglement?"

She had no idea.  Still dazed, she moistened her
suddenly dry lips. 

Desire pooled into his eyes like molten jet.  "Ah,
yes.  Tongues."

Rochelle's heart shuddered to a stop. 

Becket leaned toward her and he smelled of cedar and
smoke and DuBois wine, and she wondered what punishment he intended.  Surely he
couldn't harm her with his tongue.  But then, he might only intend to lull her
into acquiescence and then strike out with savagery as had Marcel. 

His hypnotic gaze held her spellbound as he lifted one
of her hands to his mouth.  Prepared to scream, she tensed, in wonder if he
might bite.

"To demonstrate, my skittish falcon, the tongue is
one of the most potent weapons of this mortal flesh." 

He stroked his tongue, all hot and wet, across her
palm, and a shiver rolled up her spine. 

"Taste is one miracle.  In this instance the
flavor is slightly smoky, with a hint of cedar. . ."  He gave her a knowing
glance.  ". . . from rummaging among my possessions."

He intended harm after all.  Apprehensive with this
extraordinary form of punishment, Rochelle tugged against his hold, but he
merely continued the moist caress down the tender inside of her wrist.  Surely
he felt the betraying beat of her rampant pulse.

"Another marvel of the tongue is the forming of
words, which can build or destroy, cause war, bring peace."

She should cease this carnal use of her body, but
curiosity ruled otherwise.  She would merely remain on guard and unaffected in
hopes passion overwhelmed his discipline and lured him to consummate the vows. 

"'Tis used for truth."  He cocked a dark brow
as his sharpened gaze pierced hers.  "Or lies."  Then like a giant
cat, he laved her other palm and the sensitive flesh of her other wrist.

Despite her aloof intentions, heat slid from his touch
through her throbbing veins to unexplored regions of her body.  She struggled
to bolster her instincts that warned her to beware, but each stroke drained
strength from her body.

"Words topple kingdoms, inspire cathedrals."

He lowered his mouth to the side of her face.  Her
wimple must have slipped, because his warm breath teased her ear, then his
tongue dipped into the recess, and an extraordinary yearning melted into her
breasts, into her womanhood.  A hunger.  An emotion never experienced before
Becket, and yet, addictive.  Suddenly weak, she sank against the wall, the
voice of warning too faint to heed.

"Tongues either comfort, or curse.  Spout hate. 
Declare love."

Her eyelids fanned closed and she felt the brush of his
rough-smooth touch across one lid, then the other.  Rochelle quivered to the
marrow of her bones.

"But the greatest gift of the tongue is given
without words:  The gift of pleasure."

 His wine-scented breath warmed her mouth, then he
caressed his tongue beneath her lower lip.  Rochelle stiffened with unbidden
recollections from when Marcel had bitten her.  Becket paused.  When she
glanced at him, she saw that he concentrated on her scar, his eyes narrowed,
his mouth set in an angry line. 

"Lady Rochelle, how did you receive this?" 
Controlled revulsion slid out with his words.

Sickened, she closed her eyes.  He found her repulsive,
flawed.  And yet, what could she expect after the perfection of Angelique?  She
shook her head, unwilling to relive her nightmares.  "'Tis of the
past."

He squeezed her hands but maintained a gentle hold,
much like a wolf with a stubborn cub.  "You'll find me a most obstinate
man."

Her eyelids popped open at that confession.  "In
truth, Sire?  If you hadn't admitted to obstinacy, I would never have
noticed."

"Sarcasm flows with such ease from such beauty.  I
know not why the information is important to me, but 'tis so.  Tell me."

Insincere flattery again.  But then, if she revealed
the horror he might understand some of her fears.  Rochelle glanced down at
their clasped hands, hers white and rather delicate and fragile next to his
which were large, darker skinned, more callused.  Becket tightened his hold
another notch as if to give her courage.

"He . . ."   She took his offered support and
gripped in return, then cleared the persistent lump from her throat.  "He
bit me.  Marcel.  He pretended to kiss me, then clamped my lower lip with his
teeth and bit through."

"Bastard."  He inhaled a ragged breath. 
"And did he cause the scar around your nipple in the same way?"

Pain speared through her memories.  A soft cry escaped
her throat as she attempted to wrest free and cover her ugliness, but Becket
pressed her hands against the wainscoted wall, widening the opening of her
gown, further exposing her imperfect breasts, leaving her more vulnerable to
judgment.  Unable to escape, she fought the urge to cry and inwardly withdrew
to behind her stone wall, turning her head to hide the traitorous molten trails
that slipped down her cheeks.  She felt him shake as if enraged, but she
couldn't stop the sob that wrenched within her chest and revealed her shame.

"Don't weep, my little falcon."  He licked at
her tears.  "'Tis unfortunate Marcel is already dead.  For daring to treat
you . . . any woman thus, I would have savored sending him to hell, one painful
portion at a time."  He caught another tear with the tip of his tongue. 
"Salty, like your nature.  Mine, salted by fire.  Yours, by
persecution."

Stunned, she studied his face through the hot tears
that slipped down her face and between her marred breasts.  Despite his blurred
image, she sensed his suffering.

"I, too, am scarred, Lady Rochelle.  By Marcel's
father, Gaston.  And like you, most of my wounds are hidden deep inside where
the world cannot see.  Your scars are but badges of survival, laurels of the
flesh to admire." 

He caressed his tongue over the blemish beneath her lip
as if to heal, then swept a leisurely path between her parted lips,

Rochelle caught her breath, shocked by his confession,
his tender gesture, his intimacy that dared reach beyond her protective
barrier.  No, she must not allow his persistent assault to erode a lifetime of
carefully placed emotional boulders else she would be unprotected against an
excruciating cruelty beyond any she had ever experienced. 

He swept a path across one wet cheek, then the other,
then around the shape of her mouth, and her defense-wall cracked.

A mewling sound slipped out to expose her bemused
arousal. His surrounding power engulfed her and she felt as if he absorbed her
entity within his.  Of a sudden her eyelids weighed too heavy to keep open. 
She never dreamt any woman, especially her, could experience such wondrous
sensations.  She lifted her chin to encourage him to touch his sensuous lips
against hers, for she had much enjoyed his kiss that had caused, not pain, but
titillation.  Instead, he trailed a heated line to an incredible area beneath
her ear she never knew existed, then down the side of her neck and along the
opened edge of her neckline. 

Sensations bathed her flesh, warm, like the sun, like
summer rain, like Becket.  He ran his tongue to the valley between her
breasts.  Her chest rose and fell with labored breaths to draw in air that
refused to reach her lungs, breaths that matched the heaviness of his.  The
previous places of his attentive labors cooled in various stages and she felt
as if he still touched her with tiny feathers in all the former spots as well
as where he now stroked her to liquid heat.  Magic.  A moan flowed from her
throat.

A low growl echoed from Becket, a telltale cleave of
passion through his armor of control. 

"A cat, not a man.  Wild.  Feral."  She
whispered as an overloud thought. 

He growled again and swept his tongue a
strength-stealing trail along the underswell of her breast.  "And you, the
cream.  I would that I could drink my fill.  Perhaps I shall."

He might make her his.
 
Hope increased along with her rapture.  He moved in a spiral toward the peak of
her breast, toward the permanent reminder of Marcel's bite.  Painful memories
battled her arousal.  Instinctively, she fisted her hands and squeezed her
eyelids in preparation for pain.

"Have no fear, little falcon, I touch you only
with my tongue, naught else."  He continued his merciless assault along
the circular scar around her aureole and instead of fear, a mysterious, primal
ache unfurled from his attentions to virgin territories within her womanhood. 
Then he flicked his tongue over her nipple and her senses soared from her body
like the falcon he had named her.

"Why?"  She whispered her confusion as she
rolled her head from side to side, her eyes closed with her ecstatic torment. 

The silence beyond his ragged breaths revealed more
than any excuse he might fabricate.  "Because I can”, finally drifted
out.  Then he continued his sweet torture as if hungry, and she, a banquet. 
“You are within my power, mine to enjoy until the morn, in any way but
one."