Love Thine Enemy (4 page)

"Don't mock me.  'Tis greed that inspires
you."

Her father coughed.  "Do this . . . for me."

Rochelle's disobedience of her father's final wishes
ripped her resolve into jagged pieces of remorse.  She knew she caused him
torment, but her future depended upon her refusal. 

"
Non, mon père.
 
You've
lived your life as you chose.  Now I do the same."

"I'm dying.  Your stubbornness . . . "   He
groaned as if in pain.

Caustic drops of guilt spilled from behind her stone
wall and seared holes in her determination.  Surely words existed that would
change his decision if she could but dig them out of obscurity.  Her mind
groped at the first unearthed thought.

"This man is not as he seems,
mon père
.  He
possesses a hatred he seeks to hide, a danger--"

"Silence."  Becket grasped her arm as if
anxious and nodded to
Père
Bertrand.  "Wed us.  Now."

Panic tore along her nerves.  Rochelle pulled from his
hold.  "Stay back, knight!  Don't touch me!"

Coughs racked her father's body.  The bed shook.  She
shook.  Torn between determination and guilt, she approached the bed.  "I
beg you,
mon père
---"

"Obey."

Feeling trapped, she forced a breath into her lungs and
backed toward the door.  "And if I refuse?"

"Will tell about . . . Pierre.  He'll . . .
die."

Rochelle jerked to a halt.  The ultimate treachery, her
submission in exchange for Pierre's life.  Well, curse him!  She spun and swept
clear the nearby table with her arm.  Precious silver, jade and crystal crashed
to the floor.  Curse him!  She couldn't stack the stones of her defense-wall
fast enough.  The pain ravaged her soul.  Her body trembled with her rage, her
futility.  Tell him to roast in hell.  Tell him to---

Becket stepped toward her, the conquering knight.

"
Non
!  Don't touch me!"  She backed
around the table.  Crystal crunched beneath her feet like her broken dreams.

"Cease, Lady Rochelle.  The agreement is
made."

"But not sealed, knight.  Stay away from me."

"Reynaurd!” 
Père
Bertrand swatted his
fistful of papers on the bed.  “You realize Gaston will seek revenge.  'Tis a
dangerous folly.  Even if you insist, you should give her more time."

"Gaston won't have . . . DuBois."

"But, the bargain---"

"Is damned."

The urge to fight refused to let her relinquish hope. 
No, she would not give up, only delay.  Since her father opted for ruthlessness
she would match him in kind.  Defiant, she turned to the dying man she had
struggled so hard to love. 

"
Oui, mon père.
 
I'll
wed the man."

Then she would annul the marriage.  She refused to look
at the knight, the greedy swine who sought to rape her of her land.

"Lady Rochelle . . ."   Becket touched her
arm.

A bolt like lightning leapt from his touch.  Her gaze
collided with his and she saw his hunger for victory.  When he grasped her arms
she flinched from the strangeness that coursed through her body every time he
touched her, a heat, a flash of temptation.

"Don't fight me, Lady Rochelle.  You're in danger. 
More than you know."  Something mysterious flickered in his eyes, in his
tone.  A warning.

Her stomach twisted with pain as if Marcel had risen
from the grave and struck her with his fist.  Frightened, she pushed at
Becket's hands, but he refused release.  Her lungs ached.  She couldn't
breathe.

Père
Bertrand shook with
rage.  "'Tis a sacrilege!  I refuse to be part of this travesty."

Rochelle sighed as relief washed over her like a
calming stream.  The priest saved her from the devil.

And yet Becket exuded confidence, not defeat.  He
nodded toward the door.  "Henri. 
Entré.
"

The man too old to be Becket's squire stepped into the
doorway, sword drawn.

Rochelle stiffened.  Surely she misunderstood his
intentions, for no man would dare threaten a priest.

 
Père
Bertrand went motionless.  "You risk
your soul by coercing a man of God?"

Becket shrugged.  "The authority who wishes me as
lord of DuBois ranks almost as high.  The king."

Shocked, Rochelle jerked her attention up to Becket's
eyes so afire with dark determination.  "If so, knight, why didn't King
Jean send notice to my father?  Why didn't you mention the news at first
instead of all that pretense?"  She narrowed her gaze.  "Unless you
lie."

Père
Bertrand gripped Becket's
shoulder.  "I would see the king's seal of authority."

Becket shifted his gaze to the so-called squire named
Henri.  "Show him our authority."

Henri ambled into the chamber, the tip of his sword
pointed at
Père
Bertrand. 

Rochelle's blood drained from her face, leaving her
cold and clammy.  If Becket dared to threaten a priest, then a young
unfortunate like Pierre would be swept aside like discarded refuse and left to
die.  And yet she must react to the crisis of the moment and protect
Père
Bertrand. 

Rochelle jerked against Becket's hold.  "Let's be
done with this mockery, knight."

The priest stared at the papers he held in his fist,
then at the sword, as if weighing his options.  He retreated a step.

Becket grasped her icy hand.  She hated that she
trembled.  Summoning a facade of bravery, Rochelle straightened her shoulders
and lifted her chin, her body as rigid as her ever-thickening wall of defense.

Becket pulled up to his full height.  "
Père
Bertrand.  Perform the service.  DuBois is in need of a new lord."

No.
  Only until her father died, then
Becket would be dismissed.  The priest would surely agree to an annulment.  And
although her father claimed otherwise, the DuBois knights would aid her cause,
she knew they would.  Also she would appeal to the king, explain how the royal
coffers would receive increased taxes from a more prosperous DuBois if she
ruled alone.  As added surety, she would plead his majesty’s protection from
both Becket and Gaston.  Then at last, Pierre and DuBois would be safe.

Somehow, Rochelle stood erect while the priest blessed
what she would make certain would never be.  She struggled to answer at the
appropriate moments.  Every time Becket touched her hand or her arm, that same
frisson of heat unnerved her already shaky stability.  Every time he spoke a
vow, the fathomless timbre of his voice vibrated into her chest.  Her heart
thundered in response: 
Danger.

Becket turned her to face him.  Did he intend to kiss
her?  Were they now wed?  Bile rose to her throat.

"Now,
ma femme
, we must sign the
papers."  He guided her to the document-covered table where he scrawled
his name with a flourish, then he handed her the quill.

He called her his wife.  Numb with shock, she stared at
the sharpened feather, the vane stiff within her fingers.

"Sign the papers, Lady Rochelle."

The steely tone of Becket's voice prompted further
hesitation, and yet Henri pressed the tip of his sword against
Père
Bertrand's side.  She stared at the parchment that lay upon the wooden planks,
the edges curled at each end as if impatient to scroll into its proper form and
be done with the farce.

Her signature.

So official.

Perspiration trickled between her breasts, soaking into
her gown.  One error and Pierre might die.  With a prayer in her heart, she
struggled to steady the tremble of her hand as she dipped the quill into the
ink.  She took a deep breath for control, then scratched her name on the
certificate.

She heard Becket release a deep sigh.

Not for long, knight.  You'll not have me, or DuBois.

Père
Bertrand glowered his
anger at Becket. "Despite what you say about the king, unless you produce
the royal documents, all is for naught.  Gaston will still make a claim because
of a previous bargain with Reynaurd, and since Lady Rochelle is still a virgin
this marriage is not yet official."

A derisive laugh rolled from Becket's throat, then down
her spine.

"A pleasant detail, priest.  I'll bed her now. 
Before Gaston hears of the vows.  Before she attempts an annulment."

Rochelle spun to Becket.  The quill snapped in her
fingers.  Terror and disbelief nailed her to the floor.

Becket tightened his grip and nodded to the priest. 
"I'll bring the linens as proof."

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

"
N
on
!" 
Rochelle's knees buckled like her spirit. 

Becket trapped her between his metal-clad side and the
steel of his arm.  She caught at a sob and shoved against his armored chest,
but he merely tightened his clamp.  Battling to control her rising panic,
Rochelle stabbed him with a glare of hatred. 

"So, Becket,
Le Vengeur
, you reveal your
dark nature as did Marcel, from charming to brutal.”  She threw an accusatory
glance at her father.  "I warned you of hidden danger, but you would never
dare pay heed to me, a mere female."

Suspicion crept into the sunken depths of her father's
eyes.  "Who are you?"

Becket dipped his head in a slight bow.  "Your
enemy.  Back from the grave."

  "Enemy?”  Her father's eyes widened in an alarm
that surely mirrored hers.  “Have we met before this day?"

"Look to your past, old man.  The mystery lies
embedded within your treachery.  Remember me, then know who beds your
daughter. 
Revenge, Reynaurd.  Revenge."

"You dare to threaten us?"  Rochelle clawed
at his face.  If only she could reach her knights . . .

Becket winced and placed his hand over the red streak
on his cheek.  "You accursed woman!"

Rochelle jerked from his loosened hold and turned
toward the door.  She collided with the center table.  Pain rent from her hip
bone, mocking her unarmored frailty, reaffirming her impotence against Becket's
might, his steel, his sword.  Ignoring the hurt, she sidestepped the table and
ran for the doorway.

Becket grasped her wrist and jerked her to a halt. 
"
Restrain
your
impatience,
ma femme
."

"I am not your wife!"  She twisted against
his vise-like grip and only stung her flesh.  "I see the determination to
conquer in your sin-black eyes, but I am as determined you will fail."

"You
are
my wife.  Now, accept your fate
and show me to your chamber."

"When hell comes to claim you."

One corner of his mouth curved into a sardonic grin. 
"I'm already claimed."  He pulled her toward the door. 

"Then go there!"  She shoved him and darted
through the doorway, then crashed into Griselda, the old disfigured servant
woman who carried a tray of wine.  Rochelle stumbled over Griselda's foot and
fell.  Pain slammed into her knees and jarred her wrists as she hit the
rush-covered floor.  Tankards shattered around her; the aroma of DuBois wine
flooding her nostrils. 

Becket cleared the doorway and lunged for her ankle. 
"You little vixen."

Her pulse surged like a wild beast and pushed her
onward.  Disregarding her aches and stings, she scrambled over the mess but
kept stepping on her gown, then in frantic frustration, she jerked up her skirt
and ran down the dark corridor toward the stairs to the great hall. 

"Halt, woman!  I won't let one frightened female
destroy a lifetime of planning." 

Lifetime of planning
?  Terror of being
caught ripped the question from her mind.  Surely she ran through an invisible
river that, for some macabre reason, slowed her steps but not his, for his
footsteps neared at too rapid a pace, his heavy breaths rasped too close.  She
would never reach the staircase.  Rochelle forced air into her lungs and the
beginning of a scream tore from her throat. 

Becket snared her waist from behind and clamped his
massive hand over her mouth. 

Livid, she kicked back with her heels and sank her
teeth into his palm.

"
Sacre bleu!”
  He jerked his hand away. 
"I doubt I'll ever again be able to hold my sword.”  Tightening his arm
under her breasts, he carried her like a captured lamb along the hall they had
just traversed.  “Now, which way to your bed?"

She wrenched in his arms and struck backward with her
elbows hitting muscle and steel.  "
Mon Dieu,
knight, you're a worse
brute than Marcel, for he didn't possess a third of your strength."  She
bucked against his body.  "You'll not take me, Avenger.  I'll do all
within my power--"

"Cease, bride."

"Bride?"  Griselda, who had been a servant at
DuBois since before Rochelle's birth, brushed wine from her brown woolen
sleeves while she stood amidst the broken pottery and burgundy-stained rushes. 
Her gray hair straggled, witch-like, over her horridly scarred face as she
wailed in a gravelly voice.

"Take a bride and cause disaster.

Doubt me?  Addelty paddelty, ask
her."

Becket paused.  “Addelty paddelty?”

“’Tis filler words she uses to keep the rhythm.  Now,
let me go!”  Rochelle pulled at his vise-like hands for release, but she had no
more effect than the wind.

  “Out of my way, witch, or I’ll use you as filler for
a new wall.”  Becket continued his victorious stride toward the old woman. 

Griselda screeched like a madwoman, then crouched in
Becket's path, pale eyes peering through a wild mane of white hair.

"Marcel did try.  And now he's
dung.

She's hexed.  Bewitched.---"

"And you'll be hung!  Now, away!"  Becket
stomped toward Henri, his comrade-in-greed who leaned against the wall in apparent
enjoyment of the scene. 

As Rochelle struggled, she marveled at her gratitude to
the insane servant for her weird attempt at rescuing her lady.  The woman made
her nervous, always watching her from shadowy corners and appearing in odd
places as if by sorcery.

Griselda spun in a crazed type of dance.

“War and death will come, and worse.

On you I’ll put a deadly curse.

Addelty paddelty, think ‘tis drivel?

Take her."

She halted her spin, pointing a finger to below
Becket's waist.

"Watch your manhood shrivel.”

Becket froze, his face pale as he glanced at what would
have been the direction of his male part if Rochelle's body hadn't blocked his
view.  Then he scoffed.  "Nonsense.  And 'tis none of your affair,
woman."

"Oh, addelty paddelty.  Addelty paddelty." 
Griselda limped hurriedly along the dark hallway carrying the now-empty wine
tray.

Becket nodded to Henri.  "Watch out for that mad
woman and make certain no one warns Gaston until the proper moment."

Proper moment.  Lifetime of planning.
 
Outwardly she stilled, but inwardly her pulse raged so intense with her fear
and fury that surely Becket felt the wild throbs through his armor, felt the
gasping heave of her chest above his iron-like clamp.

Henri displayed a smug grin and raked her with his gray
gaze.  "Ah, the sacrifices men must make in battle.  If you're not willing
to make the thrust for victory, Becket, I offer myself for service in your
stead."

"This treasure is mine to claim, friend.  And only
my key will fit the lock." 

His deep-toned declaration rang like a death-knell to
her womanhood.  Becket swung her up into his arms in a possessive gesture and
her heart near leapt through her bruised ribs. 

"Now, wife, tell me the way to your bed, or I'll
take you into the first empty chamber I find."

Rochelle struck him with her heels.  "Leave me
be!  You will not bed me!"

Becket stormed toward the room occupied by her
companion, Angelique.

Rochelle opened her mouth to protest, but Becket kicked
the door against the wall.

Bathed in window-light, Angelique screamed in alarm
from where she held up a most-likely newly-received bauble from some dazed
admirer.  

"Lady Angelique, hide!"  Rochelle knew she
struggled in Becket's arms like a sheep carried to slaughter, but if she could
just break loose . . .

Becket tightened his hold and strode down the hall.

"Put me---"

The garderobe door splintered from his kick.  A
startled Jacques sat in half-naked dishabille over the hole in the bench.

Rochelle sneered up at Becket's stunned expression. 
"How romantic, and yet so appropriate.  Excuse us, Jacques.  Lord Becket
has need of this space.  He has a foul deed to perform."

Becket laughed and met her insolent glare.  "I
admire your fire,
ma femme
.  May you show such flaming passion when you
lie beneath me in your bed."

A vision of him sprawled nude across her, spiraled
unexpected heat throughout her veins.  Curse the man.  And her body.  And his
tongue that bested hers at every verbal clash.

"What the . . . "   Becket spun and jerked
his attention downward. 

"Don't hurt her!  Put her down!"  Pierre, her
five year-old half-brother pummeled Becket with his fists, throwing several
rapid kicks at Becket's armored shins.  To make the situation worse, Pierre’s
pet cat, as black as Pierre’s hair with a white splotch over its nose and
mouth, and usually draped around Pierre’s neck like a fur ruff, spit at Becket,
then launched himself at their enemy, claws bared, landing on the top of
Becket’s head.

"
Sacre bleu.”
  Becket shook his head as if
to dislodge the cat.  “'Tis I who have been accosted---by crazed women,
impudent scamps and wild animals.  Now, cease those kicks and get this creature
off of me before I use you both for fish bait."

Rochelle emitted a soft cry of alarm. 
"
Non
,
Pierre!  Run! 
And take Sire Spitz.  You'll both be
harmed."  She watched in helpless fear as her brother attacked, all moving
arms and legs, his hair as black as Becket's, his eyes, hard coals of anger.

“Don’t you hurt her!  And don’t you hurt my cat!”

Becket snarled.  "Enough, scamp!  I won't hurt
her.  As to this wild animal digging its claws into my head, I give no
promises.  Henri, get this beast off of me and grab this human windmill.  Who
is he, anyway?"

Rochelle's stomach knotted.  If she didn't distract
Becket, Pierre might let slip his identity and be crushed in the greedy
stampede for power.  Sire Spitz yowled and leapt to the floor as she yanked a
fistful of Becket's raven-black hair.  "Cease, you brute!  I'll tell you
the way, but set me down and quit terrorizing defenseless women, children and
pets.  Quit destroying DuBois."

He grumbled an oath, then nuzzled her wimple-covered
ear, his hot breath sending prickles of apprehension down her spine.  "If
I set you down, I can trust your word, can't I, wife?  You won't try to escape
me again?  You won't lead me into a trap?"

She glared her hatred at his amused confidence. 
"Trust me as much as I trust you."

"That little?"  Becket laughed, then lowered
her until her feet touched the rush-covered planks.

He held her against his body and stroked a finger at
the sweep of her neckline.  A peculiar burn singed her flesh beneath his touch
and confused her even more.  His touch.  So different from Marcel's.  And yet,
more deadly.  He paused at the top button.

Rochelle's gaze flew up to his.

The corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement, the
image of male superiority.  "Of course, my lady, if you wish, here in the
hallway is acceptable.  Then we'll have witnesses to validate this glorious
consummation."  He worked the button between his fingers. 

Her gown fell open to the next fastener.  She heard him
swallow a groan, although whether from lust or disgust, she didn't know.  Not
certain whether to add insult or relief to her fright, Rochelle slapped his
hand away.  "Up the stairs and to the right."

Becket showed a moment of surprise, then scoffed. 
"What an ironic twist of fate that I should make the final claim for
DuBois in that particular chamber."  He gestured for her to lead the way.

Rochelle narrowed her eyes and shoved her hands on her
hips.  "What do you know about my quarters?  Have you been in the castle
before this day?"

Instead of answering, he buried his momentary surprise
under a mask of mystery like all the other emotions she had seen flash through
his eyes since his arrival.  Then he lifted her into his arms as if she weighed
no more than goose down, and of a sudden she couldn't breathe.

"Just to make certain, Lady Rochelle . . .” He
carried her up the spiraled wedges like Sire Spitz with a prize mouse, proud of
his catch and eager for the devouring.  "In truth, 'tis best I carry you. 
So far you have stumbled when crossing your father's chamber, run into a table,
and fallen in the hallway.  However have you survived without me?"

"Why you arrogant . . . " She gripped the
back of his neck, part mail, part flesh, like the rest of him, wishing she
could snap the cursed bone in her grip.  But as he moved upward to the next
floor, his sin-black hair brushed over her fingers in a soft caress, an
opposition to his brooding eyes that gleamed in the torchlight as hard as the
stone wall that curved to the upper landing.  His breath wafted against her
face, smooth and spicy, and something warm unfurled inside her chest.