Love Thine Enemy (8 page)

She dared to face him, as determined to win as he. 
"'Tis not a problem you expose with your refusal to bed me, Sire, but a
solution.  I could retain the responsibilities of the estate and you could take
a leman."

His mouth curved into a sardonic grin.  "How
inventive.  I should be pleased.  How rare for a man to be offered such
privileges by his wife."

Her crushed hope struggled to re-form what could never
again be whole, at least not without scars, but she bore so many inner scars
that a few more might never be noticed once the rawness dulled.  Hope, even
disfigured, shone better than despair.

His obsidian eyes met her desperation.  "Your
suggestion poses another quandary, my lady, and one I fear you cannot solve. 
You see, I must have an heir.  And an heir must issue forth from the womb of my
wife, thus my dilemma while in your chamber."

Despite the chilly wind, perspiration beaded on her
brow.  He wove another strand of separation she must destroy.  "I would
bear your child.  Surely we could tolerate each other long enough to accomplish
your purpose."

"Ah, the ultimate sacrifice.  The offer of your
maidenhead to your enemy.  Your desperation to succumb to such revulsion
reveals how much you love DuBois.  How well I understand, for I have clawed and
suffered every moment of my existence from my father's murder until this
day."

He
understood
.  She struggled to
remain calm despite the leap of optimism within her chest.

"But you see,
cherie
, I would never plant
my seed in your womb, for then Reynaurd will have won.  I refuse to allow his
evil blood to mingle within my child."

Despair crushed her hope once more, perhaps never to
recover.  He wove such a dense web of separation she could barely see the
chateau through the silken strands.  And the more she fought to tear down his
sticky logic, the more entrapped she became.  

"And because of who sired you, Lady Rochelle, I
cannot even toss you to my knights for their pleasure since any breed you issue
might someday threaten to take DuBois.  Which means I can never allow you to
bear a child, which means you have no purpose here.  You can be neither wife
nor leman, not for any man.  Reynaurd's seed will die with you, wiped from the
earth for eternity."

Pierre. 

How far would Becket go to obliterate Reynaurd’s seed? 
How far had he already gone?

Rochelle licked her lips, knowing she must say or do
anything to stay, at least until she received outside aid, for once she left,
she would have lost.  And what about Pierre’s convulsions?  The thought of him
somewhere alone and dying, either by illness or by Becket's revenge because her
father had sired him, pierced panic through her chest.  Only one more argument
still stood among her slain suggestions as a weapon against the web and its
creator.  She stared into his eyes as dark as twin caves.

"Then, Sire, I'll stay here to help run the
estate."

"And have you, my enemy, as a constant reminder of
my hellish past?"

He grasped her arms in a too-strong grip.  And yet,
'twas her heart he crushed within his grasp.

"You are fortunate I don't slay you on the spot,
Lady Rochelle.  At least I allow you to live, a kindness not shown to my
father."

She jerked from his hold and backed against the wall. 
He moved toward her until he loomed a mere silken strand away, entrapping her
between the cold stones and his dangerous warmth, the spider about to stab the
fatal sting.  No, she must find his weakness and thrust first for the kill.

His weakness.

His claim.

She inhaled a breath for courage and peered up at his
relentless expression.

"How do I know your heirship is true?  Where is
your proof?  Perhaps the accusation of your father's heresy held truth.  You
were but a lad at the time.  As for Gaston---"

Hatred flew from his eyes with a falcon's swiftness and
shoved her harder against the wall.  He drew to his full height, his mouth a
tight line as he raised his rage-trembled fist in front of her face. 
Frightened, she shoved at his chest.  "You dare to strike---"

"Never call my father a heretic!  As for Gaston,
do you think he will aid you even though he is chained below ground?  Or do you
taunt me because you know the third person in the unholy trinity?" 

He grasped her shoulders and she winced from pain as
his fingers dug into her flesh. 

"Who, Lady Rochelle?  Who is he?"

"I . . . I know not, Sire.  I only heard this day
of the bargain and I have yet to learn all the facts."

"You lie!"  He raised his clenched hand to
strike.

A scream leapt from her throat.  She lifted her arm to
block the blow.

Becket slammed the side of his fist upon the wall.  He
smashed the wall again as if he wished he had hit
her
, instead.  "I
would never be able to trust you."

Had he been contemplating her staying until she erred
with her tongue and sealed her fate?  Bile stung her throat at her tragic
stumble.

He pinned her like a moth to the wall with his anger,
the hatred in his eyes more pure, more bright.  "I refuse to live with the
worry you might attempt a poisoning in my wine, or a stab while I sleep.  As of
now, Lady Rochelle, I consider us annulled."

"But the linens!  You showed them as proof."

"'Twas blood from my thigh."

"And I'm your only witness."

He narrowed his eyes until they seemed as black graves
of doom.  "Heed me, and heed me well, Lady Rochelle.  If you refuse to
confess the truth, then you will spread wide your lifted knees for an
examination by the priest, or an entire board of priests, or atop the table in
the great hall for every knight at DuBois if necessary, even if I have to tie
you down for the inspection."

The horrid image of his words knocked the breath from
her lungs and the strength from her knees.

"Is that what you want, Lady Rochelle?  If not, I
suggest you not contest my demand.  You have no choice.  You will live the rest
of your days in a nun's cell."

Hysteria clawed up from her chest into her throat and
erupted into furious desperation.  "And leave DuBois?  Leave the land I
love, for eternity, while you feast upon the DuBois grapes and inhale the scent
of flowers and grain and cedar?  While I rot?"

He didn't even blink, but the power that emanated from
him pushed her harder against the wall.

Rochelle's pulse pounded so hard that she shook with
each beat.  The web strung so thick around her she couldn't move, couldn't
breathe.  Frantic, her mind scrambled for words that would stop the spider
before he destroyed her, destroyed Pierre. 

"Forgive me, I . . . I apologize for what I said
about your father.  And I conspire not to---"

"Cease before you spout more lies, Lady Rochelle. 
I am immune to your wiles."

"Wiles?"

"To say or promise anything merely to accomplish
your goal.  You think because you haunt me with those sad eyes, tempt me with
the pout of your mouth, that I'll allow you to stay."

"I do
not
tempt and pout.  'Tis your
treachery that appalls me.  You should kneel at my feet and beg forgiveness for
the deceit you have wreaked this day."

He drew up to his full, arrogant height.  "I kneel
to no one.  As a lad of nine I once did so in front of Gaston when I begged him
to spare my father's life.  He laughed, torched the brush that surrounded my
father, then torched me and left me for dead.  I vowed, then, never to humble
myself again in such a way, except when I would swear fealty to my liege lord
upon knighthood."

Hurting for the small boy who had been so callously
scarred, she touched his hand.  He flinched, but didn't withdraw.

"Sire Becket, I'm horrified with the possibility
that Gaston and my father might have committed such hellishness, but I am not
to blame for their deceit.  I am not as they."

"You think I don't know your ploy, Lady Rochelle? 
You plot to ensnare me with your intriguing mélange of brittle aloofness and
fragile innocence, of sweetness and fire." 

He turned his palm up, enfolding her cold hand within
his warm one, and her pulse leapt.  He stroked his gaze over her face, her
mouth, a peculiar expression in his dark eyes, as if he wanted to kiss her, as
if he didn't.

"You are like the DuBois wine, Lady Rochelle.  You
entice me to sample what is mine to taste, in the misguided hope your sweetness
will lure me to overindulge, will burn inside me and render me senseless, then
while I'm dazed, drown me." 

He stepped so close that the front of his thighs
touched hers.  Light-headed from his nearness, she tensed, uncertain what he
intended.  

"But what you don't know is that I'm a man of
discipline.  I can sip the wine and not over-imbibe, touch your flame without
being scorched.   Taste you without being consumed."  

"I . . . I don't understand, Sire.  I---"

 "Shhh."  He pressed his fingers to her lips,
then rubbed the rough pad of his thumb across the swell of her bottom lip. 
"Soft.  So soft." 

Surely he referred to the breathiness of his tone which
sapped her strength and muddled her mind, or perhaps ‘twas his warm touch which
made her limbs go weak and trembly.  For certain he left her confused.

"Lady Rochelle, what fragrance is yours when you
don't reek of death?"  He closed his eyes and inhaled.  "A hint of
snow? 
Non
, 'tis but the breeze from the Pyrenees."  He caressed
her cheek and brushed her wimple.  "And what color is your hair?  Fair,
I'd say, for your long lashes and curved brows are like pale gossamer."

She pressed her hands atop her head to keep her
head-covering in place as
Père
Bertrand had lectured.  "Why your
interest?  Would the color affect my destiny?"

"Merely curious, Lady Rochelle.  Curious of so
many things about you, like . . ."   He cradled her head within his palm,
then he lowered his head, his mouth barely above hers.  His breath blew hot
against the ice of her mouth and stole her thoughts as easily as he had stolen
her lands.

Rochelle stiffened like old wood, uncertain how to
react, bewildered by his change from tyrant to suitor, befuddled by her battle
between her body and her anger, her fear.  A memory of when Marcel had leaned
down to kiss her, then instead had bitten her, roared into her mind like a
goulish warning.  A frightened whimper escaped her throat.

Becket brushed his lips over hers for the briefest
moments.  Instead of pain, tongues of fire licked along her flesh and down her
spine to simmer in her womanhood.  Startled, she leaned into his chest. 

Fight.
 
Protest
. What
about Pierre?  Furious with herself, she pressed her back against the wall, her
hands fisted at her sides. 

Encourage him, tempt him, so he won't send you away
. 
She leaned into him, reveling in the feel of his hardness against her
softness. 

You fool!  He merely attempts seduction to glean the
name of an unknown collaborator.
  She stiffened and leaned
back.

Becket emitted a soft chuckle.  "Temptress." 

Then his mouth claimed hers and caught her gasp.  He
pulled her away from the wall and wrapped her in the cocoon of his arms.  Heat
surged past her frozen fear and jolted her icy numbness to heated awareness.  She
groaned.  His tongue slipped into her mouth, then retreated before she could
think to bite.  He nibbled at her lips and she went rigid with sudden fear, but
then shivers of surprised desire flooded into unfamiliar territories of her
body.  How could the mere touching of one mouth against another explode such
rapture within her bemused being?

She sank against his chest and slid her hands up the
rough mail of his muscled arms to his shoulders.  Becket groaned and she felt
him tremble.  He smelled of DuBois---cedar, leather, the outdoors, and
something musky like . . . sin.  His tongue slid again into her hungry mouth
and shared his taste of spices and slick honey.  She should bite the wicked
invader.  She brushed her tongue against his, pressing her lips tighter to his,
tangling her hands in the thick luxuriance of his wind-tossed hair.

"Like the DuBois wine:  Sweet fire."  His
mouth moved over hers, his breath burned as hot as his words.

She moaned with sheer ecstasy.  His hair felt like
nothing she had ever touched before, silky like a cat's but thick and lush,
hair that surely breathed a life of its own for the strands curled around her
fingers in soft possession.  Rochelle berated herself for succumbing to his
advances.  She tightened her arms around his neck and raised on her toes to
press her lips and body closer to his.

An urgent moan rumbled deep in his chest.  His tongue
teased her lips; his hands teased her back, her buttocks, her . . .

Becket released her and stepped back, apparently as
shocked by his behavior as she.  The golden falcon on his jupon seemed to
breathe as his chest rose and fell from his labored pants.  Then his surprise
melted into revulsion, but whether at her or at him she didn't know.