Love Thine Enemy (3 page)

"I give you privacy, but I refuse to leave this
chamber."

"Then you must live with the painful memories." 
He moved away from her and halted beside the emerald-draped bed, his robust
strength in contrast to her father's frailty like a magnificent falcon beside a
sick sparrow.

A dying sparrow.

Uncertain what Becket meant by “living with the painful
memories”, she strolled to the hooded hearth and held her chilled hands toward
the heat.  The shifting coals reminded her of her future: hellish and unstable.

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."

C
HAPTER
T
WO

"
O
f all the . . . “   Indignation
at Becket's humor drowned Rochelle's fearful suspicions.

His cocky demeanor riled her defiance, his smug smile,
the sparkle in his eyes, his arrogant stance that dared her to best him but
said not to bother - the male of the species had won.

So, he thought her a simpering female who would cower
at his feet in subjection
.  Think again, Becket.
  Resolute, she crossed
her shaky arms and pierced the stranger with her most insolent glare,
determined to give him like-for-like.

"So, you find me acceptable, do you?  Well, I
suggest you not scurry home to your
mère
with the news quite yet, for
'tis my turn to examine."

She perused a studied path down his body. 
"Muscled thighs are evident beneath your armored plate and mail, but do
you pad your calves? 
Non
?  'Tis a distasteful fashion to pretend what
you are not."  Rochelle lifted her gaze to his startled expression. 
Good
. 
She had confounded the King of Repartee.  Fighting a triumphant grin she pursed
her mouth and pressed one finger against her cheek in assessment.  "Your
brigandine vest seems molded over a muscular chest, but . . ."   She
batted her lashes.  'Tis most likely false, like your airs."  His mouth
dropped open but no sound emerged. 
Sweet revenge.
  Rochelle moved to
eye him from the side.

He followed her with his wide-eyed gaze, his feet
planted on the floor as if rooted in place.

Rochelle tilted her head to peer behind him.  "You
appear to have a trim waist and firm buttocks.  Perhaps from overuse of forcing
your way in where you do not belong?"  She straightened, met the inky
flash of his eyes and crossed her arms again, defiant.  "Some women might
consider you a fine example of malehood, but my regrets, knight, you are not
acceptable to me."

Becket burst into laughter.  He dipped his head in a
slight bow.  "My compliments and my apologies,
demoiselle
.  'Twas a
well-deserved rebuke."

Rochelle stiffened at his unexpected reaction.  She
wanted his outrage, his scorn, not his humor, an emotion as much a stranger to
her as the man who now smiled.

Becket still laughed as he gestured in her direction. 
"I prefer this type of war, this clashing, this inferno of heated wills. 
'Tis a challenge but more rewarding.  How to touch the flames and not scorch
the flesh?"

"A
commendable
arrangement." 
The barely whispered words of her father
shredded Rochelle's confidence.  "'Tis the most emotion she's shown in
years, Becket."  His chest rose and sagged in a deep sigh as if he relaxed
with satisfaction.  "A good omen."

Becket laughed again.  "Then I'd hate to see a bad
one.  I felt like a piece of cheese admired at a distance by a charming mouse,
then upon closer inspection, rejected for rankness."

Rochelle wrinkled her nose in distaste.  "Rank? 
True.  And like in the cheese from Roquefort, 'tis most likely mold that runs
blue in your veins not blood."

Becket's eyes gleamed with a sensuality that leapt
across the space to stun her senses.  "Blue? 
Oui.
  But not from
mold."

He approached her, slow and steady, like the slow,
steady tone of his voice, a tone only she could hear beyond the clank of his
sword as he moved.  His presence, like an unseen force, pushed at her to retreat,
yet drew her toward him.  He halted an arm's length away.  Heat radiated from
his body and threatened to melt her icy anger.

"As you know,
ma petite
, blue is the
hottest part of the flame.  Because of you, 'tis liquid fire that scalds the
courses 'neath my skin."

Her heartbeat rampaged in response.  His eyes promised
both ecstasy and peril.  She felt drawn like a moth to his blue flame.  Yet,
moths burned a most glorious glow before they perished.  Might the ecstasy be
worth the sacrifice?

He smiled and the flame burst bright in his eyes. 
"Tempted, Lady Rochelle?"

Yes.
  Shocked at her thought,
she gasped and took a step in retreat.  She didn't know how to protect herself
from this new type of male.  Because of her father, Marcel, and Gaston, she expected
harshness and brutality, not humor and sensuality.  Then she remembered that
even Marcel had shown kindness until after the pledge of vows.  The memory of
his abuse chilled the heat of her confusion.  Her instincts whispered that
something dangerous lurked beneath Becket's facade.  She must beware of the
stranger's tactics. 

The sound of footsteps and fluttering robes broke
Becket's spell.

Père
Bertrand passed her in a
black blur as he rushed to her father's side.  "Do you wish the last
rites, Reynaurd?"

"Waive the banns, Bertrand."

The priest straightened, satisfaction on his face. 
"A wise move, Reynaurd.  'Twill spare us much grief."

Rochelle's heart stammered a warning.  "Waive the
banns?"  The stability of her tone belied the waver of her inner
strength.  She dug her nails into her sweaty palms.  "You have no need,
mon
père.
  I will rule DuBois alone, as widow."

He closed his eyes and his lids reminded her of the
outer layer of an onion skin, thin and translucent, as if he turned more
ghostly with each labored breath.  "You will wed . . . Sire Becket."

"Becket?"  Incredulity jolted to her core. 
She jerked her attention to the warrior who stood defiant, dangerous, his
fingers curled around the hilt of his sword, ready for action.  Furious,
Rochelle shoved her hands on her hips.

"
Sacre Dieu
, knight.  You are as bad as
Gaston.  You both lust after DuBois, the golden prize. And if I suffer in the
bloody scramble for possession neither of you will care."  She lifted her
chin.  "But I care.  I'll fight you both."

Becket's grip tightened on the hilt.  Determination as
hard as tempered steel slashed across his face, his intention obvious:  If she
dared to protest, he would take her against her will.

Frightened, she forced her shocked attention back to
her father and saw the verdict in his clouded eyes.  He would not back down. 
She felt trapped between two converging forces. . .  no, three, including Gaston.

"You intend to wed me to a stranger who happened
in because of a lame horse?"  Rochelle cringed at the high hysterical tone
of her voice.  She clasped her hands so hard that her fingers cramped. 
"
Please
,
 
mon père
! 
Don't do this.  I have plans.  I'll rule
DuBois alone as a widow.  After all the hell I suffered from Marcel, I deserve
the status, official or not."

"Gaston . . ."   Coughs ceased her father's
argument.

"But
, mon père,
your knights---"

"Won't answer to . . . a woman."  His words
rasped out on panted breaths.  A shudder rolled along his wasted frame. 
"Imbecile.  Witless.  Obey . . . like other . . . females."

Rochelle closed her ears to the rude remarks he forced
out with each dying breath.  For two decades he had scoured her emotions with
his abrasive tongue.  With each degrading comment, with each castigation, she
had placed a stone, and then another, to safeguard her heart.  For mortar, she
had mixed her silent tears with her pain, her humiliation, and the dried
remnants of her hope.  And her pride.  She mustn't forget her pride.  She
thought she had built a sturdy wall.  Thick, strong, impenetrable.  But not
so. 

The new turmoil plotted by her father forced her to
move.  She paced at the foot of the bed, frustrated, angered. 

"To remind you,
mon père,
you trained me
not to be like other women."  She spoke as much for the stranger's
enlightenment as for her father's.

Becket still clutched his sword as if prepared to take
her by force.

She clutched at
her
only weapon of defense:
persuasion.  She turned and paced the width of the bed again.  "You
allowed no softness from me.  'Be hard, Rochelle.  Be tough.  I forbid you to
cry just because your mother is dead.  Don't show your pain; 'tis but a broken
arm.  Don't grieve for your pet bird; 'twas but a worthless creature.  Don't
complain about an abusive husband; 'tis a woman's lot.'"  She spun to face
the man who had spilled his seed and then had named the results Rochelle. 
"Well, now I'm tough.  I'm hard.  And I will live my life without any man
to treat me as if I'm naught but dung."  She flashed a hateful glare at
Becket.

He sauntered toward her like the victor eager to claim
the spoils.  "I will protect both you and DuBois from Gaston."

"
I'll
save DuBois, knight!  I'll sacrifice
to rebuild this estate.  You'll waste money on tournaments and an extravagant
lifestyle as did father and Marcel.  I'll use the money to repair and improve. 
I'll---"

"Cease, Lady Rochelle.  You have no choice." 
Becket grasped her arm, his eyes like obsidian glass, dark and inflexible.

She jerked from his hold with as much strength as her
heart jerked in panic against her ribs.  "Have you not listened,
stranger?  I will not marry you!  Be forewarned.  Your ambition may cost you
your life."

He had the audacity to show a sly, contemptuous grin. 
"Summon Gaston to your aid.  I anticipate the meeting."

"I mean me, knight.  If Gaston doesn't kill you, I
will."

Becket cocked a dark brow and nodded.  "A
challenge?  I accept."  He studied her as if to search into the cob-webbed
chambers of her soul.  "I understand your concerns,
demoiselle
, but
I'll not be a harsh husband."

Rochelle flinched at his verbal touch of her hidden
wounds.  "I've already suffered through one devil for a husband.  I'll not
have another."

"I'm not a devil, Lady Rochelle."  He
released his sword hilt and shrugged.  "I'm but a man."

"And the difference?"

Becket laughed.  "Shall I demonstrate the
difference, my lady?  My pleasure, I assure you."

A peculiar heat slithered down her spine and threatened
to melt her frozen terror.  "You have already demonstrated more to me this
day than I care to see.  The hatred in your eyes.  The greed.  The lust for
what is not yours.  The clench of your hand upon your sword to force the issue
if necessary.  'Tis enough for me to know you are of the same ilk as other
men.  You are like a catapulted stone, hard to the core and willing to crush
all who step in your way.  My experience tells me both the devil and the man
are the same.  Both take what they want with no thought for the suffering of
others."

"And you,
demoiselle
, are like your
father."

Rochelle caught her breath.  His tone spoke clearly
that he had not graced her with a compliment.  She dug her nails into her damp
palms.  "I am naught like my father."

Becket gestured toward the bed.  "Reynaurd places
all women under one title:  Imbeciles.  You consider all men devils."  His
sword clanked against his armor as he shifted his stance.  He stroked the hilt
of his weapon with his thumb in an affectionate caress, his midnight gaze
locked onto hers.  "You, my lady, are not an imbecile.  While I . . .
"   He spread his hands in invitation for her to take visual fill of his
physique.  ". . .  am only a devil . . . sometimes."

He smiled and unwanted temptation snaked from her chest
to her loins.

"But after we wed, you might discover the devilish
part of me much to your liking."

She turned to liquid heat.  Before he vaporized her
into steam, Rochelle turned to the hearth and crossed her arms to hide her
tremble.  The trap encircled, tighter, smaller.  Curse his smile that shone
like the sun beneath the storm clouds of his eyes.  He but seduced for his own
gain.  Marcel also charmed until after the vows, then he revealed his sick
madness.  No, she must protect DuBois, Pierre---and herself.

Sparks exploded from the flames like her scattered
thoughts, then drifted in aimless circles up the chimney past her view, glowing
specks of agony against soot-covered stones.  Or like flashes of lust in his
sooty gaze.

Rochelle turned to study again the mysterious knight
who clung to her father's offer like a leech thirsty for blood.  Something
inside her yearned to know more about the man. 

"Your armor pricks my curiosity, Sire.  The outdated
combination of mail and plate reveals you are not a foot soldier, and yet to
the grander scale, not a noble.  Don't misunderstand, knight, for we will not
wed, but what do you offer?  What of
your
holdings?"

A flash of anger swept away his humor and settled to
seethe within his ebony depths.  He clenched his hands at his sides, then
straightened his fingers as if determined to appear relaxed. 

"I was born to nobility, but because of past
treachery I'm landless, at least for the moment.  Don't misunderstand, my lady,
for we will wed, but I offer you treasures beyond monetary value and, 'tis
obvious, beyond your experience.  I offer respect as well as my
protection."