Authors: Carolyne Cathey
C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN
"
I
'll kill him. English or
no."
Steadying her shaking hand as she sat at her writing
desk, Rochelle dipped the sharpened vane-tip of the feather into the inkwell
and signed her name on the parchment.
Distant screams and shouts between a man and woman
filtered into her chamber, as they had in intermittent moments for the past
hour. She wondered what depravity the knight performed upon some helpless
female, hating that she couldn't rescue the poor woman.
Rochelle
sprinkled powder on the wet ink and blotted, then reread to make certain she
had fully explained her dreadful circumstances.
"To my most exalted liege lord, King Jean of France,
On the treacherous day before this, one of your
knights, Sire Becket, Le Vengeur, forced me into a marriage mere moments before
the mysterious death of my father, your loyal supporter, Lord Reynaurd de
DuBois. Sire Becket now arranges to annul the vows and sentences me to a
convent, sending me away from all that is rightfully mine.
Sire Becket claims he does so upon your orders. If so,
then I would know what I have done to earn such vile punishment. If he acts
upon his own, then I beg you, my most exalted King, please assist me in
regaining my stolen lands.
I know not in which convent he intends my sequester,
but if you will aid me in my most dire of moments, I will fatten your coffers
with a healthy percentage of profits that will surely be obtained if I rule
DuBois alone.
I will attempt to communicate with you again from my
imprisonment, but if I am unable, please seek me out and rescue me from this wretchedness.
You are my only hope.
Your faithful servant,
Lady Rochelle Christine de DuBois."
Satisfied, she rolled the parchment and tied the
message with a satin ribband the color of her bleeding heart. Now, for a
messenger. But whom to trust? How to pass the missive without being seen?
What to do about Pierre during her absence? If she could only quit shaking and
think!
The lock clicked!
Her gaze flew to the door. She hadn't burned the
rejected attempts strewn at her feet. If Becket saw them and knew what she
attempted . . . Controlling her panic, she stuffed the scroll into her bodice
between her breasts.
The door hinges creaked. Trembling like a sinner at
Satan's gate, she knelt and gathered the incriminating evidence. The guard
would surely catch her, with the devil to pay. As the door swung open, she
leapt to a stand, hiding her litter-filled hands behind her, forcing a calm
smile to belie her raging pulse as ---the devil himself strode into the
chamber, re-armored as if for battle, and as handsome as sin, curse his dark
soul.
Her smile hardened. "
You
come for
me?"
Becket's eyes seethed with hateful revenge, but she
couldn't imagine why, since he had been the victor. However, she planned her
own revenge via her note to King Jean.
Becket cocked a masterful brow. "Whom did you
expect? Henri? One of my lust-driven knights? A passing peddler? Not so, my
traitorous falcon. They would surely be stricken witless by your accomplished
pretense of innocence. They will see to your personal possessions. I will see
to you."
He slid a distasteful appraisal over her body much like
a viper searching for a vulnerable spot to strike. He hesitated at her breasts
for a degrading moment which seemed to intensify his anger, then slammed her
with a sneer.
"You think to shame me with the shabby attire you
have donned ever since my arrival---the black bombazine and now this---but
'twill have no effect on me. You must have spent your precious moments this
morn butchering this outfit just for spite, instead of readying your
possessions."
Heat crept up her neck to burn her face from the
fang-like sting of his words. Rochelle glanced down at the five year-old gown
which she had let out with what she had believed quite creative methods.
Varicolored materials fanned from her waist to beneath her arms like a
peacock's tail, a necessity to accommodate her developing form. Her hatred
burned so hot from his venomous censure that he surely felt the heat. She
quelled the urge to crumple the pages and fling them at his face.
He curved a smug grin at her irritation. "Now,
come here. 'Tis time. And I warn you. I forbid you to weep."
"You obnoxious boor. I am eager to be away from
your repulsive control. And fear not, you will never see me shed tears. My
father and Marcel taught me well."
"You lie about thinking me repulsive." He
ran his finger over the hilt of his sword, then his tongue as if to transfer
taste. "'Twas but a pleasurable scream ago that you begged for my
touch."
Her face burned hotter. Moon-struck images of how he
had teased her with the hilt, of how she had touched him, licked him,
begged
him, seared through her disreputable memories. But she had no time for
remembered humiliations.
As she met his glare, the truth sliced into her mind;
her secret mission made her departure imperative, for she could better plot
Becket's overthrow when out from under his scrutiny. Of a sudden, she ached to
be away. But what to do about the discarded letters? If he saw them he would
search her for the final copy, and all would be forfeit. Mayhap, even her
life.
"Sire, before we leave, I beg you to see the view
from this chamber, to witness what I will miss while I die a slow death behind
cloistered walls."
"I know the view from here. 'Twas my chamber
before the theft, remember?"
"But you have not seen this vantage for two
decades. After all you have required of me, 'tis but a simple request."
He narrowed his eyes with distrust, then as if to humor
her, or to catch her at her ruse, he mumbled to someone outside the door. No
escape for her that way. He sauntered toward the window and she could sense
his heightened awareness, in wait for treachery.
Rochelle backed toward the hearth, much too slowly
according to the wild beat of her heart. But if she moved quickly, Becket
would notice. And worse, the small bag of coins she had secured to one thigh
might slip. Now, if she just didn't trip . . .
She took another step back and felt the heat on her
hands, felt the hearthstones beneath her feet.
Becket still stared out the window, his body as tense
as a cat ready to pounce. "'Tis a magnificent view. Lady Rochelle.
Although, 'twould be even more interesting if one could see the cave entrance
from here."
He had the indecency to remind her again of her failure.
Rochelle tossed the papers backward at the fire, praying they landed in the
dying embers, but she didn't hear a pouf as if they had leapt into flames.
Blast the fates!
"For if you could see the cave and had been
watching, Lady Rochelle . . ."
She spun to see one parchment in a slow singe, the
other on cold ashes at the edge.
". . . you would have seen that Gaston is trapped
inside the cave and can no longer come to your rescue."
Frantic, she grabbed the poker and pushed the evidence
into the hot coals. The poker jerked from her hands!
Becket jabbed at the papers with the steel rod.
"What do you burn? Notes for Gaston?"
Her heart leapt into her throat.
Dear God, help
her. If Becket read them
. . .
He jabbed again as if wishing he skewered her instead.
The coals flared. Flames enveloped the sheets.
"Sacre blue!"
She almost sank to the floor in relief, then stiffened
when his words registered in her numbed mind.
"What do you mean, Sire Gaston is trapped in the
cave?"
He flung the poker into the embers stirring a grayish
cloud of ash and sparks, then he grasped her arms and her head snapped back as
he shook her.
"You failed at your ploy to distract me while upon
the bluff so that Gaston could escape, as you failed at your attempt to seduce
me."
"
My
ploy? 'Twas your insane form of
punishment. And I knew naught of Sire Gaston being in the cave." She
gasped. "Then 'twas he I heard, not an animal. If I had entered . .
." She couldn't finish, the idea of what might have happened to her too
revolting to consider. She shuddered, which only served to increase his wrath.
"You outrageous liar. But all for naught. As
soon as Gaston slithers out, he'll be trapped beneath the heel of my power.
And once I have dealt punishment, Lady Rochelle, his forked tongue will hiss
the truth of your liaison, hiss about your traitorous aid in his escape."
He lowered his face much too near, and her heart
pounded a betraying beat. How dare she react thus to her enemy.
She glared in return. "I hate to destroy your
perfect plan, but if he suspects a trap he might exit another way."
Becket stiffened as if a cold chill had run along his
spine. "There is another egress? How know you this?"
She crossed her arms over her chest and turned toward
the hearth, feeling again the terror of being doomed, like now. "When as
a child I became lost in the blackness for two horrendous days that seemed as a
thousand. Just when I knew I would surely die, I spied a sliver of light that
led me to an opening behind the waterfall."
She stilled at the symbolism. Light beyond the dark.
Victory beyond failure? She would win. King Jean would defeat her enemy.
As if to squelch her secret hope, he gripped her arm
and dragged her toward the door. "You think to divert suspicion with your
timely tidbit about the hidden exit, but I know you now, body
and
soul."
His touch sent a shiver through that body of hers he
knew too well, cracking her patched resolve.
He motioned to a cluster of male servants who hovered
just outside, one of them the giant who had been the dungeon guard, now with a
bandaged head and contrite expression.
"Men, gather her belongings since she has not done
so and bring them to the bailey, posthaste, before my ire raises another
notch."
As the men dashed past her, she gestured toward the
windowseat to show them where sat her trunk, then practically tripped as Becket
pulled her into the hallway and toward the stairs. Because of the coins, she
had to limp so as not to hit the bag loose with her other thigh. She prayed
they wouldn't jingle.
"Cease this dawdling, Lady Rochelle." He
yanked on her hand, and the bag slipped a bit. Horrified, she attempted small,
mincing steps, surely giving the appearance of a woman desperate for the
garderobe.
"You slow me apurpose, woman."
She gasped as Becket slung her over his shoulder like a
sack of oats. Her stomach jarred with each urgent stride, with each jolting
downward step on the spiral staircase.
Rochelle squirmed so that she could press one hand to
her bosom to keep the note from falling out, the other clutched her wimple. He
caressed his hand on her upturned buttocks, and a traitorous bolt of heat shot
right to her womanhood.
"Be still, woman, or I'll run my hand up your
skirts and give you a well-deserved swat."
The coins
. "To avoid your
revolting touch, I'll be as still as your stone heart."
"You bait me? As punishment, I believe I'll
explore you again."
"You rutting knave. You use any excuse to touch
me."
He hesitated a moment as if stunned by her
observation. "'Tis only that I enjoy your discomfort."
The weight of his hand disappeared from her backside,
then she felt his callused flesh slide up the back of her calf.
"Cease, knight, or I'll expose
your
backside."
He eased his fingers past her knee while he strode down
the hallway as if an everyday occurrence.
Clamping her thighs together, she worked her hands
under the heavy edge of his mail shirt in a mad search for his laces that held
up his hose.
As if to prove his superiority, he splayed his hand on
the back of her thigh, thank goodness the other one, and seared a path upward
and caressed her bare buttocks, almost as if he searched for something. He
surely had felt the bag, but then why hadn't he ripped the coins from her leg?
Frantic to distract him, she jerked with both hands,
trying to pull the laces from the points, her head so heavy with blood she
could barely think.
"Lady Rochelle, as of now, the world cannot see
what I do. You dare expose me, and I'll flip up your skirt."
Blast him
. He stepped down into
the great hall, and even from her bottomside-up position, she saw that servants
and knights stared as Becket carried her past, obviously stunned by the lord's
and lady's ignoble behavior.