Authors: Carolyne Cathey
"Sire Becket, milady?" one inquired with
disbelief. "Are you certain?"
She toyed with the scoop of her neckline, pleased to
see their attention dart to her bosom. She sighed, and they all sighed with
her. Being a woman might have advantages, after all.
She shrugged in feigned innocence. "'Tis so. He
told me I could only remain at DuBois if I seduced him into bedding me, but I
failed, and now he sends me away. I hope you will give me advice on how to
accomplish the task before we reach the convent. For in his magnanimity, he
gives me until then." She caught at a sob. "If I fail, he vows no man
will have me and will hide me away so as not to remind him of . . ." She
bit her lip and blinked as if struggling not to cry.
Tears rolled from Henri's eyes he laughed so hard. She
decided to confront him, head on.
"Sire Henri, I even suggested to Sire Becket that
he accept your offer of bedding me in his stead, an unusual but accepted
custom."
That caught the amused knight's attention. His eyes
gleamed pewter as he lounged against the corner and raked her with his gaze.
"I surmise he didn't approve of your solution. How sad. I would have
enjoyed the sacrifice."
"As would have I, but he insisted upon attempting
the task himself, even though he claimed disinterest and boredom." She
scanned their rapt faces. "You can't imagine what I, who knows naught of
the ways between a man and woman . . . well, 'twas intimidating what my new
husband required of me."
"Lady Rochelle." Becket came up behind her.
"What are you doing?"
Fearing he would see the note down her bodice, she
clasped her hands to her breast.
Several of the men coughed and looked at the ground, or
the sky, their faces red. One even had the temerity to tsk-tsk and shake his
head.
"Lady Rochelle?"
"I merely visit with the men."
"About what?"
He massaged her shoulders, and she wondered if he
considered strangling her.
"I am in need of a man's services."
She felt him stiffen and he tightened his fingers on
her shoulders as if in warning. "For what reason?"
Henri bit his lip as if to keep from laughing, and
rolled his eyes skyward.
"To fetch my damaged clothing from beside the cave
where you . . . well. . . you know . . . I mean when you didn't . . . wouldn't
. . . or couldn't . . . and 'tis why you send me away."
"You what?"
He spun her to face him, and if ever a man wanted to
strike her, he obviously did. She tensed for the blow.
"I have said naught that isn't true, Sire. I but
seek their advice . . . carnally speaking."
One of the knights cleared his throat. "'Tis
naught to be ashamed of, Sire. You've had much strain---"
"Cease! 'Tis not why I didn't take her!"
Henri burst into laughter again.
She gazed up at Becket, she hoped the image of
concern. "But, my lord, you did retreat. If you have a problem, mayhap
they might be of assistance."
Henri had sunk to his knees, doubled over, gasping with
hilarity.
Becket's eyes promised death. "You master of
twisted truths. What you intimate is a lie and you know it. Several of these
men know otherwise. They know I am secure in my abilities."
"Do they? Personally? Then mayhap I am the wrong
gender."
She heard several gasps. Henri choked and cried at the
same time.
Becket straightened like a post and his face couldn't
have become more red. "Curse you, Lady Rochelle. 'Tis not what I meant,
and you know it."
"Oh? Then, mayhap some men have no trouble with
light skirts, but are intimidated by ladies of breeding. I but seek to amend
the situation, Sire. You said but moments ago that you would give much thought
. . well, you hoped to be creative in our . . . or your . . . explorations of my
person . . . Perhaps they might be of help to you with your---"
"Rochelle---"
"Inadequacy."
"Tell them 'tis because of your father."
"Ah. We did agree upon that excuse, didn't
we."
Henri rolled on the ground as if dying, with an
occasional gasp for air.
"Men! Mount up! Now! Before I kill her."
And she hadn't given the note to Jacques
.
"Sire, I must go to the garderobe."
Perspiration trickled between her breasts. The ink might smear.
"Get in the litter, Rochelle."
She didn't know how he had managed the feat, but he had
given the order with his jaw clenched.
"But, Sire---"
"Now."
A knight hurried from the direction of the gate and
tapped Becket on the shoulder. "Sire, we found blood."
Becket swung from her and moved away as if for privacy.
Frantic, Rochelle clutched the bag around her knee and
dashed in an odd gait for the great hall. She bumped into Jacques, almost
knocking him down. The sight of him brought sudden tears to her eyes.
Clutching his gnarled hand, she slipped the damp scroll from her bodice, hoping
the note still readable.
"Jacques, you are the only soul I can trust."
A pained look creased his burn-scarred forehead.
"Don't worry about me, Jacques." She handed
him the missive. "Somehow, you must see that this is taken to King Jean.
He will aid our cause and oust Becket, I'm certain of it."
The sweet old man opened his mouth but said naught as
if uncertain as what to say.
She kissed him on his mostly bald head and hugged him.
"
Je t'aime,
Jacques."
Fearing she would break into tears and reveal her
weakness, she turned, and spied Pierre and Sire Spitz. She should give her
brother some of the coins.
Rochelle grabbed Pierre's small hand and pulled him up
the stairs into the lord's chamber, the safest place since the lord occupied
himself outside, and that window claimed the best view of the bailey. She
lifted Pierre-and-cat onto the windowseat so that she could keep an eye on
Becket. If he came toward the keep, she would have time to hide.
She raised her skirt and slipped the bag off over her
foot, then handed him several coins. "Pierre, keep these in case . .
." She glanced out the window, then froze, the coins thudding and
clattering around her feet.
Jacques shuffled up to Becket. No, he wouldn't. She
trusted him.
Love. A vulnerability. A tool for manipulation.
Jacques passed the scroll to her enemy! He betrayed
her!
Becket's earlier statement pierced her mind.
Someone
she trusted . . .
Jacques! He had brought Becket to her father's
chamber. Now she knew why his unease the entire day.
Pain worse than with her failure upon the bluff tore
through her chest. Tears blurred her vision. She swiped at her eyes.
Becket opened the parchment. He didn't rant or shout
curses as she expected, but went dangerously still. He then stole toward her
trunk and gestured to the giant, who forced open the lid. At another nod from
Becket, the man dumped her few precious possessions onto the ground. Becket
knelt and fumbled as if in search of something. He stood, scanned the bailey,
then lifted his gaze.
She ducked back from the window. He had seen her!
Rochelle fell to her knees and scooped up the fallen money, dropping coins,
rushes and all down the front of her bodice.
"Pierre, I erred about Jacques. He has betrayed
us. Seek shelter with the priest. I'll come back to you as soon as I can, but
I know not when. I must flee before Sire Becket finds me. You must leave this
chamber. Now!"
Pierre burst into tears. She dashed the back of her
hand over her own tears. Giving him a final hug, she pulled him through the
door, then turned for the back staircase, feeling as if she left her heart
behind.
What would happen to him? She could never sneak back
in for Pierre, not when men watched the cave for Gaston. And between seeing
the note and what she had done to Becket in front of his men, he would . . .
what? Not pleasant for certain, and most assuredly bizarre. He probably raced
up the steps at that very moment.
"Rochelle! Don't leave me."
Her mind screaming for her to run, she turned to her
brother. They only had each other now. She couldn't leave him behind. With
all the strain, he might have an attack. What would they do to him? She held
out her shaking hand.
"Come with me, Pierre. We'll escape the devil
together."
C
HAPTER
T
WELVE
K
ing Jean
!
The near-calamity shook Becket to his toes He
retrieved the note from a stunned Henri and re-rolled the parchment.
"'Tis almost beyond belief, Henri. With the
delicate stroke of her quill, the vixen almost destroyed the entire English
battle plan to gain the French throne, and in the process, signed our death
warrants. If not for Jacques . . ." Becket shook his head, still
reeling with how close the disaster. "I'll kill her."
Henri laughed, but shallow, uneasy. "An empty
threat. You're too enamored with your enemy."
"Enamored? 'Tis hatred." Becket leaned
against the curtain wall within the shadows. He removed one armored solarette
from his foot so that he could tread without sound.
"Both emotions branch from the same tree, Becket.
Shall I tell you why you're enamored? Beyond her comeliness, that is."
"Spare me your rationale."
"Lady Rochelle belongs to you. Like DuBois."
Becket stilled. How many times had he said the same to
her? She even claimed to be of DuBois. And her coloring, her scent . . .
Nonsense. To both surmisals. He removed the other solarette but stayed within
the shade, scanning the bailey, watching, waiting.
Henri rubbed his fingers across the claw marks on his
cheek left by Lady Angelique, then studied them as if to detect blood.
"Do you think I don't understand, Becket? Since
the age of nine you have had to take from others, dependent upon the generosity
of your fellow man. But now, something and someone belongs to you. Yours
alone. And now you belong somewhere and to someone." Henri wiped his
hand on his jupon. "You'll never surrender possession of the land,
mon
ami
. Or Lady Rochelle."
Becket pushed away from the wall. "I have not the
time for your inanities. I just spied a wimpled mouse dart toward the back of
the stables, a mouselet in tow."
"And you set the trap,
n'est-ce-pas?
'Tis
why you secured the curtain wall except for the main gate. Why you cleared the
stables of all two-footed creatures with orders to busy themselves
elsewhere."
"She knew the cave too-well guarded. I merely
gambled with her remaining options. And won." Becket took a step toward
the stables.
"What will you do to her?"
"Just keep everyone away."
* * *
"Why do we ride to the king, Rochelle? Why not to
our overlord, the Count of Armagnac? He's closer."
"True, Pierre, but the Count might betray us as
has that Judas Jacques. Now hurry and place the bit in the mare's mouth while
I retrieve the cache. I shouldn't stop for this, but we need every
coin." She nodded toward the nearby open stall. "And stay clear of
that black destrier. He's restless and might strike you with his
hooves."
Rochelle glanced at the unfamiliar, although
magnificent beast. A steed of the conquering army.
Becket's army.
Hatred flared hot within her chest, mingling with the
sting of Becket's victory, of Jacques' betrayal, of her fear of capture and
punishment.
Rochelle grabbed the pitchfork to use for support and
struggled to the top of the haystack piled against the wall. The scents of
hay, animals and leather once soothed her but now suffocated. She craved the
fresh air of freedom far away from Jacques. And Becket. And the too-quiet
stables.
Struggling not to slip on the loose straw, she propped
the pitchfork against the wall. She dug her fingers around the edges of the
ungrouted stone while she mentally re-mortared the broken wall around her
heart. Except for Pierre and DuBois, she would never give her heart again.
Love.
An emotion for fools.
"Pierre, after Falcon is bridled, snatch one of
the stable boy's clothes for me to wear. I'll change after we're away. And
hurry!"
"What if the king won't admit us, Rochelle? What
will we do then? We'll have nowhere to go."
"Fear not,
mon petit
, the king will shelter
us. Now, no more will be said on the matter until I see King Jean with my own
eyes." Terrified of the dangerous delay, she forced her fingertips deeper
into the rough crevice and tugged harder.
"This is taking too long, Pierre. The devil will
surely find us. I fear a trap. If I can't pry this out, then we'll . .
." The stone moved, the grating sound an odd contretemps to the loud
thumps of her pulse. Releasing a sigh as shaky as her body, she grabbed the
small bag of gold.
"Rochelle, can we tell the king our secret?"
"Hush, Pierre. No more until we are safely
removed. Although the idea bears consideration. The information might destroy
Sire Becket's claim." She worked the stone back into the opening, then
grasped the pitchfork to use for a brace. "Is the mare ready? I'm coming
down."
Sire Spitz yowled.
"
Non!
Let me go!"
"Tell
me
the secret, Lady Rochelle. Or
shall I encourage the information from Pierre?"
Becket.
Rochelle spun to . . . Her foot slipped on the loose
straw; the pitchfork tumbled from her hold. She flailed for balance, her mind
filled with the flashed image of Pierre dangling from one of the devil's grips,
a hissing Sire Spitz from the other. Floundering, she stepped on her hem and
pitched forward . . . toward the up-curled tines of the fallen pitchfork! Her
scream echoed in the rafters as she hurtled toward impalement. Then she
thudded. Against Becket's chest! He had leapt in front of her and had saved
her from certain death.
But for what purpose?
Disconcerted, she lifted her gaze, and her breath
caught.
His lips hovered a kiss away---those same sensuous
lips that moments ago had seared her senseless. And the virile strength of his
jaw, the curls of his dark hair that wrapped around her fingers in soft
possession, the masculine line of his Romanesque nose, the ebon of his eyes so
afire with hatred and lust...
The devil.
And she wanted him.
Desire slammed past her confused fear, shattering her
newly re-mortared boulders into dust, leaving her heart vulnerable and
dangerously exposed.
Fool!
Before she could repair the damage, he parted his lips
and lowered his face. He would kiss her! Her unprotected heart skittered in a
thousand different directions weaving trails of confused heartbeats all through
her body. She opened her mouth, eager for the taste of him. He hesitated.
His hot breath warmed her lips. If she lifted her chin---
Becket curved a smirk, then her feet sank to the ground
along with her foolish hopes.
"An ungraceful flight, my disloyal falcon. You
soar best when under my tutelage."
Moon-gilt images scorched her mind. Images of her
hunger. His denial.
Rage dissipated her desire. She shoved against his
armored chest. He merely tightened his hold as if to prove his mastery.
"What shall I do with you, my lady? The dungeon
is conveniently empty. Might Gaston risk all to free you as you did for him? Mayhap
I could use you for bait . . . to trap a rat."
"Let her go!"
Pierre's frightened command jolted her to the reality
of her brother's danger. His dark-tousled head jerked with each blow of his
foot against what must have been Becket's calves. David against Goliath.
Saint against sinner.
"
Sacre bleu
, you little hellion. Cease
that kicking."
"Pierre, seek refuge with
Père
Bertrand!" Rochelle wrenched for release.
"But Ro . . . I mean, my lady . . ." Pierre
lifted his face and her heart lurched. Tears spilled from his large, dark eyes
and she saw his fear. A fear that matched hers.
"Go, Pierre. Now!"
He gave her one last fearful glance, then clutching
Sire Spitz to his chest, he scampered into the bright rectangle of light beyond
the stable and out of her life. What would happen to him?
Stealing time to control her tears so as to face her
punishment with dignity, she concentrated past Becket's shoulder to the
silhouettes in the sun-burnished bailey, the blurred figures of light and
shadow reminding her of indistinct dreams, of obscure meanings, of her
uncertain future. Many cast nervous glances at the stable, then moved on as if
to maintain a purposeful distance---as if they had been ordered to stay away.
A lone figure paused, waited, watched, but because of the glare she couldn't
tell whether male or female.
"How boring for you, knight. You expected me to
come to the stables. You but awaited my entrance."
"You would never be boring, my traitorous falcon.
Challenging, perhaps."
Mentally scrambling for a retort, she threw him a
glower, then stilled, imprisoned as much by his midnight eyes as by his
embrace. Her heart slammed against her ribs in rhythm with the slam of the
restless destrier against the partition.
Becket's gaze heated. "He wants her."
Rochelle's pulse leapt.
He meant the mare, you
imbecile.
Angry with her reaction, she glanced at the destrier, then
gasped.
"That huge beast and my Falcon? He's too powerful
for her." Rochelle twisted from his grasp to retrieve her mare, then
glimpsed the open doorway.
Freedom.
A quick dash and---
Light from the daystar pierced into the dimness,
highlighting Becket.
Her intentions disintegrated along with her breath.
He stood within the wedge of morning sunshine like
temptation newly-formed, and tongues of hunger licked through her body.
Shifting rays hazed over his erotically tousled sin-black hair, over his
wickedly magnificent body sheathed in crimson and mail. As if daring her to
run, he gripped the hilt of his sword, the hilt he had used to tease her to near
madness. Dust motes sparkled around him, drifting toward him, then away, then
toward him again, much like her own reactions toward this man-god, her enemy.
And somehow, some way, she would bring His Arrogance
down.
She heard an enraged whinny. A loud thump cracked the
partition.
The stallion burst from the stall, then reared behind
Becket, an incredible beast of incredible power, and Rochelle knew in an
instant, he belonged to Becket.
The destrier charged. Her mare shied, stumbling in
retreat.
Rochelle reached for her mare's reins. "
Non
---"
Becket's sword clattered to the ground. He grasped her
waist. She sailed backward from his toss, thudding atop the haystack. Air
whooshed out of her lungs from Becket's armored weight as he threw himself over
her, black hooves flashing where but a breath ago, Rochelle had stood. He
cradled her head within his hands, pressing his warm face to hers as if to
protect her from the lust-driven violence of stud against mare.
"I must save her!" Rochelle squirmed beneath
him, the frantic scream of her mare like a knife in her chest.
Becket tightened his hands aside her face and forced
her to look into his soul-stealing eyes, eyes filled with passion, with
disdain.
"Stay out of his way, Lady Rochelle. He'll
destroy anyone or anything that impedes his goal."
"As would his master?"
"As would his master."
Apprehension prickled her nape, and yet unwanted desire
swirled along her body wherever his weight pressed against her. Not certain
whether from self-loathing or concern for her mare, she wriggled to slip from
beneath him.
"Fear not for your precious Falcon, my lady. Like
your feelings for me, she fears him, yet wants him. No denials. I see the
unsated hunger within your blue depths."
"And I see yours, knight. Lust at war with hate.”
"Hatred wins."
Falcon screamed. Rochelle felt a gust on her ankles as
if hooves had slashed too near.
Becket rolled from atop her and grabbed a whip from a
peg. He cracked the air above the stallion. "Out, Satan! Take her in
the bailey!"
Satan
. She should have known.
Red streamed down Falcon's neck where Satan must have
bitten.
Furious, Rochelle scooted from the pile of hay as
Becket cracked the whip again. She lunged for her mare, but Becket grabbed her
wrist as Satan herded Falcon through the doorway.
"Our counterparts will mate in our stead, Lady
Rochelle. The falcon and the devil."
"He'll kill her!"
Becket pierced her with a glare. "A
possibility."
Hot ice skimmed across her flesh. He had not meant the
mare.