Authors: Carolyne Cathey
“Beatrice didn’t find out until during one of
Reynaurd’s and my later trysts. I wanted another, you see, in case aught
happened to you. But she discovered us, heard Reynaurd and I whispering about
you, that despite your coloring the same as Reynaurd’s, Beatrice and Alberre
were too stupid to realize the truth.”
“Or trusting.” He tilted his head as if in confused thought,
then pinned his mother with a suspicion-filled gaze. “Why did Beatrice seek
revenge with Gaston instead of with Alberre?”
Isabelle’s sharp breath sliced through the silence. “Her
misguided reasoning matters not. Now drink.”
Becket stared at her for several heartbeats, then his attention
dropped to the clay tankard still imprisoned in his grasp. What torturous
thoughts roiled within his soul? How could he possibly decide between what
might seem to him like two hellish options?
He swirled the wine as he returned his attention to his
mother. “Another twisted thought,
ma mère.
For two decades you have
urged me to kill Reynaurd
and
his seed so as to reclaim DuBois. But in
truth,
I
am his seed,
n'est-ce pas
?
You
badgered me to kill my own father!”
“Hush ere another hears you and you ruin all. Do not
dare to judge me. I made this day possible for you.”
“You made this day irresolvable! Two decades of hell
for naught! I am a bastard, and bastards cannot inherit.”
Rochelle gasped. Becket slammed her with a glare, and
her stomach knotted tighter.
Isabelle grasped his arm. “Not if you do what must be
done to keep DuBois secure in your hands; one essential is to rid our path of
this impediment who knows too much.” She nodded at Rochelle. “If you want
DuBois, take the damned chalice and then we’ll strategize.”
Rochelle’s heart shuddered to a stop and her breath
froze.
She knew too much to remain alive.
He would never choose her
over his mother. Not with DuBois at stake.
Becket scowled at his mother as if running
impossibilities through his mind. Then he dropped his gaze again to the
tankard still gripped in his hand. Letting out a tortured groan, Becket lifted
the tankard, and downed the wine!
Rochelle stared, stunned. He had taken drink that had
come from her hand! But why? For spite? For vengeance? Had he hoped the
liquid poisoned? Was it to ease her caution so that she didn’t seek protection?
Lady Isabelle threw her chalice to the ground. “How
dare you refuse me!”
With deliberate movement, Becket re-tipped the tankard
and caught the last drop on his tongue, then let the clay shatter at his feet.
“Do you know the identity of the third conspirator? Do you know the
whereabouts of the secret documents that prove the innocence of the man I will
always consider my father, the man who burned at the stake?”
“I will tell you naught until you rid DuBois of that
harlot.”
“There is only one harlot in this obscene scenario. How
did the man to whom you offered your body end up as lord of DuBois and then Gaston
became liege of Moreau? Did we needlessly lose all and suffer for two decades as
a result of your evil machinations?”
Lady Isabelle’s eyes glittered hatred. “I know the
answers to all the enigmas that plague your soul, enigmas you would do aught to
discover. But I will not reveal a shred more until that woman is gone,
preferably dead. She has the power to destroy us and to forever rip from us
DuBois. Now no more else another guesses the secret of our conversation.” She
forced a smile as if to prove to the world the disagreement petty, and solved.
“I give you until morn to do what you should have done days ago. You will find
me in my chamber. Do not disappointment me.” Lady Isabelle marched into the
keep like an imperious Queen, a nauseatingly serene Lady Anne in her wake.
Mayhap serenity had its positives; Lady Anne would never be the target for
murder.
Rochelle couldn’t seem to move her feet to escape, much
less think. Becket desired her, she knew, but he desired DuBois more, longed
for the solutions more, hated Gaston more. True, Becket drank the wine from
her tankard, but in order to glean the long-sought-after truth from his mother might
he yet send Rochelle away or imprison her or kill her? Did he realize that
Rochelle, too, claimed the status of bastard? That in announcing the truth,
she doomed herself as well?
She jumped as Becket placed his arm around her
shoulders. “’Tis time for celebration.” He sounded bitter.
As he guided her into the smoky dimness of the great
hall, she ached to ask him what they celebrated. Ugly truths? Truths both of
them longed to banish from their memories?
Gaston’s daughter
.
Shame burned in her stomach like a flared ember.
Rochelle couldn’t force a bite of food down her
constricted throat. Becket ate like a man starved. And as he ate, he studied
her. His gaze smoldered, stroking her like the lingering caress of an
invisible hand.
She pretended interest in the knights and ladies as
they drank and laughed in boisterous revelry along the white-clothed boards
that flanked the head table. And yet, inside her, Becket’s attention fired a
thousand stars through her shock-chilled veins, scattering the atrocious
revelations from her thoughts, except for one - what did
she
want
?
To destroy her enemy? Or love him?
A troubadour strummed to begin a ballad. Knights and
ladies rose to dance a roundelay while he sang in accompaniment. Becket merely
leaned back in his chair and examined her, his eye-lids half-mast, as the
troubadour crooned.
“I’m so hungry for her
love.
O, she’s whiter than any
ivory statue . . . “
Becket’s hand skimmed up beneath the weight of her
tresses, then teased the downy hairs at her nape. The stars in her veins
melted, flowing molten into her breasts. And yet, a persistent fear niggled in
her mind -
might he kill her to protect his secret? Should she run? But to
where?
As soon as the song ended, the singer began another
ballad.
“Truly this fool desire is
killing me . . . “
Becket shoved back his chair. Unaware of her
traitorous thoughts, he pulled her to her feet and guided her to the large
space between the U-shaped tables where they joined the circle. He interlocked
his fingers with hers, and despite her caution, her legs went as limp as wet
grass. She grasped the knight’s hand to her left as much for support as for
the dance. Oddly, only the one held by Becket feathered a thrill along her
flesh. The circle moved to her left, Becket behind her, his hand still clasped
with hers. And as they glided, his thumb massaged a sensitive area on her palm
that drove a wanton craving all through her body.
Oh dear heaven, what to
do?
“She’s mastered cheating,
trickery,
So that I always think she
loves me . . . “
Step, bend, step, bend. Point. She turned to move in
the opposite direction. Becket hesitated before he turned and her breasts
brushed against his chest. The melted stars exploded from her veins into his
eyes. Then her gaze locked onto his back as the ring cycled to where they
began.
Where they began.
Frost and fire. Discord and desire. Treachery and
deceit. As continuous a circle as the dance they now performed.
“Ah, sweetly she deceives
me,
As her pretty face
confounds me.”
She released hands to intertwine with the ladies and
knights around the circle. When she and Becket crossed paths, he dragged his
fingers a purposeful trail across her waist that reached far beyond his touch,
then too soon, they drifted in alternate directions as they wove around the
other dancers in a fluid human braid.
His seduction confused her. What did Becket intend?
Another arousal, then rejection? Did he boost his wounded pride with her
ruin? For, surely, her soul could not withstand another snub.
Better a
snub than a dagger in the heart.
“She can keep me, she can
sell me . . . “
Too flustered and confused to meet anyone’s gaze,
Rochelle focused on the rush-covered floor. She should run. Now. Before he
punished her again with her own desires.
Before he destroyed her.
Deciding cowardice as the wisest move, Rochelle spun into the circle to make a hasty
exit. She stumbled, slamming into Becket. She jerked her gaze to his. And
like the stars, the world melted into non-existence.
“. . . to come where she
undresses alone
So that I can wait at her
bidding
beside the bed, along the
edge,
Where I can pull off her
close-fitting shoes
Down on my knees, my head
bent down:
If only she’ll offer me
her foot.”
Becket nudged her toe with his boot. She couldn’t
breathe. The shuffling feet of the dancers sounded around her. Or perhaps she
merely heard the swooshing of her raging pulse.
He bent down his head. His breath wavered errant
tendrils of her hair against her face. With his mouth he encouraged aside the
strands that draped beside her temple. He moaned, the vibration rippling into
her ear and along her aroused nerves.
Distant scoldings about love and vulnerability and
danger urged her to escape. He only sought revenge. He would bring her to the
edge of insanity, then in cruelest measure, turn away.
Or bury her
. And
yet, his hot rapid breaths warmed a sensuous ribbon from her lobe to her toes,
liquefying her resistance.
In some far off part of her mind she heard the
troubadour start another ballad. The song welled until the lyrics became one
with her deepest longings.
“O, that I had that knight
to caress
Naked all night in my
arms,
He’d be ravished by the
charm
Of using, for cushion, my
breast . . . “
Her disloyal heart longingly beat out his name –
Becket,
Becket, Becket.
No escaping the frightening truth. She loved him.
She
loved her enemy.
Beyond redemption, she grasped his arms and drowned in
the troubadour’s music that revealed her heart.
“O, if I could lie with
you one night!
Feel those loving lips on
mine!”
Becket whispered kisses across her cheek to the corner
of her mouth. Her lips tingled with want as she silently willed him to heed
the words that surely flowed from her soul.
“. . . one thing sets me
afire:
Here in my husband’s place
I want you . . .“
Becket shuddered, then swept her into his arms. As he
carried her up the stairs she heard the faint tremolo of the dying song.
“. . . give me everything
I desire.”
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
"
Y
ou carry me to
my
chamber, not the lord’s chamber? Why?" Dreading that Sire Becket toyed
with her emotions as well as
her life, Lady Rochelle tightened her hold
both on his neck and her desire. She must remain alert. As if unaware of her
torment, he continued up the spiral staircase and into her room aglow with the
light of moon, candles and hearthfire.
"Ah, Rochelle, do you not know?" He
whispered breathily in her ear, and longing unfurled like hot ribbons
throughout her body.
"To come where you
undress alone
So that I can wait at your
bidding..."
His whispery croon, husky
with passion frayed the periphery of her caution. He wanted her. She wanted
him. But she must restrain her hopes, for he forever grasped at any excuse to
stop the consummation. And yet, she hungered for him, enemy or no.
"Beside the bed,
along the edge..."
He sat her upon the edge of the mattress, facing him.
As she sank into the feathers, visions flashed into her mind of when he had
straddled her there after the forced vows--of when he had rolled from her in
rejection.
Oh, heart. Take care.
She closed her eyes, mentally struggling to rebuild her
protective wall, but Sire Becket had forever crumbled the stones to dust
leaving her terrifyingly vulnerable. Another fear, nebulous and unwanted,
prodded for recognition. But what? That despite his craving, his hatred for
Gaston would never allow him to spill his seed within his enemy’s daughter?
Gaston’s daughter.
She dug her nails into her palms to push the insane
reality from her mind.
Sire Becket pressed soft, wet kisses across her closed
lids, down her cheek, past the corner of her mouth. She moaned, eager to turn
and capture his lips with hers.
A child. What if her child carried Gaston’s evil?
Sire Becket’s body heat radiated around her and through
her like the hearthfire that glowed behind his silhouetted figure slackening
her efforts of self-defense and silent-argument. He smelled of cedar which
before, stank of treachery but now, scented of temptation.
Merciless in his seduction, he trailed his kisses a
susceptible path down her neck, and lower still. His breath fanned over the
moistness and she shuddered with anticipation, apprehension. Memories of
laving tongues and wet desire liquefied her wariness. Her breasts ached for
his touch. Needing the feel of him, she ran her hands over his shoulders of
hard muscle beneath soft velvet.
He groaned, then skimmed his palms in urgent possession
over her waist and down her fortunate legs to her ankles.
"Where I can pull off
your close-fitting shoes...
"My head bent
down..."
Although drowning in exotic sensations she noted he had
skipped the passage about being down on his knees. Even now he refused to
kneel. Then why? Why the farce? For his amusement as when on the bluff?
Even so, she lacked the power or the will to stop him.
He slid his hot hands beneath her skirts, searing her
calves along with her doubt. His breathing rapid, he moved his mouth over her
silk-covered lap while he inched his fingers up her inner thighs. Desire raced
from his touch to her womanhood. The ache in her breasts swelled, overflowing
like melted tallow and sinking in a hot stream to blend with the intensifying
tingle.
Unable to stop herself, she threaded her fingers
through the firelight-tinged luxuriance of his sin-black hair, pressing him,
encouraging him to continue. His kisses upon her thighs grew more relentless,
as did the wanton throbs within her feminine core. And yet that indistinct
warning still tugged at her caution. Something drastic, she sensed. But
what? Although in truth, she didn’t want to know.
He drew his fingers a teasing caress down her shin and
over her blessed arch. Then when she feared her weakness a permanent
condition, he held out his hands in expectation, his attention focused on her
hem.
"...if only you’ll
offer me your foot."
Impossible! He had stolen her strength. The irony of the
scene flitted through her mind. Reynaurd’s son seduced Gaston’s daughter.
No,
not Gaston’s daughter
! She rejected the hideous accusation of her
parentage. Besides, his mother had no proof Rochelle wasn’t of Reynaurd.
Which meant that...
Sire
Becket. Reynaurd’s son.
Rochelle covered her mouth in horror.
"The significant word in that phrase, my lady, is
‘offer’." Oblivious of the alarm snaking up her spine, Sire Becket raised
to her his passion-filled gaze murky with secrets, skepticism, determination.
"I will not force you, my precious gyrfalcon. But I will seduce you, and
without mercy."
"’Twill never be,
mon Sire
. By all that’s
cruel, ‘twill never be." Blinking away tears she refused to shed,
Rochelle shoved from his warmth and rushed to the hearth. She snatched the
poker to stir up the impotent heat, then stilled, shaken by the symbolism--the
red and gold flames signified a Sire Becket she dare not touch; the ashes at
her feet, her hopes; the smoke that drifted up the flue, her irretrievable
dreams. She forced back a sob.
Only the crackle of the fire broke the silence, then
the sound of his footsteps as he neared. His hands branded her shoulders as
hot as the fire that seemed unable to warm her cold flesh. She longed to lean
against him, but like with the flames, she dare not touch him. Not ever. Not
in the way she craved. She prayed for as much strength as in the steel handle
that pressed into her palms.
"Myriad reasons for your skittishness come to
mind, my precious gyrfalcon. Virginal reticence. Fear of rejection. Concern
as to further secrets. Anger at both me and my mother. Fear I might harm you."
He paused. "Knowledge that I am a bastard."
She spun to face him, fighting not to take him into her
arms and comfort him for the torment that surely racked him because of his
parentage. "I, too, am a bastard. French law forbids either of us to
inherit. If King Jean does learn of our unfortunate pedigree he will take
possession of DuBois.
Oui,
I could use that against you, but to what
purpose? Is that why this pretense to bed me – to buy my silence with your
sacrifice?”
"Another concern to add to your list of doubts. I,
too have doubts. You might prefer a husband who is not a bastard, one who might
legally secure for you DuBois. However, before you rush headlong to find
another mate, I warn you, Lady Rochelle. I have ways to accomplish the
impossible. Your best option for DuBois might yet be surest with me."
"You will plead with the king?"
He went silent for agonizing moments, staring at her as
if what he said next and how she responded held great import.
"If Edward ruled here as king, then English law
would prevail, which means even bastards would be allowed to inherit. DuBois
would still be ours."
"Blasphemy!" She fought the impulse to
strike him with the poker. "True, the truce between England and France is
soon to expire. True, war might sweep this land and who can guess the victor.
But do you think so little of me you think I would side with the English merely
to gain DuBois? I prefer death than such a union."
He paled as if she had struck him a blow. "The
English--"
"Are abhorrent, despicable, horrible vultures. I
feel a hatred for them more vehement than for Gaston."
He stood as still as the walls that surrounded them,
his expression as hard, as if in some way she had insulted him. And then she
realized the truth, a truth she felt bound to confess, no matter the results.
"Sire Becket, misunderstand not my reaction, for
if feasible, I care not that you are a bastard, for I would have you no matter
your status, but I cannot."
Jaw and fists clenched, he focused on the flames, the
fire’s light writhing within his dark eyes as if reflecting the turmoil within
his soul.
She lifted her hand but stopped before touching him.
fearful of the unallowable. "Sire Becket, I worry ‘tis more than
coincidence we both love DuBois. I fear our love is rooted from the same seed
and that we..." Fighting for courage, she forced herself to speak the
unspeakable. "I fear we were both sired by Lord Reynaurd."
He slammed her with his suspicion-filled gaze.
"Not so. My mother confessed you were sired by Gaston whereas I, by
Reynaurd. If there were any doubt, she would have used that knowledge to keep
us apart."
"She has no proof. Do you not understand? We
dare not risk consummation. Not until we know for certain. Which may mean
forever, for how would we ever know the truth?"
"A convenient excuse. Stated with the security
that I could never present such proof to your satisfaction."
"Ah, Sire Becket, you know me not, for if I knew
for certain we shared no blood, ‘tis more than my foot I would offer you."
"’Tis more than your foot I would take."
A quiver of excitement feathered down her spine, followed
by a shudder of futility.
Sire Becket snatched the poker from her grasp.
"You know
me
not if you think I will surrender. I am challenged by
impossibilities." He jabbed at the fire as if he slay the dragon of
hopelessness. "I will keep DuBois." He jabbed again." I will
find proof---"
The door creaked.
With the speed of a flared flame, Sire Becket leapt
across the space, poker raised, and jerked open the door.
Griselda let out a startled yell. The goblets on the
tray clanked with her flinch. Did the woman not realize her master had ordered
her detainment?
"How did you escape my knights?" Sire Becket
pulled Griselda into the chamber, glancing both directions down the hallway
before shutting the door. He urged her toward the center table. "Mayhap
your arrival is providential. Surely you were here when Lady Rochelle slipped
from the womb. Whom did the rumormongers claim was her father?"
"Addelty paddelty, addelty paddelty..."
Griselda mumbled with every forced shuffle across the floor.
"Enough of your addelty paddelties." Sire
Becket yanked the burden from her hands. He plunked the tray on the center
table, sloshing the wine onto the tray in dark puddles.
Wine they had not ordered. Tainted with a love
potion? Or poison
? Rochelle moved to empty the contents.
Sire Becket raised the poker to block Rochelle’s path.
"Tell us, Griselda. Who is Lady Rochelle’s father?"
Griselda pierced Rochelle with a frightened stare as if
she knew more than she dared reveal. Then she whirled and hurriedly limped
toward the door.
"Halt!" Sire Becket slammed the poker on the
table, rattling the goblets along with her nerves. "The truth,
Griselda."
Griselda swayed from foot to foot as she tugged grayed
wisps of hair over her scarred face.
"You prefer the dungeon?"
The old woman moaned, hiding further within her
tresses.
"Addelty paddelty all believed
She sprouted from..."
Griselda hesitated, and Rochelle’s pulse raged in fear
of the answer. Rochelle wanted any father but--
"...Lord Reynaurd’s bad seed."
"The same father?" Rochelle stifled a cry
with her fist, cursing the moment of her birth.
Sire Becket slipped his hand around her waist as if to
brace her and she prayed he’d never let her go. "You said ‘all’,
Griselda. But what do you believe?"
Griselda wrung her hands and retreated a step.
"The seed was bad and
caused a fright.
‘Tis why the lady was born
so white."
"Then Reynaurd is
my
father?" Sire
Becket’s voice sounded barely above a whisper. "As well as
Rochelle’s?"
"
Addelty paddelty I--"
"No riddles!" Sire Becket tightened his hold
on Rochelle’s waist, but whether for his support or hers she didn’t know.
"I swear, woman, not another addelty paddelty, not another blasted rhyme,
until you unravel this accursed mystery!"
Griselda blanched even more sickly than usual, but
surely no more so than Rochelle, for nausea roiled Rochelle’s stomach. The
woman’s thin mouth opened and shut but no words emerged.
Rochelle jerked as Sire Becket lashed out, snatching
Griselda’s wrist. "Who is her father?"
Rochelle closed her eyes, unable to breathe, unable to
move, unwilling to hear that...
"Gaston’s the one. Gaston’s the
man.
"I’ll tell you all I
paddelty--"
"No rhymes!"
"--dare."
"Gaston?" The horrid-wonderful name rushed
out on Rochelle’s released breath. "Gaston is my father?" Odd
jubilation withered before taking root.
Gaston’s seed.
Tainted.