Authors: Carolyne Cathey
Fury drowned Rochelle's unwanted but all too wondrous
sensations. She had allowed him to humiliate her. "Do you toy with me
again so as to give you more weapons for your amusement?"
He cocked a brow as if to hide his passionate lapse of
control. "I but confirm my instincts,
demoiselle."
She struggled for an incensed breath. "And what,
pray tell, did you confirm?"
"That if I choose, you would melt beneath my touch
like the Pyrenees snow under a hot sun. But I do not choose. How sad. You'd
make a comely camp follower."
Rochelle swung a slap; her hand stung from the contact,
as did her emotions from the hatred that struck from his eyes.
"You
will
go to the convent as soon as your
father is buried, and good riddance." He spun and strode down the
wall-walk. Sunlight flashed from his armor, glistened from the rippled folds
of his jupon of ruby samite woven through with golden threads, from the
blue-black glory of his hair----the victor over the victim. The spider who had
entrapped the moth.
Shaken to the point of collapse, Rochelle leaned her
head back upon the stones and closed her eyes. He had given her until her
father's burial which meant she had three days.
Three days for the moth to trap the spider.
C
HAPTER
S
IX
B
ecket stepped from the bailey into the
doorway of the great hall after having inspected the vineyard, the portion of
land of most import to him, pleased at the extraordinary care given the vines
even with the shortage of labor since the plague. And then the incessant
death-knell had bombarded his nerves until he wanted to strangle something.
Against his will he scanned the room past servants and
an incredible beauty dressed all in violet, searching for Rochelle. He spied
her, then caught his breath, his unwanted reaction whenever he saw her, despite
her ill-fitting, almost ugly gowns. Now she wore black bombazine, not a good
color for her.
Black
.
For mourning.
Rage built like a sudden storm. He scanned the chamber
again. Black cloths draped the walls. Reynaurd lay upon a white-clothed bier
upon the dais at one end of the hall as if king of the realm. Rage destroyed
Becket's tentative composure.
"
Sacre bleu,
woman! I will not tolerate
this blatant display of respect for the man who killed my father and stole my
lands."
Rochelle spun from where she and the young hellion who
had attacked him earlier hung even more unwanted drapes. She stiffened, her
usual response to his presence.
Becket stormed to the dais. He ripped the black cloth
from the wall, flinging the fabric to the floor. "You will not honor this
bastard!"
She pressed her hand to her chest as if to stop an
ache, her eyes wide with terror.
Furious, Becket swept his sword at the floor-standing
candle holders that stood like sentries around Reynaurd. Candles crashed to
the floor, flames licking through the dry rushes toward the bier, tasting, then
devouring the white fabric. Becket swiped his sword and four more candles
clattered in defeat.
"You'll burn him!" Rochelle appeared panicked
and furious at the same time, then ran to beat at the fire with her cloth.
"Water! Someone douse the fire!"
Becket snared her waist with one hand and snatched her
from the spreading inferno before her gown ignited.
The human windmill launched himself at Becket, beating
and kicking. "Don't you hurt her!"
The bothersome cat on the lad’s shoulder spit in
Becket’s eyes.
“Curse that---“
Rochelle rammed her fist underneath Becket's chin.
"Don't you harm him!"
Becket winced from his bitten tongue, then sidestepped
the lad's well aimed kicks. "Henri, snare this fearless wonder before his
arms and legs fly off. And skewer that blasted cat!”
“
Non!
And my father . . .”
Despite her attempts to tear him apart, Becket set
Rochelle aside, barring her way when she attempted to dart around him to the
bier. "Stay back, Lady Rochelle. Let Reynaurd burn like he burned my
father. Too bad he's already dead."
Haunted by memories of his father's screams, Becket
turned and swung his blade. Two iron candleholders tipped onto the bier, the
blaze slithering along the cloth-draped table toward Reynaurd's corpse. Smoke
curled, black and foul, burning his eyes, his nostrils, and he welcomed the
sting.
Rochelle hit Becket across the face with a cloth.
"You'll destroy DuBois!"
Becket stiffened. Destroy DuBois? He stared at the
hungry blaze, then he tore the fabric from her hands and beat at the flames.
"If not for DuBois, I'd let him burn."
Servants rushed past him with buckets and poured water
on the flames until the floor rushes smoked black ooze. Black charred the wet
bier-cloth that once draped as white as the mountain-top snow. In spite of the
turmoil, and while Becket's pulse roared in his ears, and his heart pounded,
and his mouth tasted like burned grass, Reynaurd slept a timeless sleep,
unperturbed, and Becket felt certain, with a hint of a smile upon his face
because of the insane attraction Becket had toward Reynaurd’s daughter.
Becket spun to Rochelle. "I want this bastard
below ground by Vespers!"
Rochelle thrust her hands on her hips and glared at
Becket. "I'm ecstatic to honor your command, Sire. Pierre, tell
Pèr
e
Bertrand to prepare a grave wide enough for two. This bastard, Sire Becket,
wishes to join my father."
Becket felt his mouth drop open, then he burst into
laughter. What a firebrand, his temporary bride. He wiped tears from his face
with the ruined cloth, then stilled as he caught sight of her again.
He knew he stared at her like an animal hungry for his
next meal. Black streaked her face, her wimple at a rakish angle, her mouth a
tight line, the most beautiful blue eyes he had ever seen narrowed in rage, all
in all, as tempting as sin.
"Your face is smudged,
cherie
."
She sank a little as if her knees almost buckled, and
the sight shot heat all through his body. He wanted to go to her, but he
remained where he stood, not trusting himself to retain control when within
touching distance. He had already had two soul-shaking experiences when she
had lured him past rational thought: atop her in her bed, and with that
arousing kiss upon the parapet. He hated his weakness for reacting thus to his
enemy.
A vision in violet glided toward him, catching his
attention. "Sire Becket? Did you say the burial is
now
instead of
in three days?"
Becket saw the fear in Rochelle's eyes, the betrayal,
the dismay, as if the number of days held great import. She glared at the
lavender-clad beauty, her hands fisted at her sides as he had discovered was
her wont when irritated or distressed.
All that focused wrath encouraged him to take a closer
look at the female siren---the come-hither invitation in her violet eyes, the
slightly parted lips, full, tempting breasts, narrow waist, a pleasing flare to
her hips. A fulfillment of male fantasies. No soot or grime on this woman.
And yet he had remembered seeing her when he had first entered. So, unlike
Rochelle, this perfection of femaleness had not dirtied her beauty for the
cause. He stroked his gaze back up her body to her eyes which said she knew he
liked what she offered.
"And you are?"
"
Madáme
Angelique. Companion to Lady
Rochelle.”
"Ah." Becket sauntered toward her.
Angelique's expression heated. She made clear he need
not sleep alone that night. The innocent Rochelle must have confided to this
femme fatale about the annulment. Did the woman think to take Rochelle's
place? He stopped in front of her, and the scent of violets reached through
the smell of smoke. Too cloying. Too obvious. Like the woman herself.
He wondered what scent Rochelle might wear when not
saturated with death, or smoke, not that she would be there long enough for him
to know. And yet, for some inexplicable reason, curiosity tempted him to
discover that insignificant fact before she departed.
"
Madáme
." He bowed to the woman,
confident he knew her coming reaction. "I feel less guilt knowing Lady
Rochelle will have companionship during her exile."
Panic darted through Lady Angelique's eyes. She ran
her tongue over her rouged lips and curved a quite determined, quite seductive
pouty smile, then fluttered her dark lashes.
"Although I would miss Rochelle, she will have all
those dedicated nuns to keep her company. Whereas I am certain you will need a
woman of breeding to . . . to handle your . . . " She lowered her focus
to below his waist, then lifted her eyes and latched onto his gaze. "To
handle your estate. I am a lady of excellent lineage, originally of the
Chandeau's of Normandy before the English took possession." She pressed
an embroidered linen square to her mouth, then let the cloth drift to the
floor. "
Excusé moi.
I dropped my handkerchief."
Becket met her sensual eyes, eyes that sizzled with
sexual promise. He stared at her for a long moment, then knelt to retrieve the
fine linen, and while kneeling, held up the handkerchief. Angelique's mouth
curved a victorious smile.
He heard Rochelle's gasp and glanced her way. She held
her hand over her mouth, her color as pale as the Pyrenees snow, her eyes
filled with pain and humiliation. He had shamed her. Although they knew the
marriage a farce, the others of DuBois did not. They would wonder why the new
bridegroom knelt at the feet of another woman. He wondered why he cared about
Rochelle's feelings.
"Sire, may I oversee the preparation of your bath
. . . and any other needs you desire?" Gloating with success, Angelique
tucked the linen in the low-swept neckline of her gown, then patted with
well-manicured fingers as if to make certain the handkerchief stayed in place.
She need not flutter her hands to draw his attention to breasts that only a
dead man wouldn't notice. This woman exuded danger.
Becket pushed to his feet. "I venture to guess
you have much experience in overseeing male needs and desires,
Madame."
Her grin widened. "I know how to please a man in
quite creative ways."
He leaned toward her so as to speak without Rochelle
hearing. The woman practically purred in anticipation of his words.
"Forgive me,
Madame
. If you were a camp
follower, I might be interested. With ladies of nobility, I prefer the path
less traveled." Becket bowed, then cocked a brow. "And you
will
accompany Lady Rochelle to the convent."
Angelique's eyes flashed surprised insult, then rage,
and he gave thanks he wore armor.
Becket turned toward Rochelle---the only true victim in
his effortless conquest of DuBois. Guilt pierced his euphoric victory. She
stood as a statue, her stone-like mask in place as if she had erected an
invisible barrier.
Sacre blue
. He felt challenged to rip the barrier
down, but he dare not. He must hide her in the convent before she discovered
his secret and used the information to bring about his death.
He took a step toward her, knowing he shouldn't.
Something unexplainable possessed him when in her presence. He must make
certain he kept his distance until she left DuBois. As Becket neared, he saw
that she wanted to run. He wished she would. He must make her hate him so
much that she would be glad to be away from him
and
DuBois.
He stopped in front of her. Rochelle's eyes glinted
blue ice. And yet he had seen them melt with passion. Some part of him, deep
inside, longed to see her eyes widen again with newly discovered sensualities,
then glaze with a desire she didn't know she could feel, emotions that she felt
only for him and no other.
Rochelle's breath hissed. "Angelique boasted
that, despite your oath, she could have you kneeling at her feet within
moments. Even so, do you not have the decency to wait until I am gone before
you break your marriage vows and commit adultery?"
"I suppose I could have pierced the handkerchief
with the tip of my sword. Be reasonable, Lady Rochelle. I but retrieved the
linen, not pledged homage. Besides, you were the one who suggested a
leman."
"You could, at least, show discretion instead of
shaming me in front of my servants."
"
My
servants. I---" He heard a
commotion behind him and turned toward the door, then cursed.
Père
Bertrand strode into the great hall like a redeemer in search of a lost soul,
not stopping until he halted beside them.
"What is this about Lord Reynaurd being buried
today? Do you flaunt religious traditions?" He glanced at Rochelle.
"Straighten your wimple."
Which Becket noticed she did with amazing haste as if
caught in the act of some horrible sin. Her reaction challenged him to view
her hidden tresses before she left the next morning.
Unwilling to anger the church and thus risk a charge of
heresy, Becket swept his hand to indicate the carnage. "As you can see,
Satan is eager to claim his disciple. He sent the fires of Hades as invitation
for Reynaurd to hasten to his new abode. To save DuBois, we must place him
beneath the earth before Beelzebub breathes another blast of impatience."
Becket attempted a casual expression, knowing with his
next statement another type of hell would break loose. "And,
Père
Bertrand, before this day is ended, you will annul the marriage between the
fair Lady Rochelle and myself. She seeks the peace of a nunnery."
Rochelle came to life, from ice to fire. "
Non
!
You presented the stained sheets as proof."
"'Twas blood from my thigh. And I warned you of
the unpleasant results if you should pursue such an action."
She shifted her terror-filled attention to the priest.
"He accomplished the sworn fealty of the knights with those sheets."
The priest nodded, obviously stunned by the
conversation. "'Tis so. Without the consummation, you have no
claim."
"I claim as the rightful heir to DuBois. This
land belonged to my father before Lord Reynaurd stole the property."
Becket caressed the hilt of his sword for affect. "If you don't accept
that truth, you may be more comfortable serving at a holding other than
mine."