had
cried out in pain, and she wondered if the same cruelty ran thick in Becket's
blood.
He partially withdrew his fingers in a slow,
flesh-melting caress, then he slipped them into the recess once more, then out,
and in again, slow, rhythmic, sensual, as if in demonstration of his future
intentions. And with each stroke, a warm stream of sensitivity curled into her
tightening nipples, then slid past her bewildered fear and settled like a warm
ache in her womanhood. Rochelle released a soft moan, in wonder of the
unexplainable sensations.
Becket's eyes darkened to midnight, his hatred
apparently overcome by desire, a different hunger than she had seen in Marcel's
eyes, an emotion that confused her and cracked her wall of protection.
A spear of sunlight from the window shimmered on
Becket's mail as he leaned toward her, his full lips parted, his dark gaze
entrapping hers. She went rigid out of instinct, not knowing what to expect.
He smelled of cedar, and she knew the scent would forever remind her of when he
stole her lands, her innocence.
Cedar.
The flash in the cedar trees.
Bolstered by suspicion, an emotion she knew and
understood, Rochelle placed a restraining hand on Becket's metal-covered chest
and studied his too-near face to detect the truth.
"Sire, earlier you closed the shutters when I
stared out the window to see what caused the unusual reflection in the
trees."
Becket went motionless, but Rochelle sensed his hurried
search for a response. She had caught him with his defenses preoccupied with
carnality. A detail to remember for future use.
"Who are you, knight? Who awaits you in the
forest?"
False innocence washed over his studied expression.
"What is your preoccupation with the world outside the castle, ma femme ?
'Tis inside the walls where your destiny lies."
She searched his fathomless eyes, but the ebony pools
remained hooded beneath his thick brows, an enigmatic combination of passion
and abhorrence, both directed at her. She gathered her courage to push the
subject. "Tell me, knight. Who is outside this castle?"
"Ah, Lady Rochelle." He breathed her name
like wind through tall grass while he drew his fingers down her cheek, the devil
intent on seduction. "'Tis not the working of the earth outside the walls
that interest me at this moment, bride. Another tilling hardens my plow."
She shoved at his shoulders. "You merely seek to
distract me, knight. I would have an answer. Who is in the forest?"
All passion fled from his face, replaced by anger and
hate. His gaze locked onto hers and she knew with ominous dread she wouldn't
like the news.
"My army, Lady Rochelle. They but await my signal
to attack."
She felt the blood drain from her face. "Your
army? But King Jean would never allow you to take DuBois by force." She
gasped. "You lied!" Fury flared within her breast, hot and
vengeful, and she pounded his shoulders with her fists.
"I tell you true, Lady Rochelle. I am the king's
man on the king's mission."
Before she realized his intent, he trapped her wrists
in one hand and pressed them against the mattress above her head.
"Now, accept your fate, wife."
" Non ! I'm not your wife! Not now, not
ever! I will never again be controlled by a lying, cheating, manipulative
male." She twisted, but to no avail. The pressure of his hands and body
held her prisoner. He drew up her gown and forced his armored leg between hers
protected only by the fragile veiling of her only, and threadbare, chemise.
"Such a sweet sacrificial lamb. Take heart that
this offering will spare the death of those you love. Now, cease your
struggles. You only bring more discomfort to yourself."
He pushed up over her and worked both his knees between
her thighs. She knew in a moment of blinding clarity he would not fail as had
Marcel.
"Please, Sire, don't do this."
He ignored her plea as he lifted the edge of his mail
shirt and stretched his
cried out in pain, and she wondered if the same cruelty ran thick in Becket's
blood.
He partially withdrew his fingers in a slow,
flesh-melting caress, then he slipped them into the recess once more, then out,
and in again, slow, rhythmic, sensual, as if in demonstration of his future
intentions. And with each stroke, a warm stream of sensitivity curled into her
tightening nipples, then slid past her bewildered fear and settled like a warm
ache in her womanhood. Rochelle released a soft moan, in wonder of the
unexplainable sensations.
Becket's eyes darkened to midnight, his hatred
apparently overcome by desire, a different hunger than she had seen in Marcel's
eyes, an emotion that confused her and cracked her wall of protection.
A spear of sunlight from the window shimmered on
Becket's mail as he leaned toward her, his full lips parted, his dark gaze
entrapping hers. She went rigid out of instinct, not knowing what to expect.
He smelled of cedar, and she knew the scent would forever remind her of when he
stole her lands, her innocence.
Cedar.
The flash in the cedar trees.
Bolstered by suspicion, an emotion she knew and
understood, Rochelle placed a restraining hand on Becket's metal-covered chest
and studied his too-near face to detect the truth.
"Sire, earlier you closed the shutters when I
stared out the window to see what caused the unusual reflection in the
trees."
Becket went motionless, but Rochelle sensed his hurried
search for a response. She had caught him with his defenses preoccupied with
carnality. A detail to remember for future use.
"Who are you, knight? Who awaits you in the
forest?"
False innocence washed over his studied expression.
"What is your preoccupation with the world outside the castle, ma femme ?
'Tis inside the walls where your destiny lies."
She searched his fathomless eyes, but the ebony pools
remained hooded beneath his thick brows, an enigmatic combination of passion
and abhorrence, both directed at her. She gathered her courage to push the
subject. "Tell me, knight. Who is outside this castle?"
"Ah, Lady Rochelle." He breathed her name
like wind through tall grass while he drew his fingers down her cheek, the devil
intent on seduction. "'Tis not the working of the earth outside the walls
that interest me at this moment, bride. Another tilling hardens my plow."
She shoved at his shoulders. "You merely seek to
distract me, knight. I would have an answer. Who is in the forest?"
All passion fled from his face, replaced by anger and
hate. His gaze locked onto hers and she knew with ominous dread she wouldn't
like the news.
"My army, Lady Rochelle. They but await my signal
to attack."
She felt the blood drain from her face. "Your
army? But King Jean would never allow you to take DuBois by force." She
gasped. "You lied!" Fury flared within her breast, hot and
vengeful, and she pounded his shoulders with her fists.
"I tell you true, Lady Rochelle. I am the king's
man on the king's mission."
Before she realized his intent, he trapped her wrists
in one hand and pressed them against the mattress above her head.
"Now, accept your fate, wife."
" Non ! I'm not your wife! Not now, not
ever! I will never again be controlled by a lying, cheating, manipulative
male." She twisted, but to no avail. The pressure of his hands and body
held her prisoner. He drew up her gown and forced his armored leg between hers
protected only by the fragile veiling of her only, and threadbare, chemise.
"Such a sweet sacrificial lamb. Take heart that
this offering will spare the death of those you love. Now, cease your
struggles. You only bring more discomfort to yourself."
He pushed up over her and worked both his knees between
her thighs. She knew in a moment of blinding clarity he would not fail as had
Marcel.
"Please, Sire, don't do this."
He ignored her plea as he lifted the edge of his mail
shirt and stretched his
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