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.
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.
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