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
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
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