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about the king, unless you produce
the royal documents, all is for naught.  Gaston will still make a claim because
of a previous bargain with Reynaurd, and since Lady Rochelle is still a virgin
this marriage is not yet official."
    A derisive laugh rolled from Becket's throat, then down
her spine.
    "A pleasant detail, priest.  I'll bed her now. 
Before Gaston hears of the vows.  Before she attempts an annulment."
    Rochelle spun to Becket.  The quill snapped in her
fingers.  Terror and disbelief nailed her to the floor.
    Becket tightened his grip and nodded to the priest. 
"I'll bring the linens as proof."

 
    C HAPTER T HREE
     
    " N on !" 
Rochelle's knees buckled like her spirit. 
    Becket trapped her between his metal-clad side and the
steel of his arm.  She caught at a sob and shoved against his armored chest,
but he merely tightened his clamp.  Battling to control her rising panic,
Rochelle stabbed him with a glare of hatred. 
    "So, Becket, Le Vengeur , you reveal your
dark nature as did Marcel, from charming to brutal.”  She threw an accusatory
glance at her father.  "I warned you of hidden danger, but you would never
dare pay heed to me, a mere female."
    Suspicion crept into the sunken depths of her father's
eyes.  "Who are you?"
    Becket dipped his head in a slight bow.  "Your
enemy.  Back from the grave."
      "Enemy?”  Her father's eyes widened in an alarm
that surely mirrored hers.  “Have we met before this day?"
    "Look to your past, old man.  The mystery lies
embedded within your treachery.  Remember me, then know who beds your
daughter.  Revenge, Reynaurd.  Revenge."
    "You dare to threaten us?"  Rochelle clawed
at his face.  If only she could reach her knights . . .
    Becket winced and placed his hand over the red streak
on his cheek.  "You accursed woman!"
    Rochelle jerked from his loosened hold and turned
toward the door.  She collided with the center table.  Pain rent from her hip
bone, mocking her unarmored frailty, reaffirming her impotence against Becket's
might, his steel, his sword.  Ignoring the hurt, she sidestepped the table and
ran for the doorway.
    Becket grasped her wrist and jerked her to a halt.  " Restrain your impatience, ma femme ."
    "I am not your wife!"  She twisted against
his vise-like grip and only stung her flesh.  "I see the determination to
conquer in your sin-black eyes, but I am as determined you will fail."
    "You are my wife.  Now, accept your fate
and show me to your chamber."
    "When hell comes to claim you."
    One corner of his mouth curved into a sardonic grin. 
"I'm already claimed."  He pulled her toward the door. 
    "Then go there!"  She shoved him and darted
through the doorway, then crashed into Griselda, the old disfigured servant
woman who carried a tray of wine.  Rochelle stumbled over Griselda's foot and
fell.  Pain slammed into her knees and jarred her wrists as she hit the
rush-covered floor.  Tankards shattered around her; the aroma of DuBois wine
flooding her nostrils. 
    Becket cleared the doorway and lunged for her ankle. 
"You little vixen."
    Her pulse surged like a wild beast and pushed her
onward.  Disregarding her aches and stings, she scrambled over the mess but
kept stepping on her gown, then in frantic frustration, she jerked up her skirt
and ran down the dark corridor toward the stairs to the great hall. 
    "Halt, woman!  I won't let one frightened female
destroy a lifetime of planning." 
    Lifetime of planning ?  Terror of being
caught ripped the question from her mind.  Surely she ran through an invisible
river that, for some macabre reason, slowed her steps but not his, for his
footsteps neared at too rapid a pace, his heavy breaths rasped too close.  She
would never reach the staircase.  Rochelle forced air into her lungs and the
beginning of a scream tore from her throat. 
    Becket snared her waist from behind and clamped his
massive hand over her mouth. 
    Livid, she kicked back with her heels and sank