Once Upon a Kiss (20 page)

Nor did
she care to find herself face-to-face with Graeham just yet.

Like
the keep itself, the facility was impeccable, housing a number of precious
birds: a few goshawks, a pair of peregrines, a merlin. But a single white
gyrfalcon was the biggest surprise of all, for it was a rare and costly bird.
In truth, Dominique had only seen one once before, so rare was the beast. As
had been claimed, all were molting—a fact that seemed to ease her
somewhat, though she knew not why. Perhaps later she would lend her own
expertise to their keeping, for there was a way of exercising them that
minimized their idle time. At the moment, however, she felt only like brooding.

She
stood staring at the gyrfalcon, lost in her musings, until the sound of
his
voice
intruded once more, startling her. Had he lain in wait for her? Either that, or
his men rushed to apprise him of her every movement, she thought bitterly.

“What
are you doing here, demoiselle.”

Dominique
refused to face him, hoping against hope that he would simply leave. Still she
could not keep herself from baiting him. “Stealing your falcons, of course, my
lord.”

Silence.

More than
his anger, even, it unsettled her. Unable to think clearly, she reached toward
the gyrfalcon, needing something to occupy her trembling hands, but she
ventured too close. The bird screeched, snapping at her, barely catching her
finger. Dominique squealed in surprise, jerking her hand away, though more
alarmed than hurt. To her dismay, he was at her side within the instant,
lifting up her hand to inspect it.

“’Tis
naught!” she said petulantly, and tried to draw her hand away, but he would not
release her. A trickle of blood pooled at the tip of her finger, and she stared
at it resentfully, unable to look into his eyes—she couldn’t bear it,
couldn’t bear to recall what had only just passed between them within the
forest. Nor could she endure the warmth of his fingers upon her flesh once
again.

Why was
he here?

It was
all she could do not to jerk her hand free and bolt past him. Sweet Jesu, but
she could not suffer another confrontation with him so soon—not when she
was still reeling from the last.

“You seem
to have an affection for danger,” he pointed out, his voice treacherously soft,
sending a quiver of alarm down her spine—for aye, he was danger
incarnate, and she was drawn to him.

“Do I?”
Dominique answered softly, swallowing. She lifted her face at last, meeting his
uncanny green gaze, wholly conscious that he held her hand much too intimately.
‘Tell me, my lord,” she asked him evenly, “will you follow me everywhere and
question me always?”

His
eyes narrowed, and his lips curved sensuously—those lips that had already
tasted of her own. Heat crept into her cheeks. “If that is what it takes to
uncover your intrigue,” he replied.

Dominique’s
trembling fingers went to her mouth, wiping her lips in
remembrance—concealing them, as well, for heat suffused her at the merest
recollection. “There is no intrigue,” she swore.

“So you
say.”

In
truth, Blaec had come to beg pardon for his actions in the forest, but facing
her now, he could not bring himself to speak the words.

“You’re
bleeding,” he pointed out, and couldn’t help himself; he reached out with his
free hand, brushing her hair from her face. God, she was too beautiful for his
peace of mind. A few strands fell back, covering her mouth.

She
gasped, flinching at his touch, and tried to remove her fingers from his grip,
the look in her eyes both wild and confused; the same ungovernable emotions
that raged within himself. Yet he found he could not release her.

“My
lord!”

He
lowered his head, bringing his lips to the small cut upon her finger, aware
that he would be damned with the taste of her flesh upon his Lips, yet unable
to keep himself from it. He kissed her, lapping up the trickle of blood,
shuddering with a primeval pleasure. His heart hammering, he drew her finger
into his mouth, suckling it gently, intimately, willing it to heal with his
kiss.

For an
instant she let him, too stunned to protest, and then seeming to regain her
reason, she cried out, “My lord! What are you doing?”

If only
he knew himself.

“No
less than a bitch would do for her brood,” he told her bluntly, still suckling
her finger, knowing full well that his was a far more dangerous
instinct—he wanted to protect her, aye, yet that was not all he craved.
Not even a faint degree of what he craved.

“Aye,
well, you are not my mother—nor are we beasts!” she informed him
haughtily, jerking her finger from his mouth, though not before he noted the
shiver that coursed through her at the withdrawal.

“Ah,”
he countered, his tone filled with self- reproach, “but there you are wrong,
demoiselle. Strip away reason—” as she had somehow done to him
“—and we are, indeed, beasts,” he assured. “Little more.” He was silent a
moment, letting her digest his warning, and then said, “Believe it.” Reaching
out once more, he brushed the strand of hair from her mouth, wanting to assess
the damage he’d inflicted. As he’d feared, her lips were swollen and pink from
the lustiness of his kiss, and guilt clawed at him, even as the sight aroused
him. He swallowed, restraining himself. “You should go,” he said ruefully. His
fingers lingered at her cheek, caressing her. Either she would, or he must, for
they could not continue in this vein. He was powerless to resist her.

“A-Aye!”
She jerked away from his touch, averting her gaze, and shuddering. “I-I should,
indeed!” And with that she lifted her skirts, bolting past him—like a
frightened hare on the run, he thought. He didn’t turn to watch her go, but
stood, instead, staring down into the eyes of the gyrfalcon, fighting every
instinct within him to turn and swoop down upon her as would the bird of prey
before him. It was his duty to let her go, he told himself. His duty to go.

Unable
to bear even the notion of facing Blaec again the next morning, Dominique took
the coward’s way. She feigned illness, staying abed with the shutters closed
against the day, darkening her chamber. Not since her childhood when her father
had gone into his rages had she been such a milksop, but it could not be
helped. She did not dare chance seeing him below. If the shutters were ajar,
she reasoned, then she would inevitably be drawn to the window, and if she were
drawn to the window, then he would be there below. It was her ill fortune. And
God’s truth, she never wished to see his face again—though just how she would
manage such a feat, she had no idea.

Nevertheless,
she intended to try.

Even
now she could not banish the feel of his mouth—the memory of him suckling
her finger, tending her as would a mother beast with her young. Yet the look in
his eyes had been anything but benevolent. He had looked at her in warning,
though his actions were so at odds with his words. He acted as though he
despised her, yet he rushed to her aid when he thought her harmed.

Never
in her life had she been so confused.

Both
fortuitously, and to her despair, Graeham came to inquire only once while she
lay abed, speaking to Alyss from the antechamber. She heard him ask of her
well-being, heard Alyss reply that it was merely her monthly flux that kept her
abed, and then he left and did not return.

She
loathed that Alyss had been forced to lie for her, but it garnered her
much-needed time. To think. And it was with great relief that she received news
of Blaec’s departure two days after. Only then did she dare leave her chamber.

She
learned at once that he’d gone to fortify his brother’s borders, for it seemed
there was cause to believe the village’s attackers had remained in the
province. The very possibility made Dominique shudder when she considered that
she’d left the sanctuary of Drakewich’s walls while those barbarians might
still be at large—and evidently unsated by the damage they’d so brutally
inflicted.

Graeham,
for his part, continued to shun her, even once she’d been up and about a few
days, but Dominique vowed to speak with him as soon as the opportunity
presented itself. It seemed her betrothed was more a stranger to her now than
he’d been when first she’d met him, for at least then she’d seen him in a
flattering light. While he treated her kindly and with all due respect, he’d
also revealed a side of himself that was less than amiable, particularly where
his brother was concerned.

If only
the same could be said of his brother.

Even
after he’d been gone a full sennight, the image of his smoldering green eyes as
he’d gazed upon her there in the shadows of the forest haunted her still.

She
tried to forget.

The
following morning, after searching most of the premise, Dominique found Graeham
in the chapel, on his knees at prayer. To her wonder, he never acknowledged her
presence, nor did he so much as turn to discover who it was that had invaded
his sanctuary, though the echo of her footfalls reverberated throughout the
shrine. The sound was a blasphemy within the quiet stillness of the hallowed
chamber. Still, she could not turn and leave, not without speaking to him at
last.

Then,
too, she was loath to intrude, and so she sat, watching, waiting. To her
disbelief, he knelt as though made of solid stone, unmoving, his head bent
steadfastly in prayer. If she did not know better—know that he was flesh
and blood—she would have thought him some beautiful creation, the effigy
of an angel, for with his golden hair and flawless profile, he seemed unreal.

And
then perhaps he was, for though Dominique sat near an hour’s time, he still did
not turn to recognize her. She chafed, for if it was his intent to wound her
with his indifference, then he full well succeeded. It was as though he sensed
it was her, and refused to acknowledge her. Or perhaps he truly was oblivious
to her presence, so deep was he in his meditation. Either way, it boded ill for
her.

Tears
sprang to her eyes, as she began to feel with an undeniable certainty that this
alliance was little more than a farce. Though not in the same way that his
brother did, Graeham roused her distemper. Like a madwoman, she wanted to fly
at him and pummel him with her fist, wanted to command him to give her answers.
Was she destined to go from her brother, who treated her with little more
affection, to this? Was she never to be valued? How could she have ever dared
to hope?

Swallowing
the lump that rose in her throat, choking her, she rose and fled the chapel
before she could disgrace herself.

“I’ve
no idea what else to do, Alyss. He is like a statue, unfeeling!”

“Forgive
me, m’lady,” Alyss suggested, “but perhaps you should try harder when you are
with him, rather than lie in wait like this? If he is unprepared to see you,
perhaps he will be unkind?”

Dominique
turned from the solar window to face her maid, her cheeks suffused with angry
color. “Nay, Alyss, but he is too politic to be unkind! He wounds with his
actions, instead.” Her shoulders slumped dejectedly.

“M’lady,
forgive me, but I think you mistake him.” Dominique’s brows lifted, though she
said nothing, and Alyss continued, undaunted. “You see... I have watched him,”
she said somewhat wistfully. “He is kind and gentle to those who serve him.
Aye,” she persisted, when Dominique looked disbelieving still. “Tis my feeling
he does not seek to cause you woe. There is something between these two
brothers, though I cannot place it as yet... something... and it seems to me
you are merely the straw that bent the camel’s back.”

“How
would you know?”

“As I
said, m’lady... I’ve been watching,” Her face stained crimson. “Tis fortunate
you are to have him,” she added quickly, lowering her head. She sampled the
mead she was stirring within the small pitcher she held over the candle flame.
“Ack!” she exclaimed, making a sour face. “That is the most horrid concoction I
have ever troubled myself to warm! We must have something to mask the taste.”

Dominique
found it difficult to care overmuch at the moment what, if anything at all, was
used to spice Drakewich’s beverages.

“Perhaps
’tis flavored to a man’s taste,” she suggested with some resentment, and
refrained from adding that she cared not a whit to improve it. If it was
bitter, then it would match their lord’s temperament—regardless of what
Alyss claimed.

“Nay,
m’lady,” Alyss countered. “Your own brother prefers it sweet. For truth, I used
to warm it for him with pearmain and honey.” She stopped stirring and sighed,
seeming suddenly forlorn, and then as swiftly as the look appeared, it fled,
and she began again to stir, her expression shuttered.

Dominique
wondered what she might be thinking, but refrained from asking. The maid, she
knew, had borne a grievous life as well, for her father had awarded her even
before her thirteenth summer to William, in exchange for what, Dominique knew
not. But to go from lord’s daughter, to leman, to lady’s maid, could not have
been an easy burden to bear. Particularly when she should have married and been
mistress of her own domain.