Once Upon a Kiss (9 page)

In
truth, he’d thought many a time that his brother held some death wish... as
though through his martyrdom he thought to atone for some great sin. He
certainly spent time enough in penance, praying for long hours in the chapel as
though he were some pious monk. And he might as well have been for Blaec could
little recall the last time his brother had even looked with yearning at a
woman.

He’d
been surprised enough when Graeham had informed him of his decision to accept
an alliance with Beauchamp. Yet he had accepted it, and perhaps, for everyone’s
sake, Blaec would finally welcome the fief Graeham had for so long tried to
bestow upon him... a benefice so rich that it had seemed an injury to receive
it, for the cloth goods produced therein lined the coffers of Drakewich so that
they had little need of war as a means to replenish them.

Be that
as it may... perhaps it was time, at last, for him to go...

“...
tell me who would do such a thing to you,” Blaec heard Dominique demand of her
maid.

Shaking
her head and whispering her response, the wench held her ripped gown together,
as though to hide the worst of the evidence from her mistress. Only now did
Blaec note that her lips were swollen, besides. And there was a blackening knot
high upon her cheek, as though she’d been dealt a blow. Seeing the swelling, he
fingered his own cheek, remembering, and his visage darkened. His lips curved
grimly, for the evidence was much too overwhelming for him to simply walk away
from now. If one of his own men had committed such a crime, Blaec intended to
discover the name of the whoreson. He stepped toward them, reminding them of
his presence.

The maid
turned to face him with a cry of alarm, as though, somehow, she’d forgotten
him, and now turned in fright.

His
brows collided in displeasure at her reaction. “I, too, would have you
relinquish the name,” he bade her.

The wench
shook her head more frantically still. “Oh, nay, m’lord! Please!”

Blaec’s
eyes slivered, though he retained his calm at her outright refusal. “You have
no right to deny me dispensation of justice in my own home,” he reminded her.

“Do you
not mean your brother’s home?” Dominique interjected at once, her tone biting,
her eyes narrowing.

Blaec
eyed her keenly, but disregarded the barb, knowing full well that she was
baiting him. He refused to be manipulated. He turned to the maid, persisting,
“I demand the name.”

To his
disgust, the young woman began to quiver before him. “Oh, m-m’lord...
please...”

“God’s
teeth, woman, I cannot believe you would allow the fiend to go unpunished,” he
told her scathingly.

“’T-Twas
no one, m’lord,” the maid declared fervently. She fingered her cheek anxiously,
averting her gaze. “I-I swear! I merely fell from my bed ’tis all.”

“Fell
from your bed, my arse!”

“How
dare you speak to her so,” Dominique interjected.

At her
censure, Blaec eyed her once more, though with little compunction. He could
scarcely credit that the wench was so unwilling to name the culprit. He knew
full well that she’d not fallen from her bed, and was on the verge of telling
her just so, for he’d witnessed the other bruises, as well, but then he looked
at Dominique—truly looked at her—and found his tongue stilled. Only
were the maid protecting her lord could she possibly lie so, and in protecting
her lord, perhaps she protected her mistress as well. At the look in
Dominique’s eyes, he found inexplicably that he could not accuse William with
her standing before him looking so distressed.

His
lips curved contemptuously, though he was uncertain which disgusted him most:
his sudden weakness toward Dominique, or the maid’s blind devotion to her
master. “And what of the gown?” he could not help but point out, turning to eye
the maid sharply. “It rent itself on your descent to the floor, I presume?”

Alyss
peered down at the gown in question, as though in a stupor, and then shook her
head as she met his gaze once more. “I-I do not know,” she persisted. Panicking
at his doubtful expression, she said a little more hysterically, “I-I do not,
m’lord!”

“Leave
her be, at last!” Dominique demanded, intervening between them suddenly, her
expression fierce. Blaec watched with growing disgust as she enfolded the woman
gently within her arms and patted her reassuringly. “Can you not see that you
are distressing her?”

His
brow lifted. “Unlike her mistress, it seems, the wench frightens much too
easily, demoiselle, for I’ve not threatened her at all. I merely requested to
know the name of the miscreant who abused her, so that I might deal with him
justly.”

Dominique’s
lashes fell momentarily, thick as smoke upon her creamy cheeks. “Aye, well...
she says she does not know.”

He
could tell when her eyes met his once more that she’d drawn the same conclusion
he had. Still, he found he could say nothing to accuse her brother, for in her
beautiful blue eyes—those eyes that were so much like her despicable
sibling’s—he recognized both her acknowledgment and her denial.

She
knew.

She had
to know.

Yet she
lifted her chin, denying, all the same, and dared to command him, “Let her be,
my lord.”

When
she’d thought him responsible, she’d been quick enough to speak, yet now he
sensed fear that the possibility should be spoken at all. Which led him to
wonder if she knew... or whether she merely suspected...

Could
she possibly not know how detestable her brother was?

To his
disgust, he had the overwhelming desire to go to her. Her eyes were wide and liquid
suddenly.

Mesmerizing.
God, but he could lose himself in those brilliant blue pools.

“If
you’ve something to say, my lord, say it and be done,” she said breathlessly,
her chest heaving softly.

With
fear? grief? anger?

She
looked as though she would burst into tears, yet she did not, and he found that
suddenly it did not matter. If she would protect her brother, then so be it. He
shook his head, unwilling to press the matter further.

Even
so, he could not quite shed the urge to enfold her into his arms... just as
she’d done with the maid... fool that he was, for she was not his to comfort.

Neither
did she need him to comfort her, he reminded himself. It was naught but his
fancy that she seemed suddenly wounded, for she was likely as contemptible as
her brother— with a heart as black.

That
likelihood hardened his own.

“Very
well,” he relented. “I shall speak plainly.” He gestured toward the maid. “The
men of my garrison do not commit such dishonorable acts, for they know well the
consequences.”

The blood
seemed to drain from her face even as he watched, yet she surprised him by
standing her ground. Her shoulders straightening, she asked him, “Precisely
what are you trying to say, my lord?”

Despite
the mettle with which she asked, Blaec spied in her eyes the sudden regret over
having asked the question, and so he merely shook his head, telling her simply,
‘The answer is plain, demoiselle. Merely open your eyes and you shall know it.”
He turned to the maid. “And you... should you find your memory returns, feel
free to seek me,” he told her. And then he turned a nod toward Dominique. “Good
day, demoiselle.”

Dominique
gave him no reply, and he didn’t wait to see that she did. Without another
word, he took his leave, retrieving the tunic and breeches from the bed, and
slamming the heavy ash door behind him—before he could be tempted to tell
the impudent wench precisely what he’d meant by the remark; that her brother
was an ignoble bastard who not only had the vileness to burn serfs’ huts while
they slumbered, but the depravity to beat his own sister’s maid, besides.

Blaec
wanted nothing more than to throttle Beauchamp with his bare hands.

He made
a fist at his side, for more than that, even, and more than before, he was determined
to see this farce ended once and for all. Graeham would not wed Dominique
Beauchamp—not, even, if Blaec should die trying to prevent it. He refused
to consider that his own motives might be somewhat less pure.

He only
knew that, at all costs, he was determined to keep Beauchamp’s sister from his
brother’s bed.

At all costs.

By all that was holy, Graeham intended to keep
Dominique Beauchamp out of his bed. The problem was... he wasn’t certain how to
do it—not when her own brother was forcing her upon him.

He’d spent the better part of the morning in
prayer, and now as he made his way up to his chamber, his heart was heavy with
uncertainty. Truly, he’d thought he’d made the right decision. His people could
not endure more of this treachery. He’d believed this alliance with Beauchamp
would put an end to the raids, but now it seemed he was mistaken. Blaec was
certain Beauchamp was responsible, and Graeham couldn’t argue against it.

Other than Beauchamp, he could not fathom who else
might lead raids against his villages. And yet Beauchamp would seem to have
little motive, when, through his sister, his blood would some day hold these
lands. Graeham simply could not conceive that William would risk it, for it
made little sense to toss away the gold in one’s hand merely to snatch at the
possibility of more. Yet there didn’t seem to be anyone else.

The one thing that was clear to him now was that
he found he could not bear to break his sacred vow, not when it seemed no good
would come of it. Despite a vow of celibacy, he’d agreed to the alliance with
Beauchamp because he’d considered the greater good; an end to their private
war. It was the poor man’s thatch that went up in flames with each retaliation,
and so if it meant spending all eternity in hell for the sake of his people, he
would have joyfully done so. But he’d be damned if he’d do so for naught.

His chest aching from both the remnants of smoke
in his lungs and the anguish of his uncertainty, he shoved open the door to his
chamber and found his brother waist-deep in the carved wooden tub that had once
belonged to their father, and to his father before him—their noble
grandsire who had ridden beside the Conqueror himself. It was he who had first
called this English land home. And then the Conqueror had died, and under his
youngest son the land had been bathed in the blood of treachery—a
treachery even Graeham felt tainted with, despite that the betrayal was not his
own.

It was enough that he lived the lie.

Seeing Blaec now, bathing in a borrowed chamber,
with no maid to lave him as was his due, Graeham felt his gut twist with guilt,
but he put on a brighter face, masking his torment from his brother’s fatigued,
shadow-rimmed eyes. Again, last night, Blaec had guarded his back with the same
fierce determination as a wild boar facing a hunter.

“I’m pleased to see you took my advice,” Graeham
said.

Wearily, Blaec cast a glance over his shoulder and
smiled grimly. “As you so indelicately pointed out... we wouldn’t wish to
offend our guests, now would we? For your sake, my brother, a bath was the
least I could do.”

Graeham chuckled as he tossed his helm upon the
massive bed. “You do too much,” he remarked, removing his gauntlets and
snapping them against his leg. He cast them alongside his helm. “At any rate...
since when do you listen to me?”

Blaec conceded a chuckle. He ran a hand through
his black mane, sighing, and then laid his head back against the rim of the tub
to stare up at the ceiling.

Graeham sat upon the bed. It shrank beneath his
weight with an ominous creak. “We still cannot know for certain it was Beauchamp,”
he said after a moment.

Blaec continued to stare at the ceiling. “Nay,” he
agreed. “Not as yet... but I intend to find out before the day is done.”

‘Truly?” Graeham’s eyes narrowed with interest.
“How?”

“One of the villagers claims to have wounded one
of the bastards during their escape.”

At last Blaec turned to face him, resting his
scarred cheek upon the wide rim of the tub. The memory of the blow that had
marred his brother’s face was yet another constant source of regret for
Graeham. Their father had taken great pleasure in stepping in and offering
Blaec the
colee
,
the traditional first blow given a knight, striking him unmercifully hard with
the hilt of the very sword he’d later presented to Graeham. The gash had been
deep, and though the blood had run thickly down his cheek, Blaec had knelt
proudly, his back straight, and had received it without so much as a word of
complaint. But Graeham had seen the gut-wrenching sorrow in his eyes. And
behind those eyes... he’d spied the little boy who had so long craved his
father’s embrace.