Once Upon a Kiss (2 page)

S
o help me god, I am
astonished that this worthy man decided to inform my husband of his shame and
dishonour, that his wife has had two sons. They have both incurred shame
because of it, for we know what is at issue here: it has never occurred that a
woman gave birth to two sons at once, nor ever will, unless two men are the
cause of it.
—Marie de France, le fresne

England

The Reign of Stephen

It was a
mortal sin.

To lust
after one’s brother’s wife.

Not that
they were wed as yet... though soon enough they would be, and he had no license
to burn as he did.

It was the crimson she wore, he told himself, that
set him afire. Dominique Beauchamp was ablaze as she rode though the gates atop
her small palfrey. Her gown was rich crimson; her cloak, crimson; her lips, as
sumptuous a shade as the ruby jewel she wore at her breast. And her hair... it
burned a shimmering copper beneath the late afternoon sun, a glorious mane that
defied rule. Like some enchanted faerie creature, all of her seemed to glimmer
with each stride of her horse.

Against his will, his body quickened at the sight
of her.

She was bold, he decided with a shudder. Perchance
too bold. Why else would she ride so fearlessly into their midst? What did she
hope to gain? Whatever it was, it was other than she claimed, he was certain.

She was dangerous, he sensed.

Still he coveted her, and for the first time in
his life, he coveted his brother’s place—but only for an instant, and then
he cast the unforgivable sin away to that black hollow deep within his soul.

Hardening his heart against her, Blaec d’Lucy cast
a glance at his brother, scrutinizing Graeham’s reaction to the woman who had
elicited such a profound response in him. Graeham stood impassive, seemingly
unaffected by the creature riding so proudly into their
demesne
, looking every bit like a pagan
sacrifice of old.

Did she feel herself a sacrifice?

He wondered, wishing he knew precisely what was in
his brother’s mind. Graeham’s face revealed, if aught, a slight uneasiness, but
little else. For his part, Blaec only wished he were equally undisturbed, and
he couldn’t keep himself from wondering how he might have responded were he the
one receiving this barter-bride today.

Impatient? Doubtful? Mistrusting?

Certainly not indifferent.

Had he been given his rightful place as heir...
she would have, in truth, been his.

Aye, he knew. He’d known for long. Confidences
were rarely private with so many ears about. And yet it mattered not, for he
was firstborn merely by a matter of moments, and if he was wounded by anything,
it was the simple fact that his father had all but disowned him. Not only had
he stripped him of his birthright, but the whole of his life had been spent
without the blessings of his father. But it didn’t matter. He valued his
brother and he had sworn to serve Graeham, and serve him he would until his
last waking breath.

If any anger remained it was for the simple fact
that their father had done Graeham an injustice, consigning him as leader, for
either his brother knew naught of warfare, despite his years of battle
training, or he held himself a death wish. Which of the two, Blaec knew not.
Only one thing was certain: Graeham needed him. God’s truth, but the fool battled
with one leg e’er in the grave. His younger twin brother would never have
survived this long without him, and Blaec had long made it his life’s purpose
to protect Graeham at any cost.

Straightening to his full height, he turned to
find the woman riding toward them still, her shoulders back, her posture erect,
her eyes—she was close enough now that he could spy their
color—deepest blue.

And brilliant... as though with unshed tears.

Reluctant, was the thought that first came to mind,
and his gaze shifted to the man riding beside her upon his own steed, his dress
as lavish as hers... and then back.

Aye, he decided, ’twas reluctantly she’d come to
do her brother’s bidding.

Nevertheless... she’d come, and with that
knowledge came a surge of rancor.

For in truth, he did not trust her. Most
assuredly, he did not trust her treacherous brother.

Like his father before him, William Beauchamp was
to be suspected—despite that he offered peace between them. Most
especially not when he offered his exquisite young sister in the bargain.
Graeham was unwise to think it would end so simply. These two were involved in
some intrigue, and whatever they were after, Blaec would uncover it, by God.
That, he vowed as vehemently as he did that he would not—refused
to—covet his brother’s bride.

A quiver raced down Dominique’s spine at the sight
of the stronghold that loomed before her.

This, then, was to be her prison?

On their approach Drakewich had appeared animated
with preparations for their arrival—a flurry of movement upon the castle
walls—only now that they were within the bailey, it seemed more
forbidding a place than London had been to the Empress Matilda—and she
had been driven from the city by an angry horde! Not a soul stirred, neither to
greet them nor to spurn them, though for the latter, at least, she was
grateful. Even the donjon itself seemed a formidable thing, with its dark, high
tower windows. No wonder William had sought this alliance; never in her life
had she seen the likes of Drakewich, so vast and so impenetrable did the stone
fortress appear from within.

Had she truly thought it modest from without? Had
she dared deem Amdel its equal? Leaning discreetly toward her brother, she
murmured beneath her breath, “They seem so... inhospitable.”

“Do they?” William replied.

She looked at him incredulously. Sweet Mary, but
how could he not have noticed the overly cool reception? Even outside the
curtain walls, the villein had kept their silent vigils from the portals of
their scanty wattle-and-daub homes.

Frowning, William berated her. “You fret overmuch,
Dominique.”

“Nay, William!” She cast him a despairing glance.
“What if they will not accept me?”

The look upon his handsome face was one of
amusement rather than concern. “You cannot have expected they would receive you
with open arms?”

“Nay, but—”

“Hush. I promise it will change with time,” he
heartened, dismissing her protest once and for all. He gave her a
conspiratorial wink. “Now cease your brooding, sister mine.”

Dominique nodded, catching her lip between her
teeth, recognizing his tone. Lest she incur his anger, she left off at once and
could only hope he was right. Instinctively, her gaze strayed toward the area
before the donjon, caught by the figure of a man standing there, his stance proud,
his countenance dark and she swallowed convulsively, recognizing him at
once—the Black Dragon. He was unmistakable dressed in Danish black. God’s
truth, but she had tried not to imagine him when considering this union, tried
not to think of him at all, but seeing him now, she could well believe every
tale she’d ever heard recounted of his battle fury.

And more.

Though he appeared to be weaponless, he wore
hauberk and chausses, and to her mind no one had ever appeared more battle
ready. She tried in vain not to gape, but standing there, scrutinizing their
approach, he reminded her of the barbarian Viking invaders of legend, his
stance threatening even in his unaffected stillness.

Fraught with anxiety, she cast another glance at
her brother and found him watching her prudently. William smiled in
encouragement, and panic rushed through her. There would be no deliverance this
day, she knew. He coveted this far too much.

With all her heart, she wanted to reel her mount
about and flee before they could lower the portcullis, entrapping her forever,
but she merely returned William’s smile, reminding herself that she did this
for him. For him and for peace, she reminded herself, trying desperately to
calm the ruthless beating within her breast.

How long had it been since William had smiled so
sincerely? she chided herself. The truth was that he rarely smiled at all, and
now—now that he found cause to—well, she could not fail him now.
She observed him an instant longer and knew without question that it was the
right thing to do.

Nay, she would not fail him.

Resolutely she turned toward her future, advising
herself that she wanted this, too. After all, it had been far too
long—too many battles fought, too much death, and too much enmity. She,
too, needed it all to end at long last—for William’s sake, for the sake
of his soul, as well as her own. If her brother was willing to call a truce,
so, too, was she. Too long had this vendetta consumed him.

Still she shuddered... for how could there ever be
peace in the very heart of the Dragon’s den? The thought plagued her as she
rode toward her betrothed.

“Smile, Dominique,” William commanded through
clenched teeth. She turned abruptly to find him leaning toward her discreetly.
“Smile,” he bade her once more. “You look as though you ride to your death!”

Perhaps ’twas because she felt so, but Dominique
made a better effort for William’s sake. “I... I was merely searching for my
lord, Graeham,” she lied, trying to sound eager. “Perchance do you spy him?”

William gave her a sidewise glance. His blue eyes,
so like her own, scrutinized her an instant, and then his brows knit as he
indicated, with a discreet nod, to the very place Dominique had been staring so
long. “There,” he stated, lifting his chin slightly and glancing in the vicinity
in which the infamous Black Dragon stood so ominously. “Standing aside his
black-hearted brother.”

Dominique’s eyes widened, but not at William’s
epithet, for he used it so oft, it seemed almost an affection. With a stifled gasp,
she turned her gaze toward the man standing directly at the Dragon’s side.
Sweet Mary, how could she have missed him?

Standing beside the infamous Dragon, her newly
betrothed, Graeham d’Lucy, second Earl of Drakewich, was all but indiscernible.
In contrast to his brother’s darkness, he was colorless: Though his hair, as
fair as sun-bleached flax, was the shade so many coveted, it did not stand
apart. And his skin, though swarthier than most of his coloring, was merely
pale in comparison. Though comely, his features alongside those of his ruthless
brother called to mind those of a youth and not a man, for the Dragon’s in
contrast were harsh, with his black shoulder-length hair and towering height.

At her side, William’s voice was soft, thoughtful,
as he remarked, “I thought you’d spied him already? You gaped long enough.”

His remark seemed to convict her somehow, and her
cheeks heated fiercely. Averting her gaze, she plucked at her gold-threaded
gown with suddenly tremulous hands. To her immense relief, she was saved from
replying because Graeham d’Lucy started forward to greet them in that instant.
The Dragon, on the other hand, stood his ground. His expression, she noted, was
as grave as those of Drakewich’s tenants, who observed from safe perches. A terrible
sense of foreboding swept over her suddenly, but she inhaled deeply, bolstered
herself, and tore her gaze away from his brother to meet that of her betrothed.

“A hearty welcome!” Graeham exclaimed as he
sauntered forward. Her mount shied a little at his approach, but she quickly
soothed it, returning Graeham’s greeting with a wan smile. His pale hair
tousled softly in the breeze as he smiled up at her. His brother, on the other
hand—well, she refused to look at him again, refused to even think of him.
Lifting her chin slightly, she continued to smile serenely down at Graeham,
despite the fact that she’d never in her life felt more ill at ease.

“My lord,” she said, with a gracious tilt of her
head. Discreetly, she wiped her palms upon her gown.

He reciprocated her nod and turned to address
William. “Welcome, Beauchamp,” he said. “And yet I fear we did not quite expect
you.”

There seemed to be a question in his declaration,
and William’s face fell into a frown. “What say you? Did my messenger not reach
Drakewich?”

There was a moment of taut silence as Graeham
glanced briefly toward his brother—the Dragon shook his head, almost
imperceptibly—and then Graeham replied with a note of genuine concern.
“He did not. Perchance when did you dispatch him?”

William at once dismounted, his expression grave
as he came to stand before Graeham d’Lucy. He glanced up at Dominique. “No
later than midmorn, would you say?” Dominique thought he might be looking for
affirmation, but the instant her lips parted to speak, his brows drew together
in condemnation, and he averted his face. “Perhaps he was laid upon by
brigands?” he reckoned, with growing distress. “I’ve heard tell you’ve been
troubled with them of late?”