Authors: Tanya Anne Crosby
Be
damned if the wench wasn’t wearing a stolen gown!
’
Twas no small wonder she’d glistened wearing that
pillaged fiery, gold-threaded finery! It was all he could do to keep his mouth
shut once he recognized it.
Sitting
at table, listening to William Beauchamp and his brother exchange
pleasantries—something he never would have imagined—Blaec could
scarcely credit the boldness of the wench—or that of her witless brother,
for
’
twas William who inevitably was
the thief.
Perhaps
Beauchamp had thought the year long enough for Blaec to forget the cloth that
had been plundered from his carts en route from London, but Blaec rarely forgot
anything. But even if he had, the crimson samite with its gold points was
unmistakable at a glance. He’d purchased the cloth from a London merchant
simply because it was so extraordinary, and he’d not seen the likes of it
since. It was unlikely William Beauchamp would have encountered the same
merchant, nor did he feel William capable of procuring the funds for such fine
wares, for he spent too much of his time and coin in mindless retribution
against Drakewich. It seemed Beauchamp preferred inflicting his wrath upon the
guiltless under cover of night like a coward whelp—apparently, the same
way in which he acquired his wares.
He set
down his goblet, his senses too on edge to allow him to relax. He truly hoped
Graeham was able to see through the artifice, though at the moment it certainly
didn’t seem as though he did. God’s blood, but sometimes he worried about his
brother.
“... should
you care to consummate the union beforehand,” he overheard William suggesting,
“I would not at all be offended.” He made a charitable gesture with his hand.
And for
the first time since their untimely arrival, Graeham seemed as revolted as
Blaec, for that proclamation managed to put an immediate lapse in the exchange
between the two. His jaw going rigid, Graeham shook his head. “I..” He seemed
at a loss and continued to shake his head, then choked upon his next words,
coughing and stammering while William awaited his reply.
As far
as Blaec was concerned, there was no charity in the offer at all. Fury charged
through him, for he was certain William was up to no good. Just what it was he
was after, he could not quite fathom—yet—but he would before long.
Graeham
continued to choke.
“Are
you so eager to be rid of her?” Blaec interjected, his tone brimming with
challenge. At once Graeham held a hand up to thwart him, but Blaec ignored it,
pressing for an answer. It was his responsibility to uncover William’s purpose,
whether Graeham willed it, or nay.
William
straightened within his chair. “
We
are eager
only
for peace,” he countered, sounding
at once affronted by Blaec’s insinuation. His eyes narrowed, and in that
instant, Blaec was rewarded, for he saw in them the loathing he tried with such
difficulty to conceal. No, without doubt, there had been no charity in his
offer.
“Of
course,” Graeham broke in immediately, having gained hold of himself at last.
“We are
all
eager for peace.” He gave one more discreet cough. “Are we not, Blaec?”
William
sounded so hopeful, Blaec nodded, though reluctantly, but his gaze never left
that of his foe. Aye, his foe—whether the fiend’s lovely sister was to be
bride to his brother, or not. Glancing down briefly at his goblet of wine, he
lifted it slowly, then proffered it, raising it between them. Another
challenge—may William’s soul rot with the oath. To peace,” he said
grimly. “May it come to—”
Like
metal to a lodestone, Blaec’s eyes were drawn to the entrance of the great
hall. At the sight of her, it was all he could do to find his tongue, much less
to complete his toast. No longer was she wearing the stolen ruby samite, but a
gown of emerald sendal that shimmered and glowed by the torchlight as she
wafted through the room. Neither gold thread nor silver embroidery could have
enhanced the cloth more than she did, with her stately height and graceful,
willowy form. Though if she was lean, there was naught left wanting in the
fullness of her breast, for as fine as the sendal was, it clung to her bosom
like an envious lover. The thought aroused him even against his will.
Blaec
covered his momentary lapse by clearing his parched throat. “—pass,” he
concluded gruffly. “May it come to pass.” He brought the cup to his lips.
Swallowing the spiced wine, savoring it with his tongue, as he observed her
over the rim of his goblet.
Like a
haughty queen, she caught his gaze, met it, lifted her chin, and then gave him
an icy glare before lifting her skirts and making her way toward the dais.
Truth to tell, he thought her well able to give the Empress herself a fight for
the crown in that moment. She took great care, he noted, not to meet his eyes
again. Though it would suit him just fine, didn’t she realize, were she never
to deign to look his way again.
“Are
you unwell, d’Lucy?” William asked with mock concern. “You seem so... tempered
of a sudden?”
Blaec
shot him a glare, but didn’t bother replying. It was all he could do to keep
from throttling the bastard where he sat—or glancing up at his too
beguiling sister as she drifted behind him. A shudder bolted through him as her
gown whispered by, the sound of it as alluring as the scent of her that
lingered once she passed. He alone gave her his back as Graeham stood along
with William to greet her, but he was unable to keep himself from lifting his
face to seek again the sweet but delicate fragrance of her. She smelled of...
something too tempting to consider.
He
heard a kiss, and imagined William pecking her lightly upon her smooth, high
cheek—his pulse quickened—and then another kiss, and he tensed at
the reminder of whom she was to become.
His brother’s
bride.
Turning
askance and closing his eyes briefly, he silently repeated the charge:
Thou wilt not covet
thy brother’s bride.
‘“Tis
lovely you are, m’lady,” he heard Graeham declare, in his usual diplomatic
tone. “I should count myself a fortunate man!” He guided her to where Blaec sat
at his right, sharing his trencher with no one—as Blaec preferred. “Alas,
we were not certain you would join us this eve, you seemed so fatigued
earlier,” he said by way of apology. “Your brother and I have already
endeavored to share our repast. Perchance it would please you to share this
once with my brother, Blaec, instead?”
Stunned,
Blaec turned in time to see her take a startled step backward.
The
last thing Dominique wished was to share a trencher with the devil himself.
She’d as lief curse him to Hades, but all eyes were upon them, so she took a
step forward, however aversely. But she could not quite bring herself to
actually sit beside him.
“I
assure you, demoiselle, I do not bite,” Blaec told her darkly, his voice low
but resonant.
Graeham
chuckled with good humor. “Of course he does not,” he reassured.
“Just
as I do not spew flames,” Blaec added, his voice lowering. “Nor do I dine on
tender babes... or, for that matter... sacrificial virgins.” His lips curved
slightly, and his green eyes slivered, deep and dark as emeralds, telling her
without words exactly to which sacrificial virgin he was referring.
Dominique
gasped at his coarseness, but he didn’t bother to apologize, nor did he rise
from his seat as was customary. He merely glanced at his brother with something
akin to disbelief—and disgust, if she read him aright. Well, she
determined, casting him an affronted glance, it should occur to him that this
would be no pleasure for her either! She thought to tell him so, but then
recalled her vow—to slay him with kindness.
God’s
truth, this was not going to be an easy task.
Collecting
herself, Dominique smiled wanly at Graeham. “Of course, my lord, it would be my
pleasure,” she lied, her heart tumbling violently as she seated herself at the
Dragon’s side.
“Will
it truly be your pleasure?” Blaec asked beside her, his tone bleeding with
sarcasm.
Graeham
elbowed him discreetly, yet not so discreetly that Dominique didn’t see it, and
then he smiled at her apologetically. The Dragon did not so much as stir, much
less to bother with an apology of his own, and to her dismay, Graeham remained
only an instant longer to see that she was comfortably seated before once again
abandoning her to the mercy of his unpalatable brother.
For the
longest instant Dominique was aware only of the enduring silence of the man
beside her, for it seemed to permeate the width and length of the hall. Sweet
Mary, but whether they were, or nay, she felt all eyes upon them.
A young
page came forward, his light brown hair neatly trimmed, and offered her water
to lave with. Dominique promptly accepted, all the while making certain to keep
as distant as possible from the man seated at her side. The mere thought of
touching him left her stomach twisted in knots. As it was, she felt the heat of
his body much too acutely.
From
the corner of her eye she watched his great hands slice the trencher in half,
giving her an equal share, and she could not help but recall the deftness of
those fingers as he’d liberated her gown earlier.
Only
once he’d set the trencher in front of her did she spare him a glance, but it
was a mistake, she realized at once, for the look in his deep green eyes left
no doubt as to his thoughts; he despised her as he did her brother, and would
no doubt take great pleasure in finding them culpable. Of what, she knew not.
But it seemed he was searching for something. Well, he’d not find it, she
vowed.
The
hall itself, so orderly and clean—like the young page—was a far cry
from that of Amdel. Her brother had never been one for fastidiousness, yet she
could tell that Graeham d’Lucy was that and more, for the tables were set in
perfect arrangement. The rushes beneath her feet were sweet with new herbs, and
the bright-colored tapestries hanging upon the walls were immaculate. The
Dragon, she knew, was inordinately meticulous as well, for the state of his
bedchamber told her as much; the room, as large as it was, was completely
devoid of clutter. And tonight even the evening meal was a simple but
painstaking fare: cheeses, breads...
“Mutton?”
Blaec asked beside her, startling her. The deep tenor of his voice sent a
quiver down her spine. God’s love, but she had not realized the carver stood
behind her. Like a fresh-faced maid, she blushed at her own inattention. But
how could she possibly concentrate with Blaec d’Lucy sitting beside her?
“Nay...
thank you,” she said with as much aplomb as she could summon, and her gaze was
drawn momentarily toward the Dragon. She could not help herself—it was
impossible to sit next to the devil and not feel him so profoundly. Her heart
raced as she took in his swarthy complexion. He was so dark, he reminded her of
the Saracen. And the scar high upon his cheek... she wondered how he’d received
it, for she’d not noticed it before now. It could quite easily have been
mistaken for a dimple were it not so high, for it seemed to appear only when he
smiled.
Dominique
stiffened, realizing that he was smiling now, however sardonically though it
might be, and very likely at her expense.
“Lady
Dominique?” she heard him whisper, saw his beautiful lips move, and her heart
leapt into her throat. Those same lips curved so arrogantly. “If you are quite
through gawking—” he gestured toward the carver “—the lad wishes to
know if you’d care for aught else.” He cocked a brow at her.
Dominique’s
cheeks heated till she feared she would swoon. “Nay,” she choked, and averted
her gaze at once, thinking him the worst churl she’d ever known. Had she
thought him the like of his father? Nay, the man was worse! Infinitely worse.
One need only look at him, insultingly dressed for war at table, to know that.
And
she’d do well to remember it.
She
eyed him circumspectly. It was rumored he was bastard born—conceived on
the same day as his fair-haired brother, though sired by another man—yet
that Gilbert d’Lucy had accepted him despite that fact. She wondered if it was
true. It seemed an incredible tale, yet, indeed, it was argued that it was
possible for two men to impregnate a single woman at the same time... thus
siring twins who bore little resemblance to each other upon birth. She wondered
of that, too, for no two brothers could ever have been so disparate as were
these two.
She
heard him chuckle beneath his breath—curse him again, a thousand times
curse him!—the sound like thunder to her ears. It shook her to her very
soul. Truth to tell, if she didn’t know better, she’d think he’d guessed at her
thoughts—thought that was ludicrous. Still, the way he looked at her made
her feel as though he knew her private thoughts.
She
cared not a whit for him, she told herself. If he’d led a cursed life, it was
no more her concern than... well, than whether he trusted her, or not. Graeham
seemed to, and that was
all
that mattered.
The
meal proceeded in discomfiting silence. Trying in vain to listen to her
brother’s discourse and endeavoring to ignore the man at her side, Dominique
stabbed at her trencher with her bone-handled poniard. But no matter how hard
she tried, she could not quite remove the Dragon from her thoughts. Sweet Mary,
but when he chewed, she could hear the faint yet deliberate sound of it—and
could not keep herself from imagining the strength in those very masculine jaws
of his... the deceptive, soft-looking suppleness of his lips. The sound of his
chewing only intensified with his brooding silence, until Dominique could
little bear it. Her nerves were already fraught. And so the meal persisted
until abruptly she felt the heat of his breath upon her neck, and she froze.