Once Upon a Kiss (6 page)

“You
might stop now,” he informed her smartly. “I do believe ‘tis already deceased,
demoiselle.”

It took
Dominique an instant to realize what he meant, and then at once she cast her
poniard down upon the table, chagrined to have been caught mutilating her meal.
And again she heard him chuckle low and finally lost her composure. It was all
she could do not to cry out as she rose from her seat. Never in her life had
she been so affected by any man!

Apologetically
she glanced at William first, then at Graeham. “I—if you will forgive me,
my lord—William... I-I find myself much too weary to dine this eve. I am
simply not hungry.”

“Of course,”
Graeham allowed, his expression empathetic, if somewhat surprised. “Perhaps in
the morn you shall feel more rested?” he suggested with concern.

She
nodded much too quickly. “Aye... perchance in the morn,” she agreed.

Graeham
nodded and made a motion with his hand, dismissing her. “Blaec, see m’lady to
her chamber.”

Blaec’s
gaze snapped about to meet that of his brother, his visage wrathful.

“Nay!”
Dominique exclaimed at once. ‘Thank you, but I am perfectly able to find my own
way.” She didn’t bother even to linger until Graeham and William spoke to give
her leave—nor did she pause to retrieve her poniard, so much did she
dread his company.

At
table, they watched her impetuous departure with some bewilderment, and then
when she was gone, William turned to demand of Blaec, “What have you said to
her, d’Lucy?” He stood wrathfully, clapping his hand upon the table.

Blaec
said naught, merely sat, staring contemplatively at his brother and then at
William.

“Come
now,” Graeham appealed, standing as well, in an attempt to keep the peace. “I
am certain my brother has done naught to offend the lady. Blaec, please
reassure him.”

Blaec
said naught, merely stared, his face an impervious mask. And then he was saved
from responding at all, for in that instant a guard appeared, hastening to his
side. With a sense of urgency, the man bent to whisper into his ear, and as
naught else had been able to do, the whispered missive caused Blaec’s face to
pale.

He
stood abruptly, gripping the table with fingers that whitened with the potency
of his anger. “It seems there has been yet another raid,” he informed Graeham,
casting William a lethal glare. “You will pardon me.”

“Certainly,
I understand you must go,” William interjected at once, the anger leaving his
eyes in the face of the unexpected crisis. “Perhaps you could use my—”

“Nay!”
Blaec exploded, casting a swift glance at Graeham, who returned a cautioning
glare. At Graeham’s silent behest, it took him an instant to temper his fury,
but he did so. “Tis most obliging of you,” he relented, casting back William’s
words with barely masked malevolence, “but you are weary, I am certain, and you
will remain within the safety of Drakewich’s walls.”

He
didn’t bother to specify just whose safety it was he was concerned with, but by
his expression, it was more than apparent that it was not William’s—nor,
for that matter, that of his precious sister.

William
tensed visibly at what could be taken for nothing less than a command, and
Blaec’s eyes glittered. “As you have discovered yourself,” he said in an effort
to appease, for his brother’s sake, “we have been troubled much with brigands
of late... I would see our guests safe until we can hunt the bastards down.
After all, you cannot know our lands as intimately as we do.”

William
shook his head, his expression as fierce as that of Blaec; still he did not
avert his gaze.

Neither
did Blaec relent. “I’m pleased we understand each other,” Blaec said with the
slightest smile, and with that scarcely veiled accusation, he pivoted about and
stalked away.

At once
Graeham made his excuses to William, and hastened to catch Blaec’s angry
strides.

William,
for his part, merely watched them go.

Reaching
over nonchalantly to pick up his sister’s abandoned poniard, William sat
contemplating the two brothers as they walked side by side from the great hall.

Scowling,
he examined the blade, and then considered that perhaps Blaec d’Lucy was a
greater threat than he’d anticipated.

And
then his lips turned slightly as he scrutinized the polished blade of the small
poniard, for the answer that came to him in that instant was inordinately
pleasing... and simple. His beautiful little sister, without realizing it,
seemed to have given him an edge. His smile deepened, for distracted as he was,
Blaec d’Lucy would prove to be no match at all. Despite that he thought himself
so formidable—despite that so many thought him to be invulnerable.

And
ultimately if all went well... Drakewich’s Black Dragon would depart this life
much sooner than he’d hoped.

The
notion pleased him so immensely that he was immediately ravenous. Peering
about, and making certain no one was observing, he stood and gathered his
sister’s portion of untouched food into his own trencher. And then he dared
seize Graeham’s, as well—and aye, the Dragon’s, too.

Nay, he
laughed to himself, nobody would stop him now. No one. Not even the dreaded
almighty Dragon himself.

“What,
by God’s great fists, are you trying to do?” Blaec exploded once they’d quit
the hall.

“I’ve
no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Aye,
you do!” Blaec contended, but he said no more and they parted ways to arm
themselves.

Blaec
awaited Graeham within the solar, for he already wore his hauberk and chausses,
and had no intention of subjecting himself to the wench’s presence simply to retrieve
his helm. When the alarm had been sounded to signal Beauchamp’s arrival, he’d
had no notion what to expect and so he’d armored himself earlier. Later, he’d
simply not bothered to change, for he did not trust the bastard—and with
good cause, or so it seemed.

His
anger reached a thundering point by the time Graeham reappeared, fully armored,
with his helm cradled beneath his arm.

Seeing
Blaec’s lack of head protection, Graeham glowered at him. “Next time you rage
over
my
foolishness, I shall remind you of this,” he warned, eyeing Blaec
disapprovingly as he passed by.

Blaec
was too enraged to acknowledge the concern in his brothers voice. Falling in
step beside Graeham, he ignored the accusation and flung one of his own. “God damn
you, Graeham! Why must you persist in casting the wench at me like a bone to a
mongrel dog? If you’ve no care to wed the bitch, why then do you not send
her—along with her jackal of a brother—back to their infernal
Amdel?”

Together
they descended the tower stairs and hurried across the hall, exiting the donjon
together. Through the temperate night air, they made their way toward the
stables: Graeham silent and troubled, and Blaec wrathful.

In the
distance, though they had yet to leave the sanctuary of Drakewich’s walls, the
orange blaze of fire lit the velvet horizon like a foreshadowing of hell
itself.

“Bastards!”
Blaec exploded once more. “We’ve only just rebuilt those accursed huts after
last time. I should turn myself about and slit the jackal’s throat whilst he
sits gloating in our hall!”

“Blaec,”
Graeham cautioned, “you cannot know for certain it was Beauchamp.”

Blaec
turned a bitter glance in his brother’s direction. “Who else would dare?” he
asked, and Graeham had no response, for now, in the twentieth summer of
Stephen’s reign when Stephen had at last come to terms with the Empress, there
was no one who would dare dispute their claim when both Stephen and the Empress
supported them equally. Nor did any man relish the thought of tangling with the
Black Dragon, Blaec was well aware, for they thought him possessed during
battle—and likely it was so, for as determined as his brother was to die
by the sword, Blaec was twice more determined to keep him from it.

Only
Beauchamp in his blind vengeance would dare defy them.

Though,
in fact, Beauchamp’s sire had been one of Henry’s new men—those raised
from the dust and rewarded with the estates of the disinherited—Stephen
had chosen not to confirm all of Beauchamp’s lands and had restored those
belonging to their sire. Having known the d’Lucys to be well girded in
Normandy, and the Beauchamps to be in surplus of English lands—lands that
had once been rightfully the d’Lucys to begin with—Stephen had chosen to
restore the d’Lucys as allies by attempting to appease them both.

Only
now it seemed that the judgment of Solomon was not so wise a ruling, after all,
for neither party had been truly appeased—Beauchamp because he’d been
divested of lands he’d felt were his rightful earnings under Henry, and the
d’Lucys because the Beauchamps were ever a thorn in the rear, ever challenging,
yet never openly. Such a condition could have led to nothing less than
hostility, a blood feud that Blaec was certain would never end in
peace—not at any price—not when so many had already died for its
cause—including William’s sire at the hands of Blaec’s own father.

“Guard
yourself well, Graeham,” Blaec warned, “I warrant that bastard has not come
because he is so eager for his sister to take our name.”

“He claims—”

“I
don’t give a whit what claims!” Blaec interjected angrily as they entered the
stables. “I do not trust him.”

Graeham’s
brows drew together in a gesture of defeat as he lifted and settled his helm
over his coif. “Nor do I,” he confessed at last.

Both
their mounts were held in waiting, and Blaec wasted little time in hoisting
himself into his saddle. Graeham, too, mounted swiftly, though he brooded
still.

“Christ
and be damned!” he exclaimed with no small measure of desperation. “Have we no
hope?”

Blaec’s
features softened as he turned to look over his shoulder at his only remaining
kin. “Aye, Graeham,” he yielded, whirling his
destrier
about wrathfully. Reaching
backward, he jerked up the mail coif, settling it over his head, and then
adjusted the ventail over his face—meager protection without the helm,
yet better than naught. “You can hope,” he said grimly. “But for your sake, I
cannot afford to. Look to your back,” he commanded once more, and with that
spurred his
destrier
from the stables.

Graeham
followed, his eyes affixed to his brother’s mail-clad back, his expression
grim. “Why,” he muttered softly beneath his breath, “when I’ve got you to see
to it for me, my brother?”

Dominique
had only just crawled into bed when she heard the angry shouts below her
window. At once she arose, instinct drawing her toward the immense painted
shutters in the far wall. She knew only too well how deceiving the illusion of
safety could be.

Navigating
her scattered trunks in the darkness of the Dragon’s chamber, she hurried
toward the window. Unlatching the shutters hastily, she threw them wide and
cringed as one clattered noisily against the stone. Peering down below, she
spied the Dragon and his brother flying like hellhounds toward the stables,
their enraged voices carrying upon the night air. But despite the clatter she’d
made opening the window, in their haste they seemed completely oblivious to her
spying, and it didn’t take long for her to discern why. In the distance the
eerie glow of fire caught her eye, and it was only then that the distant shouts
and frantic cries became discernible to her ears.

Far
enough away that it appeared no more than a mute vision of hellfire, it was
little enough threat to the donjon itself. An yet Dominique knew full well the
devastation such a blaze could bring upon simple waddle-and-daub huts and to
the people who dwelt within them. Her ears could almost perceive the roar of
the flames as they devoured all within their path; thatch roofs collapsing,
incinerating, leaving little more than black ash and charred remains.

Who, by
the sweet love of Christ, could have done such a despicable thing?

In
horror, she watched the brothers ride out from the gates until they appeared no
more than a distant silhouette against the crimson inferno. Still... she knew
which rider was the Dragon—the one in the lead—for his bearing in
the saddle was unmistakable in its arrogance. A warm gust of wind swept in,
swirling about her, lifting her unbraided hair and giving her a shudder.