Once Upon a Kiss (8 page)

It was
nearly daybreak when the brothers returned. Graeham, weary as he was, made his
way to the chapel. As far as Blaec was concerned, the one in need of prayer was
not his brother, but William Beauchamp, for if he encountered the fiend just
now, he thought he might send him straight to hell, where he belonged.

Fury
alone gave him the strength to mount the steps to his bedchamber. Soiled and sweat-soaked
from the night’s ordeal, he cursed beneath his breath, for at the moment, he
felt acutely the weight of his mail.

The
fire had been contained, but it had taken all of the night to put out the
flames and to salvage what they could of the villein’s huts. While there had
been few casualties, so many had been left without homes that he and Graeham
had felt it their responsibility to remain with them throughout the night,
offering what protection and aid they could while the folk rallied their kin and
attempted to save their belongings.

Although
their protection had been unnecessary, for the craven bastards who had set the
fires had slipped away, into the night woods, without leaving so much as a clue
as to their identity. Nor had they returned. No matter. Blaec had no need for
evidence when his intuition told him exactly who it was who had sabotaged them.
Beauchamp. The very name made the hairs at the back of his nape stand on end.
And all the while, the bastard slept peacefully under Drakewich’s roof. If
Blaec could so much as prove his guilt... he would carve the heart from his
body and feed it to the buzzards.

Blind
with rage, he didn’t bother to knock as he entered the antechamber, though once
he set foot within, he wished he’d given warning. The maid, Alyss, though alone
in her bed, lay replete and without blankets to conceal her. Her gown had been
rent down the front, fully exposing her plentiful bosom, and from the looks of
them, bruised and swollen, she’d been well used the night before. Likely by
Beauchamp himself, for Blaec was certain none of his own men would dare leave
her so damaged. Every one of them understood that the Beauchamps—useless
as they were—were under his protection. And that included their servants.
Damn Beauchamp, he thought sourly. The bastard seemed to be making himself at
home, even while he wreaked havoc outside these walls.

The
maid didn’t stir even as he closed the door, and he scowled, averting his eyes
to give her what privacy he could. He didn’t delay, but went straight through
to his own chamber, once again opening the door to find a sleeping form. This
time within his own bed.

He
wasn’t prepared for the sight of her, lying so serenely atop his tumbled sheets
and blankets. It sent a charge through him the likes of which he’d never
experienced in his life. He endeavored to ignore her, turning askance from the
bed and going to the window. The shutters had been left wide open—no
doubt so she could watch her brother’s handiwork, he reminded himself bitterly.
He closed them, only to turn and find her stretching like a cat in her sleep.
Against his will, he could feel the blood slithering into his nether regions,
hot and rousing.

She
moaned softly, and he couldn’t help but consider the sounds she would make during
lovemaking. Would she be seductively quiet but violent in her passion? Or would
she be sensual and vocal, telling him with her soft sounds and provocative
gestures precisely what it was she wanted from him?

The merest
notion sent white-hot lust exploding through his veins, burning hotter than the
torrent he’d only just fought. Only this one was far more dangerous, and he
mentally thrust the images from his mind.

Christ!
He had no right to these thoughts—nor should he have come here, he
acknowledged. He should have sent a servant for his garments, instead. Still,
he was here now and he couldn’t help himself; he went to the bed and stood
staring down upon her.

Dressed
in soft, white pleated cambric, she looked every bit the virginal bride that
her brother claimed her to be. And her hair... while it had burned copper
beneath the late day sun, it now appeared dark and rich in the twilight and
held a healthful gleam that was evident even in her skin. Even her brows—dark
and perfectly arched—were a work of artistry against her creamy flesh.

It was
no wonder William had waited so long to offer her in wedlock, for with her
brand of beauty, she was as great a prize as Jerusalem itself. No doubt it
behooved William to hold back for the best contract, for age, as with fine
wine, could only make her more valuable a prize. She had that look about her.
And balls of the saints! Anticipation of the marriage bed alone could unman
even the best of men.

Then
again... he was not the best of men... and he wasn’t foolish enough to pretend
it A muscle ticked at his jaw as he watched her.

Unbinding
the laces that secured the ventail, he let the partial mask slip from his face
and then he shoved the mail coif back from his sweat-dampened hair.

According
to his father, he was naught but a bastard. And if he’d thought himself free
from envy and bitterness, he knew now it was not true, for as he stood staring
down at the woman within his bed, the mere thought of his brother touching her,
loving her, filled him with a greater wrath, even, then that he’d experienced
at seeing the huts afire this eve.

Disgusted
with himself, he turned from the bed and went to his coffers, opening the
largest and removing from it a black tunic and breeches. God’s truth, but he
was in need of a bath to set him rights—to cool his ardor. And that was
precisely what he intended to do—the sooner he left this God-forsaken
chamber, the better.

Dominique
wasn’t certain what roused her from her sleep, but she sensed the presence
within the room even before she opened her eyes. Her lashes flew wide, and she
spied him at once—unmistakable with that black devil’s mane of hair. He
was stooping to probe one of the larger coffers in a corner of the room, and
she sat with a cry, drawing the covers to her breast.

“What
business have you here?” she demanded of him.

He
turned—infuriating in his deliberate slowness—yet she wasn’t
prepared for the sight of him once he faced her at last. The malice in his eyes
unnerved her—though no more than the sooty blackness of his flesh.
Begrimed from the smoke, and his hair disheveled with sweat, he looked like a
demon from Satan’s everlasting kingdom.

“Once
again, demoiselle,” he told her idly, “I could ask the same of you.”

Her
chin lifted. “
’
Twas you who brought
me here,” she reminded him pertly. “I would not have chosen this chamber. Alas,
the least you might do is afford me the privacy I deserve.”

“Nay,
demoiselle. It was greed that brought you here to Drakewich,” he countered,
“greed and naught else—if you think for one instant you are deceiving
anyone, you are mistaken.”

Dominique
bristled. How dare he begin this anew! “We were not speaking of Drakewich, sir,
but your chamber, and well you know it!”

His jaw
tautened and his eyes fair gleamed. “You confess it then?” he asked, holding
himself menacingly still as he awaited her reply—like a black beast,
anticipating the pounce, she thought bitterly.

Dominique
narrowed her eyes at him, rising to her knees and casting down the covers in
her anger. “How dare you twist my words! I confess to absolutely nothing, my lord,
and if you do not leave this chamber this instant,” she advised him, “I vow I
shall scream!” Despite that she wanted nothing more than to hide beneath the
covers rather than face him, she wasn’t about to cower from him now. If he
thought for one minute that she was going to quiver every time he thought to
set eyes upon her, it was he who was heartily mistaken.

His
eyes flickered with amusement at her expense, and it chafed her all the more.
So did the manner in which he appraised her, from her knees to the top of her
head, as though she were no more than chattel to be inspected.

“Scream?”
he scoffed, lifting a brow. “And precisely who do you think will come,
demoiselle?”

Dominique
lifted her chin, despite that his question sent prickles of dread down her
spine—despite that his look made her heart race so that she thought it
would leap from her breast. “Graeham,” she answered a little uncertainly, and
then she averted her eyes, for she’d caught herself appraising him, as
well—the breadth of his shoulders, the length of his body so thoroughly
encased in mail. What was wrong with her that she would ogle him so? He was a
despicable, vicious devil. And the brother of her betrothed.

He made
some sound in the back of his throat, something akin to laughter, yet when
Dominique dared look again, the amusement that had been there previously had
vanished. He came forward, flinging his garments upon the bed, glaring at her
and she flinched as they landed before her. “Graeham?” he scoffed. “Well, then,
I should save us both the disgust of discovering else wise,” he told her, “and
answer your earliest question, for you seem to have forgotten you are occupying
my
chamber, demoiselle.”

There
was little need to remind her, for how could she forget it? “Would that I were
not,” she answered flippantly, glaring back with equal measure. “Yet do I not
have a choice, my lord, and the least you might do is offer me the respect I
deserve as your brother’s bride.”

He
answered her anger with calm assurance and a determined shake of his head. “Not
as yet, you are not, demoiselle, and were the choice my own... you’d not wed
Graeham at all.”

“Aye,
well,” Dominique returned saucily, “the choice is not yours—thank God
Almighty, for otherwise the bloodshed would never cease! You cannot even strike
a truce with me, and I have done you no harm. Not even for the sake of your own
brother will you cry peace!” She had no notion her voice had risen so, until
the door burst wide and Alyss stumbled into the room.

The
maid glanced fearfully from Dominique to the Dragon, and then back, and only
belatedly did Dominique realize that Alyss was holding her rent gown together
timidly and was staring in terror at the Dragon.

“M-M’lady?”
Alyss croaked. Her gaze reverted to Dominique, her eyes wide.

Alarm
shot through Dominique at Alyss’ ill-used appearance. She bolted from her knees
to stand upright upon the bed, glaring down in anger at Blaec. “What in the
name of God have you done to her?”

Blaec
didn’t bother to look at the maid, for he’d seen the evidence already and it
repulsed him. Nor did he reply, for he cared not a whit whether Dominique
thought him responsible. He knew he was not.

“Oh,
nay... nay, m’lady!” the maid exclaimed. “Not he!”

He watched
Dominique bolt from the bed, to the wench’s side, taking no heed over her state
of dress. He had to give her credit at least for her concern for the maid, for
she seemed quite genuinely distraught over the prospect of Alyss’ having been
harmed.

“Who,
then?” she demanded, turning to eye him wrathfully.

Blaec
cocked a brow at her silent accusation. God’s truth, it was all he could do to
keep himself from gaping stupidly at the sight she presented. Sheer as her gown
was, it left little to the imagination. Long legs, slim and luscious, were
revealed to him by outline, and above them a waist so narrow that he
experienced an incredible yearning to measure it with his hands, to see that it
was truly so small. And her bosom; for the sake of decency he tried not to note
the way the dark nipples strained against the snowy fabric.

Never
in his life had he coveted anything more. He felt his mouth go dry and he
swallowed, wondering why it was that Graeham seemed so determined to avoid her.
For himself, he could scarcely bear the thought of having to see her, yet he,
at least, had a reason, for she was not his and he would not tempt himself.

God, she was not
his.

What
was he doing?

At once
he averted his eyes.

He
didn’t think he could bear to remain with Graeham once they were wed. Yet for
Graeham’s sake, he could neither bear the thought of leaving. Without him,
Graeham would not endure, he knew—though he’d be damned if he could
understand why it was so, for Graeham was not an ungainly fellow. In fact,
Blaec thought that were he merely to try, he would be at least Blaec’s equal in
skill, for Graeham certainly matched him in strength and in size.