Once Upon a Kiss

chapter 11





Clenching his fists at the sight of his brother sparring with Nial, his cocky young squire, Blaec made his way toward the scrimmaging pair, barely cognizant of the crowd of onlookers who parted before his wrathful glare. His emotions were at war, for while he was pleased to see Graeham training rather than on his knees at chapel, he also had the overwhelming desire to strike a fist to his brother’s face. Her doing, for not since their nose-wiping days had he experienced such a senseless urge.

Nial was the first to spy him. The youth’s smile vanished and he lowered his sword—a testament to the fierceness of Blaec’s expression, for the lad of usual, with his indomitable spirit, was intimidated by little. Proof was in the way he’d bantered so carelessly with his lord only seconds before. Not so now. He looked much as though he would soil his braies.

Graeham, spying Nial’s unsettled countenance, turned to face Blaec, but unlike the youth’s, his expression twisted with unconcealed amusement. “Ye God!” he exclaimed, chuckling as he took in Blaec’s dripping wet head and tunic. “What in creation happened to you?”

With some effort, Blaec unclenched the fist at his side. “Why is it you think something has happened?” he asked with deceptive calm.

“Oh... well...” Graeham shrugged, and seemed to be battling the urge to laugh.

Blaec wasn’t in the mood. He cursed silently.

“Perhaps ’tis because you appear as though you’ve been chewed and spat out,” Graeham offered, and let loose a hearty chuckle.

Renewed fury surged through Blaec. “I was restless,” he said tersely. Only the muscle ticking at his jaw betrayed him as he eyed the sword his brother held. “In fact, I came down to spar with you.” He cocked a brow in challenge, a self-mocking smile curving his lips as he disclosed, “You might say I couldn’t resist.” And he wondered wryly if Graeham understood the double entendre.

For an instant Graeham’s expression was bewildered. “Aye, well... that explains it,” he announced with considerable humor. “You were so eager to join us that you did not even take the time to dry yourself?”

Nial barked with laughter, a startled sound that quickly dwindled to a nervous groan when Blaec spared him a glance. Not trusting himself to speak, he smiled grimly at the youth and raked his fingers through dripping locks, lifting them up and out of his face. He turned to Graeham. “Seems so,” he yielded.

A grin spread across Graeham’s features. He turned to Nial. “Well, then, lad, stand aside! Time to watch and learn,” he declared with a chuckle. And in a whispered aside, he added, “He wants to whip my arse, I think.”

Quiet male laughter echoed about them. Nial nodded quickly, immediately doing as he was bid, his expression clearly disbelieving that anyone should jest over such a likely prospect—brothers or nay. But Graeham’s eyes twinkled as he turned again to face Blaec, undaunted. And then suddenly his expression was sober. He tipped his head, the faintest glimmer still evident in his deep brown eyes. “First,” he said, “you should understand that no harm was done...”

For the first time in their lives, silence was a barrier between them.

“You are my brother.”

Blaec stood unmoving, fully conscious of the fact that there were too many witnesses present for him to betray the truth. Guilt plagued him. Harm was done. It was an assertion only the two could comprehend. An acquittal. Yet it served only to infuriate Blaec all the more. Harm was done. He swallowed, the knot in his throat bobbing as he faced his brother... his friend. God save him, he’d sampled betrayal, and the taste of it was bitter, indeed. Though Graeham didn’t realize, he had every right to cleave him in two. And if he didn’t wish to try, then Blaec damned well did.

“I understand perfectly,” Blaec said, forcing a lighthearted smile. “You’re much too fainthearted to lift that weapon against me. “

Graeham chuckled, and shook his head. “Lacking, perhaps... but fainthearted, never.” He lifted his sword as evidence. “You might regret this,” he added.

“Really?”

“Really. I’ve been practicing, you see.” He laughed when Blaec still made no move to unsheathe his sword. “I see the very notion has you quaking in your boots.”

Blaec chuckled despite himself. “Give it your best,” he charged him, and with misleading calm, unsheathed his own sword, wielding it.

To any man’s eyes, this would be a simple contest of skills, naught more, one of many between them, but Blaec felt an underlying violence at the notion that his brother had purposely thrust him so near the edge. And guilt. He could never discount the guilt. Preparing himself, he shook his head, sending spatters of his bathwater flying into Graeham’s face.

“God’s teeth, Blaec, but dry yourself next time!” Graeham swiped at his cheek.

Blaec’s expression turned sober. “Graeham,” he said, “what if I were to tell you it was otherwise? What if I said harm was done?”

Testing its weight, Graeham swung his sword, and then shrugged. “I suppose, then, I would inquire as to whether you enjoyed it.” He chuckled at Blaec’s answering expression, changing the subject. “Fainthearted, am I?” He laughed richly. “What, then, do you think of this?” Grinning, he struck the first deft blow.

With practiced ease, Blaec deflected it, returning a ruthless one of his own. God’s truth, but Graeham’s lightheartedness evaded him. The last thing he needed was Graeham’s unwavering trust, or his sanction—and his fury, while tempered, was far from dissolved. More swiftly than he could have anticipated, Graeham shunted it, his expression turning serious with the force of the impact.

As though he’d read Blaec’s thoughts, Graeham said between breaths, “I trust you, Blaec.”

Blaec cracked another grim smile. Pride and pleasure bled into his anger at seeing his brother’s rarely exhibited mastery. It doused his fury momentarily until he recalled the feel of his brother’s bride beneath him, and guilt and rage filled him anew. With a savage outcry, he whirled, striking another blow, less controlled this time, though still with confidence that Graeham could manage it. He smiled when Graeham parried so deftly. “You have been practicing, I see.”

“I’m pleased you noticed,” Graeham said, his smile engaging.

“How could I not when you made it a point to say so?”

“God’s bones,” Graeham lamented. “And I thought ’twas my skill that alerted you to the fact.”

Blaec laughed, low. “Pity you thought so,” he returned, unable to resist the sportive quip. Too many years of raillery lay between them.

Once again metal screeched as blades clashed, tangled, sparked. They struck and parried, the contest continuing until both were winded. Blaec, emotionally torn, lacked his typical finesse. He knew too well that to allow one’s emotions to rule obscured one’s judgment and could prove a lethal mistake were one’s opponent not one’s brother. Still, he could scarcely help himself when the feel of her lips crushed beneath his own still taunted him, made a mockery even now of his self-control. By God, he had none!

Not now.

Not then.

And God damn him to hell for it!

Again he struck, wildly this time, blinded by self-contempt. Another. And another.

Graeham parried each, and with a hoarse cry, spun and caught Blaec’s blade, striking hard, and knocking the sword from Blaec’s grasp more easily than he should have been able to. It flew, striking the ground with a thud, its silver blade reflecting the sun with painful brilliance.

Stunned murmurs filled the air.

For an instant their gazes linked, held, and then Blaec turned away, uncertain as to why he had released the hilt so easily. Perhaps he’d hoped Graeham would finish him once and for all. And perhaps he’d known his emotions were getting out of hand.

“I trust you,” Graeham reiterated, heaving in a weary breath and tossing their father’s sword down between them.

Blaec stared at it, his fingers going unconsciously to his cheek as he doubled over. Bracing his hands upon his thighs, he gulped in air, muttering a curse as he swiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve, averting his face. He was fully aware that everyone stared. He was mad. There could be no other explanation for this. He was tired, aye, but so was Graeham. Damn the both of them. The night had been too long... and he was still too angry with Beauchamp’s treachery.

Not to mention his own.

Christ... if he could but prove Beauchamp’s guilt...

“Lauds!” came an unwelcome cheer. “Lauds to the both of you!”

Blaec had no need to turn to know to whom the voice belonged. The hairs upon the back of his nape prickled and stood on end.

William chortled at his back. “Especially to you, Graeham.” He laughed outright.

Graeham straightened.

So, too, did Blaec, meeting Graeham’s gaze briefly, acknowledging the cautioning glance his brother flashed him, before turning to face the man he was beginning to loathe more, even, than he did himself at the moment.

What he didn’t expect was to find her in accompaniment, and he started, tensing visibly at the sight of her.

Her hair was damp still, but plaited now to keep the locks from her face. Coiled about her head, it appeared darker, though the drier strands stood out like rich copper veins. A few escaped confinement and fell in damp ringlets about her face. Her cheeks were rosy, and growing more so by the instant—a testament to her guilt, he thought. Of his own. Their gazes met, and hers darted quickly away.

He didn’t give her the luxury of turning away. Satisfaction filled him at seeing that she’d changed her dress. Yet he could only be so pleased with the victory, for her new gown left little to the imagination. The fine gold sendal was so gossamer from years of use that it clung to her like dew upon a blade of grass—the effect no less mystical, and every morsel as enticing. Like minuscule, glistening beads to the eyes of a thirsting man. And the girdle she wore only served to emphasize her narrow waistline. The cords, with their silky ends, hung to her hem, tangling with her limbs as she walked, accentuating the long length of her legs and even delineating them.

The sight of her made him shudder in remembrance.

Graeham must have noted his reaction, and hers, for within the instant, he was at Blaec’s back. “You cannot usurp that which is freely yielded.”

Blaec turned to regard his brother and found Graeham pensive. His brows knit. Surely he could not have meant...

“Let him not provoke you, Blaec. The man’s an officious boor.”

Blaec nodded, stunned at what he thought he’d heard, and watched as, with his politic smile in place, Graeham edged his way past him to greet their disdained guests.

“Beauchamp,” Graeham bellowed in greeting. But his gaze was upon his bride, Blaec noted with some discomfort. He shifted, crossing his arms when his brother lifted Dominique’s hand and pecked it respectfully. She didn’t look up at Graeham at first, and when she did, nervously, her gaze skittered toward Blaec.

Blaec clenched his jaw, but didn’t look away. He could not, for she bewitched him even now, though he knew the dangers. She did look away, though he continued to stare, unable to help himself. In the bright light of the midmorn sun, she was no less lovely—despite that hers was not the celebrated beauty. Nor was she dark like the Eastern women. Hers was an indefinable beauty... a kind of radiance that invited more than a glance. Something about her mesmerized, though no one feature stood out. Even knowing her brother observed them, he could not tear his gaze away. Like some beast of prey, he could feel William’s razor-sharp gaze riveted upon him, watching shrewdly.

“I do declare...”

Blaec lifted his head, meeting the ice-blue gaze directly, eyes that were far too familiar now in their likeness to his sister’s.

William smiled, a cold smile despite its brilliance. “I thought I would never witness the mighty Dragon trounced so soundly,” he said dryly, his lips twisting with his mirth. “If the troubadours could but spy you now, d’Lucy.”

Blaec said nothing. Unlike Graeham, he had no use for diplomacy. Nor did he have the patience for it. Nor did he give a damn what the bloody lyrics had to say of him. In truth, no one could deny that his brother was better suited as earl—not in this—for like their father, Graeham had been born to politics. Still he refrained from responding, despite that William seemed to be waiting.

Graeham broke in, in an attempt to change the subject. “Now that we are all present,” he said, turning to regard Blaec, his brows flickering in question. Blaec instinctively understood what he asked. Too much alike did they think. He nodded almost imperceptibly, and Graeham’s smile returned as he again faced their guests. “Well, then,” he announced, “Off we go to hunt!”