Once Upon a Kiss

chapter 22





All Dominique needed do was walk into a room to command attention—even dressed as she was in her threadbare blue bliaut, all eyes followed her. Her silky mane, rich and full, cascaded behind her as she lifted her skirts and raced across the hall, oblivious to his and the steward’s presence. She didn’t see him even as she rushed past them toward the stairwell, and Blaec was hard-pressed to listen to the steward’s report as he watched her—as was the steward. The man struggled to keep his train of thought, he couldn’t help but note. Still his mood was too good to fault the fellow for what he himself could not help.

Excusing himself once she disappeared from view, he followed her, racing up the tower steps after her, his pace swift but silent, for he intended to surprise her.

He quickly overcame her stride, hooking his arm about her waist, lifting her, and hauling her up the stairs along with him. She gave a small shriek of surprise. “You are being made off with,” he told her, chuckling. He carried her into the nearest doorway.

Dominique shrieked indignantly. “Not here!” she exclaimed.

He set her upon her feet, grinning. “Ah, now, but where is there better a place for solitude?”

“Aye, but ’tis the garderobe!” Dominique returned.

He lifted his chin, gazing with a look of surprise about the small chamber. “Is that what it is?” he asked, sniffing. “I didn’t notice.”

“Oh, you!” Dominique laughed and shoved him away, trying to evade him. “God’s truth, but I think you are mad!” she said with certainty.

He caught her, backing her once more against the wall. His lips curved roguishly. “Mad for you,” he agreed readily. He arched a brow.

Dominique laughed softly. “You are a wicked, wicked man,” she said, berating him.

“Well, there you have it…” He brushed her hair from her shoulder and bent to peck her neck with his lips. “And since we are here...”

Dominique gasped. “I do not think I could bear the odor, my lord!”

Lest she escape him, he pinned her to the wall, bracing his arms on either side of her. “I smell only the fragrance of your body,” he murmured silkily, leaning into her, nuzzling her hair. One knee went between her legs, lifting up against her.

Dominique inhaled sharply at the gesture. “I cannot be certain, my lord,” she said on a sigh, her head lolling to one side, “but I believe you have only just insulted me...” He placed a hand upon her breast, and she murmured softly.

The door made to open suddenly, and she stifled a cry of surprise, her head jerking up. Blaec’s arm thrust out before it could open to reveal them, ramming it shut once more. “ ’Tis occupied,” he called out.

For an instant, there was only silence from the other side of the door. “Sorry, my lord,” answered a male voice.

“Good God, can a man not relieve himself in peace?” Blaec added for good measure, smiling for Dominique’s benefit.

Dominique stifled a gasp, her eyes widening at his crudeness.

“Aye, my lord,” came the chagrined reply from beyond the door, and then the sound of retreating footsteps.

She lifted a hand to cover his mouth, lest he speak again.

Blaec shook away from her, saying, “Ah, my love, but I am relieving myself.”

“Shhh! My God, he will hear you!” Dominique hissed at him. “You are truly mad!”

“He is gone,” Blaec murmured, reaching down and lifting up her hem with purpose. “And aye... I am mad... mad with need,” he told her huskily. “Let me love you, Dominique...”

He didn’t wait for her to reply, but bent and kissed her lips. She melted against his knee, and her soft crooning was answer enough.





They were being pursued.

For the last few hours since departing London, they had borne a shadow. And now, at intervals, the foreboding glint of metal flickered ahead of them, making Graeham wonder that they were being led into an ambush.

His brows drew together as he considered who it might be, and then he frowned outright, for the truth was that he could not fathom who might be at their heels. These were lawless times at best.

Everyone was suspect.

Instinct told him that their pursuers had been with them from the first, yet anyone leaving London would have heard the rumors, and would know... there was no longer anything to be gained by challenging him. He held his father’s lands no more. Nay, there was naught to be gained... unless they wished to demand a ransom... or to settle a debt.

He glanced at Nial, riding proudly at his side. Nial held his banner high, unmistakable with its glittering gold-threaded field, and its black, fire-breathing dragon—a device more suited to his brother, for Blaec was the true dragon of Drakewich. Even without the lands, Blaec held the title already. He was the Black Dragon.

Strange that... that people could sense a leader even when that leader swore to follow.

Graeham had never had reason to doubt Blaec. His brother had always given him fealty without question or regret. The truth was that Blaec would likely hang him by his testicles when he discovered what he’d gone and done. Nevertheless it was done, and there was naught that could be said to change Graeham’s mind and will. God’s truth, he’d done what was best for all, and for the first time in his five and twenty years of life, he felt like his own man—not his father’s puppet.

Once again the metallic flicker appeared in the distance, nearer this time. Nial spied it as well, Graeham noticed, and he nodded at the faithful squire. “Go and warn the men,” he commanded him.

Nial immediately fell back “Aye, my lord.”

“Discreetly,” Graeham said, studying the surrounding land with keen eyes, “lest we force their hand.”

To the right, no more than a furlong’s distance, lay thick woodlands, ideal for hiding an army, yet instinct told him it was not there that the danger lay. They had remained behind at an indistinguishable distance—perhaps farther now, for he’d not caught a glimpse of them in the last twenty minutes.

In the immediate stretch before them, the land sloped upward, concealing what lay beyond. And to the left of them, the terrain was the same. The road on which they traveled lay at an angle to the two hills, cutting between them at the point at which they met, along a lower, narrow passage. It was there he focused his attention.

There, and the small pockets of woodland they had yet to pass. He skirted them, all but the last, and was forced to make a decision, for the last thicket posed a quandary. If they went around it, they would be forced to pass to the right, dangerously close to the even thicker woodland to their right. Yet it would also give them a clearer view of the dale as they entered. If they passed through the thicket itself, it would place them in danger of an ambush within, and then they would emerge blindly into the dale. If they forced a pass to the left, then they would need ride up the hill, placing themselves also in danger of an attack upon the hillside, and then again as they entered even more vulnerably into the valley.

Damn, damn, damn... it was always when Blaec was not there that he needed him most. Yet it was his own fault, Graeham acknowledged irritably, that his brother was not with him, for it was he who had commanded him to remain behind. Clenching his jaw, Graeham reined in, his skin prickling, for he knew instinctively that it was at this point in which their greatest danger lay.

And the decision was solely his.

Though he retained his calm, the palms of his hands began to sweat profusely. At this moment his attraction to the church had never waxed deeper. This was not his strength, by God. It was Blaec’s. He laughed derisively. What absurdity... Driven by guilt for what his father had done to his brother, for his own part in the injustice, he had placed his life in danger so many accursed times... and now did if he died... he would bequeath his brother with a legacy of the selfsame burden. Scarcely could he bear the thought.

It seemed his men understood his dilemma, for one knight came forward at once, offering to scout the hill. He ordered another to the right of the thicket. And another to scout within. Though uneasily, all three obeyed at once, cantering away, while Graeham watched them, sweating like a hog beneath the sweltering August sun. Yet though his face was soaked with perspiration, he resisted the urge to remove his helm, knowing without looking that his men watched him.

No sooner had the three ridden away, less than twenty yards distance, the ruse was revealed. The knight riding for the thicket scarcely had time to turn about, so fast was he descended upon. He was cut down as the attackers stampeded past him. His scream of pain rent the air.

‘To me!” Graeham thundered. ‘To me!” Wily bastards! From the thicket, they might have fallen upon them had they passed from either side. Were it the last bloody thing he did, he planned to skewer their ignoble leader through. It’d be the finest thing his father’s sword had ever done.

With the clashing of metal, the battle was joined, and Graeham found himself, sooner than expected, face-to-face with the iron-helmed leader.

Masked with ventail and a helm, the nose guard distorted his face, cutting it visually in half. The fiend left only his eyes exposed to reveal his identity but Graeham instantly knew those eyes: brilliant sapphire blue.

“Bastard!” he cried out as his mount reared beneath him. Vicious laughter rang in his ears, even as did the metallic peal of their first clashing blows.