Once Upon a Kiss

chapter 23





They were alone upon the tower roof. Another moment of solitude, stolen.

As Dominique gazed out over the wall, she felt as though she were suspended somewhere between heaven and earth. From this great height, the land stretched far below them, revealing the horizon as never she had beheld it before.

Breathtaking.

Nor had she ever been so deliriously happy.

Like a whisper from God, telling her all would be well, a gentle breeze whipped at her face, her hair, her dress, lifting her spirits as though on angel’s wings. She was bewitched. So much so that she did not hear Blaec as he came up behind her once more, embracing her, the heat of his body warming her from her nape to the curve of her hips. She gasped as his big hands slid about her waist, and she reveled in the way that he held her... as though he cherished her.

He squeezed her gently, and she smiled, turning her head, her eyes radiating the pleasure that flooded her at his touch. “’Tis beautiful, is it not?” he asked. Her gaze returned to the landscape, and his arms tightened about her waist. “You are beautiful,” he whispered fiercely.

Smiling, Dominique laid her head back against his chest, gazing up at the pale blue sky, her heart swelling with joy. A dove winged its way past them, landing gracefully at a higher place upon the tower wall, and she gazed up at Blaec to see if he was watching. He was, indeed. In profile, his face was harsh in the most beautiful sort of way. Her eyes fell once again upon the scar that marred his cheek.

This time she could not have held herself back had she tried. She reached up, stroking the pale outline of it with the tips of her fingers, her eyes dulling at the smooth feel of it. It ached her to know that he had suffered pain at all, and it brought to mind the reality of what he was.

He was a knight. A warrior, loyal to his brother and his king. Even were they to resolve the insurmountable obstacles that lay between them, there would always be the possibility that he would be taken from her in war. She shivered, scarcely able to bear the thought. With the reckless desperation of one who had been too long without air, she wanted to breathe him within her so that they might never part.

“How did you receive it?”

He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he gazed down upon her. “What?”

She frowned at him, removing her hand from his face, and placing both of hers upon his own at her waist. “You know very well what I wish to know,” she accused him petulantly.

His green eyes twinkled as one hand slid up to squeeze her breast. “What is that?” he countered playfully, changing the subject effortlessly.

Dominique shrieked with surprise, and laughing, tried to disengage herself from his embrace. But he held her firmly within his arms, unwilling to release her.

“Nay, do not,” he said. “I’ll not let you go.”

‘Then tell me,” she demanded of him.

His eyes sobered slightly. “If you must know... I was sliced with a shaving knife by a careless barber.”

“Nay!” Dominique was incredulous. “Say it cannot be so!”

He hugged her, nuzzling her neck playfully. “Ah, but ’tis true,” he swore, his breath warm against her neck.

“That is not what I have been told.” She sagged against him, feeling the answer of her body in the tautening of her breasts as he nibbled her neck, nipping her lightly.

His tone was unconcerned. ‘Tell me what it is that you heard, demoiselle.” He lifted a hand to cup her breast, while the other explored the flat contours of her belly, and his lips explored her neck.

Dominique’s breath quickened. “I heard...” And then she laughed. “If you will not stop, I cannot speak,” she berated him, but her head lolled to one side, giving him better access. “I heard, my lord, that you received the scar during battle,” she relented, “during some great feat of valor.”

“Babble,” he muttered, dismissing it. He gave her a gentle squeeze, holding her. “Yet though I like that tale better, my lady, I can assure you...” He went silent a moment, and then he sighed, relenting, “’Twas nothing so noble as that.”

Dominique sighed, as well. ‘Tongues do wag,” she agreed, undone by his gentle attentions.

“Mmmmm... like this?” He tickled her neck with the tip of his tongue, and Dominique laughed softly.

It amazed her the difference that had come over him in the last days. He was almost like a mischievous boy, she thought. “You, my lord,” she said dreamily, “are a very... very wicked man.”

“Hmmmmm.” He nodded, nuzzling her lazily. “So I’ve been told, demoiselle. Yet you sound disappointed... Would you rather I admitted the scar was suffered during battle?” he asked blithely.

“Nay!” She clutched his arms about her tightly. “You mistake me, my lord.” And then she blurted with a wistful sigh, “Would that this moment might never end.”

He said nothing in response, and Dominique closed her eyes, leaning against him, wanting so desperately to ask him of their future.

Did they even have one together?

Did they have anything at all?

For the last days they had somehow, without speaking it, agreed not to think of this as the betrayal it was—nor of Graeham, or that it should end. Nay, for it had been easier to pretend...

In the distance, a lone tree swayed with the breeze, its feathered limbs arching this way and that, like some graceful dancer beneath God’s watchful eyes. The silence between them in that instant was so acute that Dominique could almost hear the rush of the breeze stirring through its brilliant green leaves.

“What will Graeham say when he returns?” She nibbled at her lower lip as she awaited his reply.

It was not forthcoming. He laid his chin atop the pate of her head, as though reflecting upon her question and the very thoughts were too burdensome to bear. She could feel his jaw working, tautening.

“Do you think he knows?” she persisted.

“My brother is no fool,” he said with quiet certainty. “He knew before he left.”

He turned her about suddenly, his expression sober, his eyes searching. Dominique willed him to see what was in her heart. Sweet Mary, but she loved him! As he gazed at her, his expression both turbulent and tender at once, his hands went to her shoulders.

Slowly, his eyes closing, he bent to kiss her mouth, his lips quivering, his fingers digging into her shoulders. The look she saw upon his face made her heart fly into her throat, made her want to cry out in sheer pleasure, for it seemed as though he relished the very thought of kissing her, hungered for it, even. As did she.

His tongue slid seductively along the curve of her lips, his breath trembling as he lapped her, embraced her. Feeling the pounding of his heart against her breast, she opened to him readily, sighing with the joy it brought her. Dear God, she loved this man. She wanted to tell him so. She truly did, but she wasn’t certain how he would respond. She knew he wanted her, aye... but did he love her?

It seemed as though he did... At least she dared to hope. And yet... his brother’s shadow fell over them both, haunting them even at this moment.

Any day Dominique expected Graeham’s return... any day... and then what would become of her? Of them?

She squeezed her eyes shut, for she didn’t wish to think of that now, she wanted only to think of the feel of his smooth lips moving like warm silk upon her own.

She clung to him fiercely, wanting him to take of her whatever he would.

Anything.

Everything.

If he wanted to make love to her, even here, she would let him gladly. Aye... and she would love him back... with every fragment of her body and heart. If he wanted only to kiss her, then she wanted that, as well. And if he wanted merely to hold her... then she would hold him back as though her life would end without him.

And she thought it might...

Through the haze of pleasure, Dominique heard, vaguely, the sound of a horn being blasted.

Blaec tore himself away at once, peering over her shoulder, out over the tower wall, toward the gatehouse. It took Dominique an instant longer to gain hold of her wits, though by his expression, she wasn’t certain she wished to come back to reality.

His face had gone taut, his eyes narrowed.

Dominique whirled about to spy the approaching cavalcade. From this height and distance, little more was distinguishable aside from the glittering golden field of his banner. When she saw it, her heart lurched.

Graeham.

“Something is wrong,” Blaec said, his voice taut, his hands squeezing her shoulder. He released her suddenly. Pivoting about, he raced down the tower stairs.

For an instant, her heart thundering painfully, Dominique merely stood there. And then, taking in a fortifying breath, she hurried after him, telling herself all would be well.

It had to be, because she could not bear the thought of living without him.



The portcullis was already being raised when Blaec reached the bailey. His heart hammering like an armorer’s gavel, he raced toward the gatehouse.

“Get that damned door open!” he shouted. “Faster!”

When at last the portcullis was lifted, he went himself to unlock the gates. Unlatching them, he drove them forward with a strength that came from fear. With the aid of his men, the massive door began to creak on its immense hinges. The abrasive sound, compounded by the silence from the other side of the ironbound oaken door, made the hair of his nape stand on end.

As the gates burst open, revealing his brother, and merely half the contingent of men with whom he had departed Drakewich, Blaec’s gut wrenched violently. He felt a roar rise up within him at the sight of them, for he understood by the blood-smeared appearance of them that they had battled. And God... the first thought that struck him was that he’d not been there to defend his brother. Guilt gutted him from within, tearing him to shreds.

Whilst Graeham had fought for his life, he’d likely been abed with his bride.

God... this had been his greatest fear. That Graeham would fight without him at his side. That his brother would die and that he would not be there to save him.

He felt numb as he watched his brother ride within the bailey, his mount enervated and frothing at the mouth, his back so stiff in the saddle that it appeared he’d been propped with a lance up his arse... and yet his head lolled to one side with a sickening lameness.

The blood drained from Blaec’s face as he watched Graeham ride toward him, and he shook his head denying the sight, even as his eyes held witness to it. Hastening to Graeham’s side, he was relieved to find that Graeham’s eyes were open and aware, though scarcely. Seeing him, Graeham stiffened. His eyes brightened, and he attempted to lift his head, as though to reassure Blaec, and for an instant their gazes met, held. His cracked lips parted to speak.

One word: “Beauchamp.” And then his eyes suddenly rolled backward into his head and he collapsed where he sat, sliding off his blood-encrusted mount and into Blaec’s arms.

Seeing his brother’s leaden face, Blaec could scarcely speak. His throat constricted.

“Graeham,” he rasped. He heard himself give a low, keening cry, and then he clenched his jaw, and closed his throat, knowing he could not reveal his emotions.

With a savage cry, he lifted up his brother’s limp body into his arms, his eyes glazing, and started toward the keep, meeting brilliant sapphire-blue eyes as he turned.

His rage spiraled to new heights, for he saw only her brother’s face.

He was vaguely aware that someone tried to aid him in carrying Graeham’s body, but he turned on the man, snarling. ‘Touch him and I’ll skewer you through.” Though Graeham slipped from his grasp, he wanted no other hands upon him. He wanted to carry the burden alone. He needed to carry the burden alone. Would that he could exchange places with him—gladly, he would do so if he could.

Nial backed away, his arms falling to his sides. “We were ambushed,” he revealed, crestfallen. His boyish face was dirty and streaked with sweat and blood, but his eyes were somber like those of a man who’d witnessed too much death. Blaec knew only too well what the boy was experiencing, for he, too, recalled his first battle. Only too well. And if he ever dared to forget, he need only see his reflection to recall.

“They attacked not long after we left London,” Nial continued.

Carrying his brother’s deadweight, Blaec made his way toward the donjon, his expression unyielding as stone. “Beauchamp?” he asked with barely suppressed fury. “He did this?” He wanted to be certain—needed to be certain, because he intended to rip the bastard’s throat apart.

Nial nodded, averting his face and casting Dominique a withering glance.

Trying desperately to keep pace, Dominique stumbled along beside them, her face stricken.

For her brother? Blaec wondered bitterly. God damn her to hell! Certainly not for Graeham.

“Nay!” she exclaimed, her breasts heaving, her face crumpling with the news. “It cannot be so! You lie! My brother would never do such a thing!”

Blaec gave her a piercing glance for her indefatigable defense of the bastard. Lest he spit in her face, he ignored her, unable to deal with her at the moment—and less with their treachery against the man who lay so helpless within his arms.

His brother.

Christ... his brother...

What kind of a man was he, that he would allow his brother, his kin, his liege, to fight and die on the battlefield whilst he was here... cuckolding him with his new bride, the sister of his nemesis?

He glanced down at his brother’s face and thought his chest would cleave in two. “My God... did you not seek a physic?” he asked Nial. “He appears as though he’s bled for days.”

“My lord,” Nial defended, his young face collapsing with his guilt, “he would let no one rest till we arrived here. We tried—we did... we tried to reason with him, but he feared Beauchamp would come here next, and he would not be eased until you were warned.”

Blaec cursed roundly. “How many fell upon you?”

‘Too many to count,” Nial answered quickly.

“How many perished?”

“We lost nine,” the youth revealed. “But we returned the number of dead,” he said with some dignity, “and I... I killed a man,” he yielded, without emotion.

Blaec listened to the youth prattle on, scarcely aware of those who followed as he carried Graeham into the keep, up the stairs, beyond the solar and into the lord’s chamber.

Benumbed with grief and regret, and beleaguered with unanswered questions, he placed his brother’s limp form upon their father’s bed, and then, raking a hand across his shadowed jaw, snapped out at Nial, “Go...” His voice failed him. He swallowed. “Go, lad, and seek the priest...”