Once Upon a Kiss

chapter 5





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.

But it wasn’t cold that made her shiver, for the night air was sultry warm. It was the memory of the Dragon’s piercing green eyes... the way that he’d glared at her at supper. The man was ruthless. Dangerous—everything bespoke it, from the scar high upon his cheek to the cynical curve of his too beautiful lips.

It astounded her that Graeham seemed so willing to cede command of his army to his brother, yet she’d seen enough to know that the claims were true; the way he’d ordered the search for her brother’s messenger without bothering to defer to Graeham was proof enough. The Dragon was in command of the garrison of Drakewich, and if the rumormongers had it aright, then the earl held his high seat only reluctantly.

It was too much to hope that she was mistaken, for as difficult as it was to credit, even her brother had instinctively acknowledged the Dragon as lord, for when he’d spoken to Graeham, it had simply been Graeham, while in speaking to the Dragon, he’d named him d’Lucy. She wondered if William even realized what he’d done—wondered, too, if Graeham had noted the slight, for didn’t seem to object in the least.

What then did that mean for Dominique?

No matter, she had no choice but to do her duty.

Dominique had no notion how long she stood, watching the terrible blaze from the high window, but she was helpless to do anything more. These were not her people as yet, nor did she feel herself welcome to offer aid. Still her heart wept for them, for this was precisely the horror she hoped to put an end to with her coming marriage to the earl.

Thank the Almighty Christ that her brother was not responsible for this! She knew he had upon occasion executed just such a retaliation against Drakewich, but not this time. Thank heaven above that he was safe from suspicion here within the walls of Drakewich, for she had little doubt the odious Dragon would leap at the first opportunity to heap blame upon her brother’s shoulders. And then a sudden terrible thought occurred to her...

What if William had already departed Drakewich? Surely he would not have left without a goodbye, at least? And yet what if, by some twisted turn of fate, he gone? She knew how difficult it was for him to share the same land, much less the same roof, as the d’Lucys. What if he had borne his limit of them and had taken his leave after the meal?

Panic welled within her as she turned and rushed toward the door. The thought of being abandoned left her mouth cottony with fear. Surely William would never do such a thing? But what if they had argued? What if, in his anger, he’d forgotten her? She well knew his fits of rage, and knew him capable of just such insanity. She needed to speak to him at once. She had no idea at all where he might sleep tonight, she only knew she must find him. She must. She had to set her mind at ease. Alyss would help her, she knew.

She had scarce reached the massive wooden door to her room when she heard the voices coming from the antechamber. At once she pressed her ear to the door and heard Alyss whisper, “Aye, m’lord, she has long been abed.”

“Good,” she heard William’s soft reply—but it was William’s voice, and Dominique stifled a cry of relief. Backing away from the door, her heart skipping beats like lightning bolts through a summer storm, She felt the bed materialize behind her knees and sat weakly upon it, holding her palm against her breast, feeling the pounding of her heart.

“Thank God,” she whispered, and her eyes stung with tears of relief. Truly they had come too far to lose everything now. There too much at risk. She lay back upon the bed and wept silent tears, thanking God that William’s mere presence at Drakewich removed him from suspicion. For surely not even the Dragon would cast blame simply out of spite?