Once Upon a Kiss

chapter 7





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.

In truth, he’d thought many a time that his brother held some death wish... as though through his martyrdom he thought to atone for some great sin. He certainly spent time enough in penance, praying for long hours in the chapel as though he were some pious monk. And he might as well have been for Blaec could little recall the last time his brother had even looked with yearning at a woman.

He’d been surprised enough when Graeham had informed him of his decision to accept an alliance with Beauchamp. Yet he had accepted it, and perhaps, for everyone’s sake, Blaec would finally welcome the fief Graeham had for so long tried to bestow upon him... a benefice so rich that it had seemed an injury to receive it, for the cloth goods produced therein lined the coffers of Drakewich so that they had little need of war as a means to replenish them.

Be that as it may... perhaps it was time, at last, for him to go...

“... tell me who would do such a thing to you,” Blaec heard Dominique demand of her maid.

Shaking her head and whispering her response, the wench held her ripped gown together, as though to hide the worst of the evidence from her mistress. Only now did Blaec note that her lips were swollen, besides. And there was a blackening knot high upon her cheek, as though she’d been dealt a blow. Seeing the swelling, he fingered his own cheek, remembering, and his visage darkened. His lips curved grimly, for the evidence was much too overwhelming for him to simply walk away from now. If one of his own men had committed such a crime, Blaec intended to discover the name of the whoreson. He stepped toward them, reminding them of his presence.

The maid turned to face him with a cry of alarm, as though, somehow, she’d forgotten him, and now turned in fright.

His brows collided in displeasure at her reaction. “I, too, would have you relinquish the name,” he bade her.

The wench shook her head more frantically still. “Oh, nay, m’lord! Please!”

Blaec’s eyes slivered, though he retained his calm at her outright refusal. “You have no right to deny me dispensation of justice in my own home,” he reminded her.

“Do you not mean your brother’s home?” Dominique interjected at once, her tone biting, her eyes narrowing.

Blaec eyed her keenly, but disregarded the barb, knowing full well that she was baiting him. He refused to be manipulated. He turned to the maid, persisting, “I demand the name.”

To his disgust, the young woman began to quiver before him. “Oh, m-m’lord... please...”

“God’s teeth, woman, I cannot believe you would allow the fiend to go unpunished,” he told her scathingly.

“’T-Twas no one, m’lord,” the maid declared fervently. She fingered her cheek anxiously, averting her gaze. “I-I swear! I merely fell from my bed ’tis all.”

“Fell from your bed, my arse!”

“How dare you speak to her so,” Dominique interjected.

At her censure, Blaec eyed her once more, though with little compunction. He could scarcely credit that the wench was so unwilling to name the culprit. He knew full well that she’d not fallen from her bed, and was on the verge of telling her just so, for he’d witnessed the other bruises, as well, but then he looked at Dominique—truly looked at her—and found his tongue stilled. Only were the maid protecting her lord could she possibly lie so, and in protecting her lord, perhaps she protected her mistress as well. At the look in Dominique’s eyes, he found inexplicably that he could not accuse William with her standing before him looking so distressed.

His lips curved contemptuously, though he was uncertain which disgusted him most: his sudden weakness toward Dominique, or the maid’s blind devotion to her master. “And what of the gown?” he could not help but point out, turning to eye the maid sharply. “It rent itself on your descent to the floor, I presume?”

Alyss peered down at the gown in question, as though in a stupor, and then shook her head as she met his gaze once more. “I-I do not know,” she persisted. Panicking at his doubtful expression, she said a little more hysterically, “I-I do not, m’lord!”

“Leave her be, at last!” Dominique demanded, intervening between them suddenly, her expression fierce. Blaec watched with growing disgust as she enfolded the woman gently within her arms and patted her reassuringly. “Can you not see that you are distressing her?”

His brow lifted. “Unlike her mistress, it seems, the wench frightens much too easily, demoiselle, for I’ve not threatened her at all. I merely requested to know the name of the miscreant who abused her, so that I might deal with him justly.”

Dominique’s lashes fell momentarily, thick as smoke upon her creamy cheeks. “Aye, well... she says she does not know.”

He could tell when her eyes met his once more that she’d drawn the same conclusion he had. Still, he found he could say nothing to accuse her brother, for in her beautiful blue eyes—those eyes that were so much like her despicable sibling’s—he recognized both her acknowledgment and her denial.

She knew.

She had to know.

Yet she lifted her chin, denying, all the same, and dared to command him, “Let her be, my lord.”

When she’d thought him responsible, she’d been quick enough to speak, yet now he sensed fear that the possibility should be spoken at all. Which led him to wonder if she knew... or whether she merely suspected...

Could she possibly not know how detestable her brother was?

To his disgust, he had the overwhelming desire to go to her. Her eyes were wide and liquid suddenly.

Mesmerizing. God, but he could lose himself in those brilliant blue pools.

“If you’ve something to say, my lord, say it and be done,” she said breathlessly, her chest heaving softly.

With fear? grief? anger?

She looked as though she would burst into tears, yet she did not, and he found that suddenly it did not matter. If she would protect her brother, then so be it. He shook his head, unwilling to press the matter further.

Even so, he could not quite shed the urge to enfold her into his arms... just as she’d done with the maid... fool that he was, for she was not his to comfort.

Neither did she need him to comfort her, he reminded himself. It was naught but his fancy that she seemed suddenly wounded, for she was likely as contemptible as her brother— with a heart as black.

That likelihood hardened his own.

“Very well,” he relented. “I shall speak plainly.” He gestured toward the maid. “The men of my garrison do not commit such dishonorable acts, for they know well the consequences.”

The blood seemed to drain from her face even as he watched, yet she surprised him by standing her ground. Her shoulders straightening, she asked him, “Precisely what are you trying to say, my lord?”

Despite the mettle with which she asked, Blaec spied in her eyes the sudden regret over having asked the question, and so he merely shook his head, telling her simply, ‘The answer is plain, demoiselle. Merely open your eyes and you shall know it.” He turned to the maid. “And you... should you find your memory returns, feel free to seek me,” he told her. And then he turned a nod toward Dominique. “Good day, demoiselle.”

Dominique gave him no reply, and he didn’t wait to see that she did. Without another word, he took his leave, retrieving the tunic and breeches from the bed, and slamming the heavy ash door behind him—before he could be tempted to tell the impudent wench precisely what he’d meant by the remark; that her brother was an ignoble bastard who not only had the vileness to burn serfs’ huts while they slumbered, but the depravity to beat his own sister’s maid, besides.

Blaec wanted nothing more than to throttle Beauchamp with his bare hands.

He made a fist at his side, for more than that, even, and more than before, he was determined to see this farce ended once and for all. Graeham would not wed Dominique Beauchamp—not, even, if Blaec should die trying to prevent it. He refused to consider that his own motives might be somewhat less pure.

He only knew that, at all costs, he was determined to keep Beauchamp’s sister from his brother’s bed.

At all costs.